What’s changed and what is still the same ten years down the road of child loss?
I’ve thought about this a lot in the past few months as I prepared for, greeted and marked another year of unwelcome milestones since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.
Some things are exactly the same:
Whenever I focus solely on his absence, my heart still cries, “Can he REALLYbe gone?” I am STILL A Mess Some Days….
The pain is precisely as painful as the moment I got the news.
It’s just as horrific today to dwell on the manner of his leaving.
I miss him, I miss him, I miss him. I live every day with his Tangible Absence.
I am thankful for his life, for the opportunity to be his mama and for the part of me shaped by who he was.
The absolute weight of grief has not changed. The burden remains a heavy one.
Daily choices are the difference between giving up and going on. I have to make Wise Choices in Grief.
My faith in Christ and my confidence that His promises are sure is the strength on which I rely. I have been Knocked Down But Not Destroyed.
I passionately look forward to the culmination of all history when every sad thing will come untrue.
Some things are very different:
Dominic’s absence is no longer all I see.
Sorrow and pain are no longer all I feel.
I’ve learned to live in spite of the hole in my heart-his unique place isn’t threatened by allowing myself to love others and pouring my life into the people I have left.
Joy and sorrow are not mutually exclusive. They live together in my heart and I can smile and laugh again while still pining for a time when things were different and easier.
I am Stronger because I’ve carried this burden for years. I’ve learned to shift it from side to side.
The darkness has receded so that I see light once more. I’m not as prone to fall as fast down the dark hole of despair.
My heart longs for reunion but has also learned to treasure the time I have left here on earth.
I’ve never hidden the struggle and pain of this journey.
But I don’t want those who are fresh in grief to think that how they are feeling TODAY is the way they will feel FOREVER.
By doing the work grief requires, making wise choices and holding onto hope a heart does begin to heal.
I am not as fragile today as I was on the first day.
Gratitude is important. It is (in my opinion) a necessary ingredient for a healthy and hope-filled and useful life. It is the key to any real happiness a heart might find on this broken road.
But it cannot fill up the empty place where Dominic used to be.
Fairy tales and favorite movies aside, what does love really look like?
How can I see this feeling that has driven some to distraction, some to destruction and even more to dedication to another in spite of whatever obstacles life has placed in the path?
It’s not often writ large.
In fact, it’s usually tiny stitches in the tapestry of life.
A choice to fix her breakfast before his. * Bending down to plant a kiss on that frowning face. * Lending a tool or a few dollars knowing full well you’ll never see it again. *Refusing to leave when that friend pushes away. * Bearing witness to sorrow and joy and pain and celebration. * Holding a hand when a heart is barely able to hold on. *Showing up, without being asked, because presence makes a difference. * Consistency in the face of chaos. * Doing the things that need to be done even when they go unnoticed and the one you do them for is ungrateful. * Letting go when it’s time. * Turning up the heat for him and taking off your sweater. * Cooking a favorite meal or dessert or stew. * Carefully preserving a legacy. * Folding the towels the way she likes. * Phone calls across continents. * Refusing to give up, ever, no matter how hard it gets.
If I want to see love, all I have to do is look around.
Love is so much more than flowers or candy on a single day of the year.
It’s a life lived in service to another.
It’s a pouring out.
Real love is costly-in time, in effort, in energy.
When I began to view Scripture as an eternal love story, it opened my heart to the truth that even when this broken world results in pain, sorrow and unbearable (without Jesus) burdens, Love is writing a better ending.
I don’t have to like what’s happening but I can lean in and grab hold of my Shepherd King who will always guide me through the awful.
I may ache for a lifetime but will rejoice for eternity.
One of the things even the most uninformed person understands about loss is that the first birthday, the first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas and all the “firsts” after loss will be hard.
But one of the things no one tells you about is that a heart will mark the “lasts” just as much.
The last time I saw him.
The last time I spoke to him.
The last time I hugged his neck and smelled the unique fragrance that was my son.
Every year as I approach the anniversary of the day Dominic left this life and stepped into Heaven, I also remember all the last times.
