the language of loss
A colleague of mine lost her son last month. His car went off the road on a beautiful Saturday afternoon and he passed away from his injuries. Another friend lost her 8 year old niece recently in a similarly unexpected and tragic accident. Their deep sadness echoes within me and I've spent many moments living in their skin when I think about their grief. Or maybe it's the other way around. Maybe it's that suddenly I could see them wearing the same stretched skin and hollow eyes I know so well.
I hated seeing it on them and in them.
I never knew Silas as a grown boy or young adult. I never knew him as anything more than the potential of everything we were about to become. I felt his kicks and saw him grow behind the veil of Lu's bulging belly, but I never had him all to myself, not even for a moment. My friend knew her niece, saw her grow and develop. My colleague had 23 amazing years to share with her son. All three of our experiences are terrible beyond words, and I'm certain none of us would like to trade with the other, for any reason at all, ever.
How do you qualify for being one of us here at Glow? What are the parameters for Medusa-hood, for babylost? Those people were their babies even though one was a man as well as a son and the other was not her offspring but still her child in so many ways. Does a miscarriage at 10 weeks count? How about a father of 80 who buries his son of 40? Or by that time does the father already know that the Universe is far from fair and things like that just happen?
I went to Tommy's memorial and heard the amazing things his friends and family said about him. As I absorbed the stories of this wonderful friend, brother, son, man, I wondered what people would have said about my son. And then I wished I would never know because he would have died after me, after a long life together where I could nurture and cherish him and teach him to be a good person and a great friend like my father taught me.
The twisted layers of 'what-if' and 'what-should' and 'what-isn't' were nearly overwhelming. At the end of the memorial that was 400+ people strong, I gave my colleague a long, deep hug and told her how sorry I was that her son was gone. I could barely even look at his younger brother, the loss and shock etched into his face was terrible and so all I could do was tell him to hang on and hold on to his parents and just hold each other up, any way they could.
A few weeks later when I saw my colleague again I gave her another huge hug, but I didn't ask her how she was doing. I always hated that question in those first days and months and years after losing Silas. I know it is just something people say because they have no idea what to say, but I still hated it so I didn't ask. Instead I just told her how we have been thinking about her and her family and that I hoped they were holding up as best they could. And then later that day we talked. We talked about how some people we knew well were quick to pull away in our times of loss. How people we never expected were able to stand right up next to us and hold on tight. How getting up and taking a shower could be counted as an enormous accomplishment, to say nothing of getting back to work, back to the World, back to the everyday experience where our offspring were not.
I could look her in the eye and hold her in my heart and I was not at all afraid of what she had become or what she represented. This wasn't some theoretical possibility in my life. In some way that transcends Tommy's age or Silas's even briefer life I knew to the core of my marrow the filthy chaos and shocking confusion that gripped her tight despite her ability to stand there and talk about her son that was gone. The pit that was hollowed out within me nearly three years ago is so deep and black and awful that her pain just slipped right in and swirled around comfortably. I hoped that by standing there with her and using his name and letting her speak about her new awful life that I could lessen her burden minutely, if only for a moment, perhaps until the conversation ended, if that.
For so long, the despair I felt seemed larger than me, something I could never contain. But somehow I've managed to grow and now it fits into my life without overwhelming me. It doesn't seem less, not at all. Instead I had to change the shape of my soul so that everything about losing Silas is in me and a part of me. Speaking to my friend about her son Tom, I realized that I could stand with her and listen and absorb a bit of her grief because I know how to digest the truth of death. That sick, awful feeling is to be expected, that it will not destroy me, and that hopefully this loss won't destroy her either.
I hoped that I could serve as a signpost along this path of sadness, that somehow by engaging people in their time of grief that I was doing right by Silas. It is always better if he were here, but since he's not I have to find scraps of good and use them to the best of my ability. I will never shy away from people when they are confronted with death because I know how important it was to me when people would talk to me and listen to me and help me to pretend that I was not losing my mind during my worst times.
I can talk to people when they are stricken because I know this language, all too well. It is a terrible gift from Silas but if it helps one other person pull back from the brink I am more than happy to make use of this awful knowledge. Even though it feels like we are each all alone with our absent child, the fact is it is all too common. The death of a child, no matter how old, is always exceptionally shocking and wrenching. It is something no parent should ever have to experience. But as we know, 'should' doesn't count around here, just what is and what is not.
Silas isn't here, and now Tom and my friend's niece are absent, too. And so for those of us left here, devastated and alone, we have to help each other face each day and grow into people that can survive what we should have never had to endure. We can only do it together because no one can withstand this alone.
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Are you able to speak with people that have lost children or relatives? Is it something you encounter often, sometimes, never? Do you feel specially qualified to engage in these types of conversations, or do you prefer to keep your grief and experience private? What words do you use? How do you speak to people when they are raw with sadness?
