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Loss
of a child is twofold. All the experiences of young adulthood are denied.
He/she would never know the bliss of love, joy, beauty, challenges, accomplishments.
He/she would also miss the stepping stones of disappointment, illusions,
failures and sadness; the dualities which form an integrated life. And
then, there are the losses to parents: the loss of the right to plan,
to hope, to dream, to share successes and disappointments, joys and hurts.
Part of us is buried with our child.
The questioning and the anger lasted several
months. Wherever I went throughout the house, I carried his photograph.
I talked to him incessantly. By these acts, I was denying the world’s
proclamation that he no longer existed. Did dying mean nothingness, non
existence, or was there something to the vague claims in the back of my
memory of death being a transition? This was the first motivation that
moved me outside my home. Obsessively, I ran from one library to the other,
scanning all the religious, philosophy and psychology sections for clues
and interpretations on “life after death”. I found enough
contemplation of the subject to open a way to hope that there was some
possibility of an existence. And somehow, faith entered from the back
door. The compulsion for reading lessened, and I began to respond to a
few friends’ overtures, timidly, sadly approaching the world again.
Within 3-4 months, I became aware of a
strong urge to share this stifled, cut-off expression of love for my son
with other children by working in a children’s hospital. My full
swing back into life was brought about by “losing myself in others,”
and with it eventually, came the inimitable joy of purposeful living.
My husband, who had rallied with strong faith in the belief that there
is a God whose will includes the sorrows as well as the joys, began writing
startlingly beautiful poetry about our son, his life, his death, as well
as mystical notes about immortality. And so, I can attest to the fact
that “something good can come out of something so horribly unbelievable”.
Postscript:
I wrote this article over 25 years ago and now I think about what beliefs
have changed or imprinted more deeply over the years. My lifework has
continued as a volunteer for the past 10 years, helping bereaved parents
through facilitating a weekly grief group at The LIFE Center. I have learned
that love is for giving. It breathes through me thriving and surviving
through the depth of my pain and loss of my child. It has expanded my
capacity to love others into their own healing, and in turn, has fostered
healing within me.
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