I wrote this a few years ago in response to post after post across social media of (mostly!) moms lamenting the fact their son or daughter would soon be moving away or off to college.
I get it!
When you are used to having your kid around it’s tough when he or she leaves the nest.
But there is a vast difference in having to work a little harder to stay in contact or arrange visits and never being able to speak to your child again.
It’s an adjustment to compare calendars to find a day your family can celebrate together but it’s heartbreaking to know that one chair will always be empty at every family gathering.
I just got back home from attending the funeral of one of my parents’ very best, lifelong friends.
And even though he was full of years I’m never prepared for the way death steals from us.
As I looked around the crowd gathered near his wife I wondered how many might be offering up platitudes and quips that probably sound helpful in their heads but which fall hard on a broken heart.
So for those who feel compelled to say something, anything, in the silent space between a hug and giving way to the next person in line, here are a few things NOT to say.
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Humans are hard-wired to say something when silence lingers long between them.
So it’s not surprising that when death makes talking difficult, the person most susceptible to that pressure will often blurt out the first thing that pops into her head.
It came up in one of our closed support groups again: That friend who thinks because we have endured the worst, we are somehow uniquely equipped to listen to and bear up under their fear of the worst.
If your child survives a car crash or some other terrible accident, please, please, please know that NO ONE is happier than I am you are spared!
Allow me to “like/love/whatever” your post in support. But please do not PM me with a list of “what could have happened”.
I already know. I’m living it.
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Dear Mom Whose Son Survived the Accident,
I want you to know that I am beyond thankful that you will be spared my pain. I prayed for your son as you requested-begged God to spare him.
They say misery love companybut I say misery loves comfort.
I do not want one more parent to know the heartache of child loss.
I remember struggling mightily to get four young children to church Sunday mornings.
At the time we attended a larger church that had a couple of parking lots-one near and one not-so-near the entrance.
Of course, I was never early enough to park very close to the doors so had to shepherd all four (while carrying the youngest in his car seat) across a small lane, up a hill and finally to the foyer.
What a blessed relief when some kind person opened that door for me as we approached!
It wasn’t much in the whole scheme of things.
It didn’t relieve my achingarms of the load I carried.
But it said, “I see you. I want to do the little bit I can to encourage you.”
I have never forgotten those days.
Opening the door taught me that sometimes the smallest act of kindness is the difference between a heart giving up or hanging on.
I’ve had a lot of people “hold the door” for me on this journey of child loss.
Most of them have not walked in my shoes but they could see my soul was worn and I needed encouragement.
I have so much more empathy for older folks since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.
I’ve always tried to be a patient listener when hearing that same story over and over and over but have to admit that sometimes I’d drift off or internally mock an elder because I was tired of hearing it.
Not anymore.
Because I understand now that it’s in the telling that one both commemorates and honors people as well as the past.
Me and Aunt Mattie Lou at her 99th birthday.
Stories are how we weave facts into narrative and give them meaning. It’s why so many of us love historical fiction or period dramas that not only reference actual people and events but also peek at emotions, motivation and draw conclusions.
I could hand you my daily calendar and you’d understand the outline of where I was and what I did.
But you wouldn’t know what I thought or felt that day unless I filled it in.
When Dominic ran ahead to Heaven, I was forced at first to deliver the most basic message to others who needed to know. I repeated it over and over, “I have to tell you something awful. Dominic is dead.”
I didn’t really know much more than that.
Details were added by friends and first responders in the days to come.
The story broadened to include how we reassembled our family from across the country, who showed up to help us through the first hours, where we chose to bury him, what the funeral service looked like and on and on and on.
For months afterward I found myself compelled to repeat the story of those days.
Compelled to rewind and play again the details, each time teasing out additional insights, questions and feelings.
It was an important part of unspooling and exploring what, exactly, it meant to live in a world that no longer included one of my children.
I know sometimes folks get tired of me telling the story. For them, it is a reminder of some awful event that is tucked neatly in the past. A date on a calendar somewhere that might occasionally tickle the back of their brain and evoke a, “that’s so sad” response but not something they live with every. single. day.
But for me, Dominic’s death is an ongoing experience.
Every day I have to fit his absence into my world. I have to find a way to live around the giant void where heSHOULDbe butISN’T.
So the story grows.
It’s not only what happened on the day he left, it’s what has happened since and is still happening now.
When you make space for me to tell, you make space for me to feel.
thelifeididntchoose 