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Reader Comments (12)
On the other side, I have spent time with people who are ahead of me. Dear friends who lost their son a year before our loss. Another close friend who lost her fiance in a freak accident. And when I talk to these people, I feel so comfortable, so at ease with them. They are not frightened by death. They do not shy away from it. They say our babies and fiances names out loud, without cracking their voice or looking overwhelmingly sad. And just as they have helped us immensely, I hope to one day be able to do the same for others.
"The pit that was hollowed out within me nearly three years ago is so deep and black and awful that her pain just slipped right in and swirled around comfortably."
Replace the three with four: yes. Oh, yes. Nowadays, I have no problem with other people's grief (anymore, like in the before-I-knew-better-times). In fact, it's something I even feel comfortable talking about. My neck of the woods.
Thanks for this wonderful post.
Thinking about your friends that have just entered the ohana. So sorry for their loss...
Because their losses always seem so much greater than mine.
Grief is almost it's own weird language, and now when I read about moms who lose sons in the military, I get what they're saying. Even though my situation is about as far from that as one can get. I feel qualified to stand in the room and hold their hand and say a name. That much I can do now, because I know the other side is way, way worse.
I have not encountered anyone who has lost a child after mine but like you, I feel that I am now better equipped to talk about death after suffering such a great loss. Indeed, in some small way I actually look forward to conversations about death and pain since they not only help me process my ongoing thoughts and feelings but they give me more opportunities to talk about my son and our experience with him.
I enjoyed how you described finding "scraps" from your experience that you use in your life because I too feel like sometimes I latch onto a certain emotion that helps me relate to other people. After having lost my son I now find myself empathizing with those who are out of work, terminally ill, infertile or addicted to some substance or another. And most of all, I can relate more readily to people whose lives have simply not turned out the way they planned or ever wanted them to.
My son has given me this gift, and whether I like the baggage that comes along with it or not, I choose to see it as such.
I'm much better with unexpected tragedies. I hope it won't always be this way, but for now it's where I am.
My aunty lost her first born, though he was age four when he died. We all thought she'd be a great support for me in the wake of losing Hope. Yet she wasn't, not even close. Maybe this spoke more about the differences in our generations or losing an older child compared to a stillbirth. I'm not sure. But not only could she not support me, we no longer speak. I found help in and support in more unlikely places, such as from a more distant relative who lost her husband in a tragic accident a few years ago. We just "get" each other and have become quite close. We speak the same language of grief and I'm so glad our shared losses, though very different, has strengthened our bond.
And like you Chris, I am more able to sit with those in their grief now. Especially if the loss has been particularly unexpected or traumatic. I don't ever claim to have all the answers or be an expert on the topic, but I can certainly relate and offer them support. I don't fear death like I once did, that's for sure. It is not something awful that happens to other people, it is now a huge part of who I am. I've looked death in the face and I live with the consequences each and every day.
Oh, and one more thing - not that I think one type of child loss is worse than the other, but I do wish I had more time with Hope. Any time. That's the awful thing about stillbirth. The only time I got with her, she was already dead. I can't for the life of me imagine what it would like to lose an older child, but there is a very black and ugly part of my soul that does feel a little bit jealous of others who get to keep their children for that bit longer. I don't like to admit this, but it is what it is. I wish I had X amount of minutes, hours, days, weeks, years. But I guess no matter how long we have, it will never be enough when they go before us.
I am much more comfortable at abiding with someone grieving since Lucia died, perhaps I am not very good at it, but I am comfortable. And I have been called more than a few times when someone has lost a child or sibling or friend. I try to listen more than speak, so I only talk about my grief when it serves to normalize something someone is going through, if that makes sense.
A few months ago, a new acquaintance at a meeting related that her mother died in a car accident the evening earlier. I saw her for weeks after that, and I always gave her a hug. Told her I was thinking about her. Gave her my number. One evening, not so long ago, I asked her if she needed to talk. She looked sad. She teared up. And she described all these grief symptoms, being mired in the abyss we are all quite intimate with. And I said, "Honey, you know that is grief, right?" And she said, "Is that normal?" And I told her it was. It had only been three months. And she said, "How do you know this?" And I told her about Lucy and my grief. And she stared at me, and said, "I lost two children too and their father." At that moment, I didn't know what to do or say.
