Child loss. It’s a gigantic elephant.
I am a gigantic elephant, and I expect that I will be for the rest of my life.
If you’re in the herd, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
The looks, the avoidance, the awkward conversation, the never-ending feeling that you will forever be “that mom.”
{Isn’t her son the one who died of a drug overdose?}
Has this happened to you? You’re in a store, and someone gives you a big hello. And then they remember that your child died, their face contorting in horror as they try to figure out what to say to you?
Do you hug them, walk away, pretend you didn’t notice or comment on the weather? Another day in the life, the life of you, and your new normal; as an elephant.
You say his name and the room goes quiet. You start telling a story, and it’s as though you don’t exist – as though you are speaking, but no one can hear you.
No one wants to hear you.
This constant dismissiveness makes you feel like you should spend the rest of your life as a statue – a mannequin. Please put on your mask and keep it on.
Don’t speak of anything uncomfortable, because frankly, we don’t know what to do with it.
And because we don’t, we will pretend we don’t hear you.
Isn’t it absurd? This giant elephant is in your midst, and you are trying to get around it without ever addressing it, pretending that it’s not there?
Well, guess what? It’s pretty dang uncomfortable for us elephants as well. We didn’t ask to be elephants.
The fact remains – we have a child; they just aren’t on this side of the veil. We cannot live pretending they didn’t exist. We won’t, because they did, and they do.
It is ludicrous to think that we can stop speaking of them, and we shouldn’t have to. We have a burning desire to speak their name. To hear you say it.
Do you think it’s an easy topic for us to bring up? Because it’s not.
But we keep hoping that one day, we can speak of them without losing our crap, and if we are never allowed the opportunity, well, it’s just going to stay awkward.
Do us a solid – don’t look away when we speak. Don’t interrupt – this is hard for us. Engage us when we try to bring them into the conversation – ask a question, share a memory, be kind.
I got so desperate to talk about him that I told the Customer Service Rep from Verizon a story about my son and his old phone number. I felt pretty strong going in, and the minute the words, “after our son died,” left my lips, it was all over.
She was gracious as I continued, through my tears, telling her that someone else got his old number, and happened to call my husband’s phone one night at 11:00 p.m. looking for a ride home. What were the odds?
They must have training in dealing with random, hysterical customers. She was so gracious. But then, she lost her sixteen-year-old brother to an accident, so I guess she understood.
I’ve grown to love elephants. There are some amazing stories about the big-hearted beasts and how they deal with grief and loss. They are intelligent, compassionate, loving, and ferociously protective.
Mama elephants are a force of nature. They can change the landscape. They are impossible to ignore, so please stop trying.
Fellow elephants, your new role in this terrible herd will give you many opportunities to come alongside others.
You will find that the people who have experienced great loss will often gravitate towards you. To them, you are a lighthouse. The fact that you are still standing, still surviving, gives them hope.
I won’t tell you it’ll be easy to come alongside them in their pain, not when you are holding your own. But you will understand them as no one else does.
They need to hear you say that they aren’t crazy, that while it won’t “heal,” it will become a little easier to tolerate.
Time To Grieve; How Long Will My Grief Last?
That the mask you wear will become easier to put on and take off, and the triggers grow slightly easier to navigate.
I get that your own heart is broken, and you aren’t sure you can take on one more problem. You are burdened, devasted, and not only are you an elephant, but you’re an elephant walking a tightrope.
You have to learn to balance – there is nothing delicate about learning to live in this new form.
Some days you’ll tend a broken heart or two, and other days, you’ll knock down everything in your path. It’ll be all you can do to deal with your sorrow.
Balance.
Make sure your oxygen mask is on first, and when you are stable, help those around you.
In early grief, you hear a lot about using your pain to help others and, at first, it sounds impossible, foreign, and unlikely. You are in a pit, and it’s deep.
But you meet others who have successfully crawled out from the deepest level, and it starts to make more sense.
Coming alongside others helps you too.
I won’t tell you that you heal from child loss, or that it ever gets easy, but you will, in time, find that talking about it to others who are grieving gives you an opportunity to talk about your journey, your child, and doing so, not only are you helping them, but yourself as well.
Embrace the elephant.
Let’s change the landscape together.
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Thank you…from another elephant. I lost my only son Travis at 24 to an overdose in 2017. I miss my beautiful boy…
I’m so sorry Shari. We also lost our son in 2017. Same age as your Travis. This missing them is the hardest thing in the world. Sending a hug dear mama. ❤️
We have a lot in common with an elephant. The weight of an elephant is 6 tons which feels one carries through grief. They live a long time which I feel
Like it correlates to the grief one goes through. Thank you for sharing. I love you
Love you Sue. ❤️
Thank you for sharing. My wife and I lost our 11 yr old daughter last July, she was hit by a car. Everyday seems impossible. If people knew what goes through my head on a daily basis to cope they would probably think I’m crazy…lol. Its all we can do now to survive. We miss her terribly.
Adam, I am so sorry for your unfathomable loss. I agree, our thoughts would seem very crazy to those who haven’t lived it and even to ourselves. It’s just so unthinkable. May God bless you and give you peace and comfort.