It’s hard on a heart to think about and wish that somehow I had made more of those moments. I long to have just one more opportunity to say what needs to be said, to see his smile, hear his voice, and hug his neck.
But there’s no going back.
So part of the pain of marking the milestones is knowing there is no way to change a thing. Not only the FACT that my son is gone, gone, gone. But also the FACT that whatever I said or did or left unsaid or undone is utterly and undeniably carved in stone.
I don’t know why this anniversary is hitting my heart harder than last year. Maybe it’s because I recognize how much life has happened since Dominic left us. Maybe it’s because I think in terms of decades. Maybe it’s because there are so many exciting family celebrations that he won’t be part of.
I have no idea.
But it’s nearly eleven long years since my son crossed the threshold of his family home. It’s nearly eleven years since I heard that familiar deep “Hey!”. It’s nearly eleven years since I waved him down the driveway and hollered, “Be careful!” as he drove back to his apartment.
I am thankful for the faithful love of my God and my family. I am thankful for the compassionate companionship of friends. I am thankful that I am still standing after the awful blow that I was sure would knock me so far down I’d never get up again.
But I miss him. I miss him. I miss him.
I will never be able to watch the early spring flowers bloom again without also remembering that it was those blossoms that heralded the good weather that lured him to take his motorcycle that night.
I will never hear Spring Break plans without counting the days between his last Spring Break trip and the day he met Jesus.
I cannot step outside and smell the grass growing, feel the breeze blowing and hear the birds singing without my heart skipping beats and doing the math. Today marks less than two months before the day he left us.
I understand that for others-if they remember at all-Dominic’s departure is a day circled on the calendar.
For me, it’s an entire season.
I mark every single day that led up to that day. I remember every single conversation, meeting, text and phone call. I remember all the things I did and regret all the things I didn’t do.
While the world is celebrating new life, I’m remembering a life that ended.
I shared this for the first time last year around this time. I’d had a difficult previous several months and my face showed it.
From February to the first part of September 2025, things were looking up.
I launched my “official” ministry: Heartache and Hope; was hosting monthly in-person bereaved parent support meetings; there were several opportunities to share with other groups around the country; and all four of my women’s retreats were fully booked.
Then September 14th my father suffered a life-altering stroke and I became his full time caregiver for three months. In December, my sweet granddaughter Holly entered the world a little early and after only two weeks on earth joined Dominic in Heaven.
I look at my face now and there are more lines than ever. My body screams every morning when I call on it to get up and get going.
But if I’ve learned one thing on this journey, it’s this: Make memories and TAKE THE PICTURE!
Every photo is precious when you can’t make any new ones.
❤ Melanie
I have never been one of those women who lied about her age.
My weight…well, you will have to threaten me with something that matters to get THAT number out of my lips.
But I’ve noticed this year more than others since Dominic left us that the wear and tear of years and tears and life and loss are showing up on my face as well as my hips.
I am definitely the worse for wear.
I’m sixty-two and for the first time in my life I am religious about applying under eye cream and moisturizing lotion to my face each morning and night.
I don’t want to be the sore thumb in the family pictures!
I’m not sure it’s working. I’m not sure anything can erase or roll back the marks that life and love and loss have etched on my face.
I’m not sure I want to.
Because each wrinkle, each line, each saggy, baggy skin flap says, “I loved, I lived and I am surviving-even though it’s hard.”
Before Dom left I was camera shy. I still am, a bit. But I’m trying hard to suck up my pride and my insecurity and let those flashes pop. Memories are made one day at a time and photos help preserve them.
So whether I’m at my best, at my worst or somewhere in between, I won’t say no to a Kodak moment.
I wish I had more of them from “before”.
I wish I hadn’t’ been so darned particular about what I looked like, what I was wearing and whether or not my wrinkles or big butt showed.
Worse for wear?
Who cares?
This one wasn’t made to last.
