Tonight, my heart breaks not for myself, but for a family I’ve known and loved for decades. Tonight, I usher in new members to this hideous club—Moms and Dads Who Know.
It’s still so easy, more than three years later, to remember the earliest days of grief—the days of sorrow’s exhaustion and confusion and physical pain, the nights of no sleep and no rest borne of the knowledge that if I slept, I’d have to wake to a devastating reality.
I remember.
I remember people I’d worked with for more than 10 years avoiding eye contact for two school years after Cooper’s death. I remember the early trips to the grocery store, watching people—friends—turn around and head for another aisle when they saw me. I remember conversation stopping when I entered a room. I remember the cacophony of silence.
I also remember those people who stepped forward and walked alongside me in my grief—my stretcher bearers. I remember the late-night online chats with other Moms Who Know and hours watching football and talking through tears. I remember walks and a labyrinth and new connections. I remember the kindness and bravery of the people who could handle me—handle what I’d become. Some were longtime friends, others were acquaintances, and still others were connections made for me by some sneaky beloved angels. I remember, because they saved me.
Supporting someone in the clutches of grief is not easy. I know. Suck it up and step up. I guarantee your discomfort does not compare to the devastation of outliving a child.
I’ve pulled on my bossy pants and offer some suggestions:
You needn’t be afraid of us; child loss isn’t contagious.
It’s okay if you don’t know what to say; neither do we. Still, it’s better to say, “I don’t know what to say,” or “I’m sorry” than to avoid us.
We will need to tell our story, and more than once. Please let us. Please listen.
We might (probably will) cry. So might you. Get over it. God made waterproof mascara and Kleenex for a reason.
Say their names. Tell their stories. Share the love and laughs. These are priceless gifts you can give.
Don’t console us with “at least you have other children.” We want all of our children.
Don’t commend us for our “strength.” We had no choice.
Do be our stretcher bearers—walk alongside us as we travel our path. When our emotional legs fail, load us up and carry us. Please.
Grief is uncomfortable and unpleasant. It wrecks our minds and breaks our hearts. Our culture avoids facing grief, meeting its gaze, acknowledging its presence and power, but grief is both real and natural. To help a grieving friend, you don’t need to be a hero, just a human who can move past discomfort and awkwardness and into that sacred space of grief tempered by compassion.
My prayer tonight is that sleep overpowers raw grief, that exhaustion wins over heartache, and that a few hours of peace soothe souls.
Meanwhile, I suspect my wild child welcomed a slightly older wild child to heaven and now they are up to all sorts of mischief. Have fun, boys.
Woods Writes 