By Still Standing Contributor Angela Miller of A Bed For My Heart
Child loss is a loss like no other. One often misunderstood by many.
If you love a bereaved parent or know someone who does, remember that even his or her “good” days are harder than you could ever imagine.
Compassion and love, not advice, are what’s needed.
If you’d like an inside look into why the loss of a child is a grief that lasts a lifetime, here is what I’ve learned in my seven years of trekking through the unimaginable.
1). Love never dies.
There will never come a day, hour, minute or second I stop loving or thinking about my son.
Just as parents of living children unconditionally love their children always and forever, so do bereaved parents.
I want to say and hear his name just the same as non-bereaved parents do.
I want to speak about my deceased child as normally and naturally as you talk about your living ones.
I love my child just as much as you love yours– the only difference is mine lives in heaven and talking about him is unfortunately quite taboo in our culture.
I hope to change that.
Our culture isn’t so great about hearing about children gone too soon, but that doesn’t stop me from saying my son’s name and sharing his love and light everywhere I go.
Just because it might make you uncomfortable, doesn’t make him matter any less.
My son’s life was cut irreversibly short, but his love lives on forever.
2). Bereaved parents share an unspeakable bond.
In my seven years of navigating the world as a bereaved parent, I am continually struck by the power of the bond between bereaved parents.
Strangers become kindreds in mere seconds– a look, a glance, a knowing of the heart connects us, even if we’ve never met before.
No matter our circumstances, who we are, or how different we are, there is no greater bond than the connection between parents who understand the agony of enduring the death of a child.
It’s a pain we suffer for a lifetime, and unfortunately, only those who have walked the path of child loss understand the depth and breadth of both the pain and the love we carry.
3). I will grieve for a lifetime.
Period. The end.
There is no “moving on,” or “getting over it.”
There is no bow, no fix, no solution to my heartache.
There is no end to the ways I will grieve and for how long I will grieve.
There is no glue for my broken heart, no exilir for my pain, no going back in time.
For as long as I breathe, I will grieve and ache and love my son with all my heart and soul.
There will never come a time when I don’t think about who my son would be, what he would look like, and how he would be woven perfectly into the tapestry of my family.
I wish people could understand that grief lasts forever because love endures forever; that the loss of a child is not one finite event, it is a continuous loss that unfolds minute by minute throughout a lifetime.
Every missed birthday, holiday, a milestone; should-be back-to-school years and graduations; weddings that will never be, grandchildren that should have been but will never be born– an entire generation of people are irrevocably altered forever.
This is why grief lasts forever.
The ripple effect lasts indefinitely.
The bleeding never stops.
4). It’s a club I can never leave but is full of the most shining souls I’ve ever known.
This crappy club called child loss is a club I never wanted to join, and one I can never leave, yet is filled with some of the best people I’ve ever known.
And yet we all wish we could jump ship– that we could have met another way– any other way but this.
Alas, these shining souls are the most beautiful, compassionate, grounded, loving, movers, shakers and healers I have ever had the honor of knowing.
They are life-changers, game-changers, relentless survivors, and thrivers — warrior moms and dads who redefine the word brave.
Every day loss parents move mountains in honor of their children gone too soon. They start movements, change laws, spearhead crusades of tireless activism.
Why? In the hope that even just one parent could be spared from joining the club.
If you’ve ever wondered who some of the most significant world changers are, hang out with a few bereaved parents and watch how they live, see what they do in a day, a week, a lifetime.
Watch how they alchemize their grief into a force to be reckoned with, watch how they turn tragedy into transformation, loss into a legacy.
Love is the most powerful force on earth, and the love between a bereaved parent and his/her child is a lifeforce to behold.
Get to know a bereaved parent.
You’ll be thankful you did.
5). The empty chair/room/space never becomes less empty.
Empty chair, empty room, space in every family picture.
Empty, vacant, forever gone.
Empty spaces that should be full, everywhere we go.
There is and will always be a missing space in our lives, our families, a forever-hole-in-our-hearts.
Time does not make the area less empty.
Neither do platitudes, clichés or well-wishes for us to “move on,” or “stop dwelling,” from well-intentioned friends or family.
No matter how you look at it, empty is still empty. Missing is still missing.
The problem is nothing can fill it.
Minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, month after month, year after heartbreaking year space remains.
No matter how much time has passed.
The space of our missing child(ren) lasts a lifetime.
And so we rightfully miss them forever.
Help us by holding the scope of that truth for us.
6). No matter how long it’s been, holidays never become easier without my son.
Have you ever wondered why every holiday season is like torture for a bereaved parent? Even if it’s been 5, 10, or 25 years later?
It’s because they really, indeed are horrific. Imagine if you had to live every holiday without one or more of your precious children.
Imagine how that might feel for you.
It would be easier to lose an arm, a leg or two– anything— than to live without your flesh and blood, without the beat of your heart.
Almost anything would be easier than living without one or more of your precious children.
That is why holidays are always and forever hard for bereaved parents.
Don’t wonder why or even try to understand.
Know you don’t have to understand to be a supportive presence.
Consider supporting and loving some bereaved parents this holiday season. It will be the best gift you could ever give them.
7). Because I know deep sorrow, I also know unspeakable joy.
Though I will grieve the death of my son forever and then some, it does not mean my life is lacking happiness and joy.
Quite the contrary. It is not either/or; it’s both/and.
Grief and joy can and do coexist.
My life is more precious now. I live from a deeper place.
I love deeper still. Because I grieve, I also know joy like no other.
The joy I experience now is far more profound and more intense than the joy I experienced before my loss.
Such is the alchemy of grief.
Because I’ve clawed my way from the depths of unimaginable pain, suffering, and sorrow, again and again– when the joy comes, however, and whenever it does– it is a joy that reverberates through every pore of my skin and every bone in my body.
I feel all of it, deeply.
I embrace and thank every blessed morsel of it.
My life now is more rich and vibrant and full, not despite my loss, but because of it.
In grief, there are gifts, sometimes many. These gifts don’t in any way make it all “worth” it, but I am grateful beyond words for every gift that comes my way.
I bow my head to each one and say thank you, thank you, thank you.
Because there is nothing– and I mean absolutely nothing– I take for granted.
Living life in this way gives me greater joy than I’ve ever known possible.
I have my son to thank for that.
Being his mom is the best gift I’ve ever been given.
Even death can’t take that away.