Certainly my loss is not unique, but I still felt like I had nothing to give her. Her mother, her first husband and two children? I guess I related a lot to what Tash and Niobe said. Sometimes I feel lucky to only have lost Lucia at 38 weeks of pregnancy, and it has afforded me no special grief understanding card. Other times, my loss seems so huge. Still, I sat and listened. She said her husband thinks she is grieving too long and needs to get over it. I know that in the early days of my grief when someone who lost her cat (which really did happen) or who suffered an early miscarriage said, "I know what you are going through. I felt exactly the same." It upset me, even if they did know exactly what I felt. But in that moment, I said to her, "You know, when Lucia died, I felt like it touched the rest of my grief, like I felt the pain of all my losses all over again." And you could see this lightness come into her face and she said, "THAT IS IT! I am grieving for my mother and for my husband and children again even though that was twenty years ago." So, after we split, I felt silly talking about Lucia and yet it was appropriate, I think, and helped, I think. We have become closer friends. But it is so confusing, honestly.
Also. My husband's brother died when he was 11 and my husband was 10. I have a much stronger connection to my mother-in-law now, as we talk about our dead children freely together.
I do feel like I am better able to connect to people in their grieving, which is great because I can no longer fully connect to people in their good fortune. Despite my own relative good fortune.
I agree with Angie, it is all so confusing.
Yes - the how are you doing question is so hard. It grates at me... I'm not ok. My baby just died. I can't sum up my emotions in a quick answer. I appreciate that they care, but it's just impossible to respond to that question.
A young woman only 21 years old died Friday evening on the street below my office building. I heard the ambulance, but thought nothing of it. We are so close to a hospital, they often go past the building.
My office is on the fourth floor. My co-worker looked out her window and saw a jogger lying in the street. On her way out for the evening, she made a point of stopping by my office and telling me to avoid that corner. There had been an accident, it looked very bad. And I thanked her for that because it really was more than I could bear to see.
It wasn’t until this afternoon that I knew she died. We were on our way out to go shopping and we had to cross through downtown. I went past my office building and saw that a memorial had been started at the very point where she died.
And that is when I knew someone from my building, someone who has the same employer as me, killed her. Because the flowers were at the corner of the driveway we all have to use to exit the underground parking. Someone was exiting and did not see her jogging on the sidewalk. And when we got home, I searched the news to find out what had happened. She was indeed killed by someone exiting our building. She was 21. She didn’t even make it to the hospital one-half mile from my office.
I feel so horrible for my unknown co-worker who killed her. Can you imagine? But mostly my thoughts went to that young woman’s parents. Because I too have lost children. And no I cannot imagine the horror of losing a child who is 21 years old. But I know the pain of losing two children. Of carrying and nurturing a child in your womb only to hear the devastating news that he or she has died. I know the pain of surviving your children.
But beyond that I won’t compare. Because I cannot and I hope that I never, ever will know the excruciating pain of losing a grown child.
My mom was in town this weekend. We were on our way to go shopping because she said she wanted to buy something for my living son. But we got to the store and she kept picking up things for me. Did I want that pair of shoes or that nice jacket? And I know she’s hoping that a “thing” will make me feel better. But it won’t. And so I refused. And all I saw that I wanted was a tiny glass box which cost $5, a ring box they called it because truly that is all you could fit in it. But it was beautiful and seemed like a perfect place to put my son’s ashes. My husband’s best friend picked up the ashes for us at the mortuary. He will be coming to town next month and delivering them to us. Maybe I will go back for that box. I just couldn’t buy it, not with my mom there.
Sundown tonight was the start of Yom Kippur, the end of the Jewish New Year. On this day, we light candles that burn for 24 hours in memory of children, siblings, spouses, and parents who have died. I have been lucky enough to never have had to light them in my entire life. And this year I lit two.
It's something that I know I'm growing with more confidence; talking to others about my loses, but guess that is down to my own growth and understanding of where I am now and what matters to me.
At first it would be them who took the initiative to talk to me, to ask me questions about Elizabeth and I was just overwhelmed that there were people out there who could stand to talk about the death of my children and not shy away from me as if it was contagious. I know that I'd bleed them for information, "how did they survive, how does it change, will I ever feel a happiness again, what do I do now?". I learnt a lot form those wonderful people coming forward to connect with me and feel a sense of normalcy in talking so openly with them.
Now I have some time and dare I say it, healing under my belt, I'm able to embrace these people when they come out from nowhere; to talk and listen, whether they be further along than me or just starting this path. I'm not actively seeking them out, but I'm not with holding anything at all from them - sugar coating is lost to me too.
I am very conscious of the wording I use with these people, just as I was sensitive to the words others used with me - I'll not talk of a God, Angels, fate, karma or a 'plan' of any sort - I have no understanding of them and so won't ballshit them. I always use names, get them talking as much as I find I'm doing and take my queues from them. I find it a great feeling for having shared my babies with others - a warm and fuzzy glow radiates from me and I hope that they find the same with sharing their loved one.
How do I speck to someone who is raw with grief? With not many words as you did Chris; listening to them, not trying to fix things no matter how practical you may think they are and just giving caring actions; a text to say I'm thinking of them, meals left on the door step, a note, a kind gesture.