For instance, we know that when these bodies of ours are taken down like tents and folded away, they will be replaced by resurrection bodies in heaven—God-made, not handmade—and we’ll never have to relocate our “tents” again. Sometimes we can hardly wait to move—and so we cry out in frustration. Compared to what’s coming, living conditions around here seem like a stopover in an unfurnished shack, and we’re tired of it! We’ve been given a glimpse of the real thing, our true home, our resurrection bodies! The Spirit of God whets our appetite by giving us a taste of what’s ahead. He puts a little of heaven in our hearts so that we’ll never settle for less.
I ask myself this question often: Do I want to keep writing in this space?
Sometimes the answer is a resounding, “no!”.
Because while I love to write, some days it’s hard to put together words in a way others can understand. Sometimes I’m tired, or rushed or just tired of thinking about how grief and loss impact my life.
And then I ask the follow up: Do I still have anything to say?
That’s the one that keeps me here.
Because as soon as I think the answer is “no” to that question, a conversation or a comment thread or a personal experience brings up something that I feel I need or want to write about.
So I sit down and begin again.
I made a commitment in the beginning to be as honest as possible and I’ve done that the best I know how while protecting identities of those who are part of my story but who have their own stories to tell (should they choose).
I also promised to be transparent about my thoughts on God, on faith, on life everlasting. I feel like I’ve done that. In fact, I’m pretty sure some of my rambling has shocked friends and family from time to time. But I’m not afraid of shocking God. He knows my frame, knows my heart and cannot be made small by my questions or doubts.
I try to do research when appropriate to bring together resources and ideas for bereaved parents in one place.
One of the most frustrating things to me in the early months of missing Dominic was how hard it was to find good resources. The Internet is not your friend if you are looking for local and accessible help for practical problems. It was over a year and a half before I found a closed group of like-minded bereaved parents. But once I did, oh, what a difference that made in my journey!
So if you are interested in finding a safe, closed group, ask me. I know of several.
And then there’s the sweet comments that (usually) mamas send my way-either through Facebook or here. When someone writes that looking for the blog post each morning helps them get out of bed-well, that’s both encouragement and a serious responsibility. I don’t want to not show up and disappoint a heart. Even when all I have to offer is only my words.
So for now, at least, I plan to stay.
When my life circumstances make it impossible to carry on or I run out of things to say (which my mother will swear won’t happen!) then I’ll quit.
I send each post into cyberspace with a prayer-even for my readers who don’t believe in prayer:
“Father God, help each heart hold onto hope. Send a ray of sunshine into every cloudy day. Bring someone along who will listen, who will care and who will offer a hand to the one who is too weary and broken to take another step. Help them believe that they are seen, they are loved and that they matter. Overwhelm them with Your love, grace and mercy.”
It’s easy to understand why. We live in a world full of sound bytes, memes, tweets and T-shirt slogans.
But life can’t be reduced to such little snippets, even if we wish it could.
Not every biography has the perfect “beginning, middle, end” arch that makes for a good and satisfying story.
Some of us can’t tie up our experiences in tidy boxes, with colorful bows and a lovely tag line that inspires thousands.
We are living unfinished, messy, hard stories that keep shifting, changing and require us to face mountain after mountain and valley after valley.
And we stumble.
A lot.
I suppose it’s tiresome for our friends to have to slow down, turn around, bend down and help us get back up over and over and over.
Many of our compassionate companions turn into personal trainers at some point: “You can do it! Try harder! Push farther! You’ve got to work at it! Don’t give up! Come on, don’t you want to get stronger, fitter, better????”
The hidden message? If I wanted to badly enough, would try hard enough, work long enough or get the right help, I could “fix” this. I could emerge from child loss whole, healed and healthy.
And when I don’t, they get frustrated, disgusted or just plain bored and leave me lonely on the trail. They walk away and forget-because they CAN forget.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: If you think it’s hard to watch your friend struggle with a broken heart, a shattered life, doubts and regrets, it’s harder to live it.
You can walk away. I can’t. You can go home, close the door and think of something else. I go home, close the door and am flooded with thoughts, emotions and overwhelming grief.
If I could “fix it” don’t you think I would?
But I can’t.
I will continue to have a messy, untidy, unfinished life this side of Heaven.
And I will keep climbing, struggling and stumbling.
