…tell me that you understand grief unless you’ve looked at your child’s lifeless body and felt your own heart taken into a grave. I’m sorry if you lost your parent, grandparent, random cousin, etc, but it is *not* the same. I’m sorry, too, that you have felt pain. And I am so happy that your perception of pain is much lower than mine. To me, pain is life. My child is gone, and I carry that loss with me every second of every day. I won’t “moved past it” or “get over it.” I will *attempt* to live with it. Sometimes living merely means existing. I will attempt to live well, but you must understand that my world is confusing. In my world, “normal” has been replaced by a very strange reality that I just can’t come to grips with.
Please don’t make platitudes. They are worthless. I have no idea whether my son has gone to “a better place,” and frankly I find no comfort in that remark. His place is here, with me. Wherever he is, it’s not the best place for him. And he hasn’t passed on. He has died. Please stop telling me otherwise. It only makes me cling tighter to hope that I know isn’t there in the first place.
Don’t forget my son. He lived, even though he is gone now. Please, please don’t be afraid to say his name. I love talking about him. Even if it makes me cry, it still brightens my day. Andy lives in me, and I want to share him any way I can. Don’t be afraid to talk to me on Mother’s Day or on Andy’s birth and death days. They are hideous, painful days, but they are real. Pretending that they are not real merely makes me feel isolated. A child’s death shatters everything. I know that you might feel uncomfortable with me on those days, but please don’t treat me like a glass doll. I am much stronger than you think. Afterall, I am surviving my son’s death every day.
Please don’t take offense if I stare into space sometimes. You are not boring me, and I am not about to do something rash. I’m probably just thinking of my son, of his life and his death. The smallest thing can set off that train of thought. You must understand that I see him in everything. In the spring, I think about his splashing through puddles in his little yellow rain boots. Every night I think about watching him sleep. Every morning, I think about waking up to his smile. When I stare into space, I’m merely situating myself in my memories. Andy still lives in that world.
Don’t take away my memories by banishing me or my son into some mythological netherworld. I spend a great deal of time trying to make others comfortable with my loss. They are well-intentioned, but when they bring up my son’s death, they find themselves unable to withstand the intensity of the situation. After a child has died, there are no rules. Please don’t feel that you *have* to bring up my son’s death, but don’t think that you have to avoid the topic in order to keep me from turning into a complete and utter mess. I’ve become very good at postponing that until the time is right.
Don’t be afraid of me or of my son’s memory. His death is not contagious. It eats away at my life and soul every day, but it will not take away your loved ones or create a permanent hole in your world. There are no words to express my gratitude to the people who *can* sit with me, even in the depths of my grief, and know that they will remain whole after our conversations have ended.
Above all, please don’t forget that I am a mother. That identity will always be a part of me, because my child will always be a part of me. I can’t touch him or hear his voice, but I carry his life and his death with me everywhere I go. Andy will always be my son, and I will always be his mother. Please understand that death cannot take away that role. A mother’s love for her child is too deep. The greatest comfort you can give to me is to remember my child and recognize that I am a mother still.