A couple days ago I had the privilege of talking to all my earthbound children.
That doesn’t happen often in the same day. Work schedules dictate limited windows when a quick conversation can be squeezed in. Usually it’s one of them one day and another the next.
It felt good to hear their voices but it was hard to listen to the hurt behind the words. Grief casts a long shadow and it engulfs the entire family. NO one is spared the awful pain loss leaves behind.
My children are walking this path for a second time.
James Michael and his wife as parents and Fiona and Julian as siblings.
The next morning I went to the dentist bright and early for a delayed six month cleaning (my dad’s stroke prevented me from keeping my regular appointment).
It was also the one month mark of the day Holly was gathered into the arms of Jesus.
As I drove the rural roads to my appointment, I replayed that awful morning’s events. Text messages etched forever in my mind and heart. The first time Holly coded. The intervening messages of my always-thoughtful-son making sure his other children and his mom and mother in law had a hot breakfast delivered to the AirBnB where we were staying.
“It’s on the porch.”
Finally the heartrending message that she was gone.
Do I tell the boys? Do you want me to bring them right away? What do you want me to do? I felt SO helpless. So incompetent to do anything. My experience was completely unlike theirs and was useless as a pattern.
Then the hours of saying good-bye.
All that went through my mind and by the time I parked my car I was taking deep, measured breaths to prepare myself to face other humans.
I’m no longer ashamed of crying.
I was-at first-when Dominic left us because that was what had been modeled for me growing up. I was supposed to save my tears for quiet, private moments, not shed them in front of everyone as if I didn’t “know better”.
I got through the small talk, x-rays and telling the hygienist I knew I had a problem with one of my molars. (She’s amazing and kind!)
But lying back in that chair, something broke and the tears just came.
Poor thing, she thought she had done something to bring them on but through my blubbering I was able to tell her about Holly and about the date and about the horror of losing a grandchild and walking again the awful road of loss and pain and knowing, knowing, knowing this was just the beginning.
After a few moments I was able to calm down and she cleaned my teeth. A simple, routine act but a needful one. I asked her if I could hug her when I left. She promised to pray me through this hard day.
And so much of grieving is like this-outpouring of sadness followed by making dinner. Shouts and raised fists followed by phone calls to set up care for my dad. Text messages from family asking impossible-to-answer questions and writing a blog post about faith in the face of doubt and mystery.
I was ignorant of ALL of this before it was me.
I. Had. No. Clue.
That’s why I still write. That’s why I will always, always, always defend the right of a griever (any griever!) to space and grace. That’s why I will shout from the rooftops that grief lasts a lifetime and shapes a life.
I didn’t flinch when they told me I needed a root canal and that the next day they had an opening.
“Sign me up!”, I said. (And make sure you order the anxiety meds for when I come.)
In everyday life I can interpret another person’s silence as a snub when, in fact, they simply were so distracted they didn’t see or hear me.
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Now, I know God is never asleep or distracted (see Elijah vs. Jezebel’s “priests”).
But I know sometimes He feels distant or silent.
He’s not.
Jesus promised to never leave nor forsake me.
And He hasn’t.
When I can’t feel or hear Him, it’s usually because my emotions are running so high the noise drowns out His still, small voice.
So I bring them to Him as a sacrifice and trust Him to help me bear them and to align them with the TRUTH that what I am currently suffering is not the last word.
There are so many life circumstances that plunge a heart into darkness.
Child loss is certainly one of them, although not the only one.
And when you’re in the dark, stumbling around, trying to avoid the sharp corners and looking, looking, looking for a tiny sliver of light to guide you out, it is terrifying.
If you don’t have a pocket full of matches or a flashlight or a lantern, you are at the mercy of whoever cares enough to come back for you.
I am so thankful for the friends and family who never tire of my fearful cries when I find myself in dark places.
They come running.
They don’t leave me there.
Sometimes all they have is a tiny candle themselves, a sliver of hope they are clinging to. But they raise it high , share its glow with me and together we take a step forward toward the brighter light of day.
I will never, ever forget the ones who come to me with a torch.
I firmly believe that our friends and extended family want to reach out, want to help, want to walk alongside as we grieve the death of our child.
I am also convinced that many of them don’t because they don’t know how.
It may seem unfair that in addition to experiencing our loss, we also have to educate others on how to help us as we experience it, but that’s just how it is.
The alternative is to feel frustrated and abandoned or worse.
So here’s a list of helpful tips (and a great infographic!) for interacting with bereaved families:
Express condolences and show you care. Don’t avoid me, please! You cannot make me any sadder. I need to hear from you.
Refer to my child by name. Dominic is STILL my son. He is still part of my story. But because he’s no longer visible, his name often goes unspoken. Please talk to me about him, use his name, tell me a story of how he impacted your life or a memory that makes you smile. It makes me smile too.
Actively listen and be supportive. It’s hard to listen to someone tell you how much they are hurting and not offer advice or think of ways to “fix” them. I can tell you from experience that what I need most on my darkest days is for someone to say, “It IS dark. I’m so sorry.” Silence is OK too. Not every quiet moment needs to be filled with chatter.
Understand that each family and family member will grieve in different ways. You may have observed child loss before but what you saw in one family may not translate to the next. There are no hard and fast rules for this awful journey. The age of the child, family background and structure, manner of death-all these impact grief. In addition, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers all bring their personalities, stage of life, beliefs and experiences to the journey. There were five of us left behind when Dominic ran ahead. We were each devastated but expressed it in very different ways. Nearly five years later, those gaps have widened, not narrowed.
Fathers grieve too. Sometimes support focuses almost exclusively on the mother. In part because of a common notion that mothers are somehow emotionally closer to their children than dads. In part because many men are less demonstrative and may do a good job hiding grief. Whatever the reason, don’t assume one parent is dealing “better” with the loss than another (mother or father) just because he (or she) is not crying openly. No one escapes this awful blow unscathed.
Don’t overlook siblings. Surviving siblings are sometimes referred to as “forgotten grievers”. If they are very young, people may think they are relatively unaffected by the death of a brother or sister. If they are grown and out of the home, people may figure that the siblings’ own, very full and very busy, lives keep them preoccupied. While some of that may be true-to an extent-most surviving siblings are deeply impacted by the death of a brother or sister, regardless of age. Not only have they lost a member of the family and changed birth order, they have also lost the family they knew, the parents they knew and a co-keeper of memories and secrets. Bereaved parents are often overwhelmed with grief for their living children as well as the child that is missing. One of the best gifts anyone gave me was reaching out to my surviving children. It helped my heart to know that they had friends who were supporting and loving them well.
Be yourself. People often feel awkward and stiff when approaching a bereaved parent or family member. That’s perfectly understandable. The bereaved seem so fragile (are so fragile!) that folks are afraid the wrong word or touch might shatter them into a thousand pieces. But what your friend or family needs right now is the you they’ve always known and loved. If you are a hugger, hug! If you are a storyteller, tell stories (appropriate ones, ones of the missing child). If you are a cook and cleaner, then cook and clean. Our family was blessed by our friends doing exactly what they had always done-come alongside in their own special way. So much had changed in our world that familiar touchstones, familiar routines and familiar faces were a real comfort.
Keep in mind words matter. Now is not the time to try to satisfy your curiosity about exactly “what happened”. Loud joking is rarely welcome. Many bereaved families find it hard to laugh in the first days, weeks, months because it feels like betrayal. Don’t offer platitudes intended to help them “look on the bright side” or consider that “it could be worse”. There is nothing worse than burying your child. Nothing. Listen and take direction from the person you are comforting. Follow his or her lead. And if something less than helpful slips out, own it and apologize.
It’s never too late to reach out. NEVER. Sometimes people stay away at first for lots of reasons. Or they show up for the memorial service and then fade into the background. After a bit, even if they want to reach out, they may feel embarrassed by the long absence. Don’t be. So many people stop calling, visiting and texting within the first weeks that your outstretched hand of friendship will be a welcome beacon of hope. If you need to, apologize for your absence. Be honest. Admit you were scared or whatever.
thelifeididntchoose 