Survivors

Of course, death is an experience that is common to all mankind, an experience that touches all members of the human family. I already knew that when someone close to you dies, it really hurts, and that each person reacts differently. I’ve since learned that a child’s death is such a gut-wrenching event that it transcends all other pain. The loss is devastating, with an indescribable dismay and sadness that leaves one shaken to the core.

Losing a child isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. But for some of us, it has become the way that it is. And while I’m certain that not everyone who loses a child responds the same, I know that I my own reactions have at times seemed overly intense, self-absorbing, contradictory, or even puzzling. I think the puzzling part comes in because, in essence, I have always seen myself as this tough survivor.

I have two precious daughters. And, yes, I have heard the absurd statements about how lucky I am to have them and that my son is in a better place. My girls are amazing and I love them beyond all reason, but the reality is that having other children doesn’t lessen the pain of having lost one. My son was a gift to me, to us, and we were forced to give up our gift. My oldest and middle children have now become the oldest and youngest. My "three children" have become my "two daughters." Our family tree has been ripped apart.

And so, the loss of my only son has become a part of my own personal history, a part of my life’s story, a part of my very being. I have realized that my only choice is whether to cringe from my state of affairs, or attempt to affirm it. I have realized that my calling as a survivor is to forge ahead and continue this lifetime journey God placed before me, doing my best to make it manageable and productive.

But to survive doesn’t just mean to continue to live, breathe, and get by. Somebody who truly survives remains alive despite exposure to life-threatening danger; somebody who survives has the power of endurance and shows a great determination to overcome difficulties and carry on.

This I have attempted to do in the face of life’s harshest storm, but just when I think "I've got this," setbacks always seem to threaten my resolve. All holidays now are just cruel reminders that my child is absent. Because of the intense focus, I have found that Mother’s Day is the most horrendous of all. For weeks, this special day is marketed on television and in magazines, with signs everywhere reminding you not to forget your mother. For me, I hear and see, “don’t forget your child.” 

Forget?  Dear God, I miss his laughter, I miss his thoughtfulness, I miss cooking his favorite things, I miss his smell.

Forget? There is not one moment that I don't remember him, because I’ve learned that the bond you form with your child extends beyond death.

As a survivor, my goal has been to try to adapt to this new existence that has been commanded of me. As such, I have endeavored to take it in stride and to pass on to others the love and other specialness I received from my son. In focusing on organ donation events sponsored by our state organization, fresh flowers at the cemetery, and in my writings, I continue to seek ways to continue to love, honor and value what he meant to me. I’ve learned that grief is exhausting and demanding work, perhaps even more so for a survivor.

In doing so, I will continue to make him a part of my life, forever. I will continue to seek comfort in the things my son loved. But attempting to create this monument to him, both inside of me and to everyone else, also tends to create a sort of empty space. And it seems this space is with me all the time. Sometimes the empty space is so real I can almost touch it. I can almost see it. Sometimes, it gets so big that I can’t see anything else.

But then I reach deep down inside and grab ahold of some inner strength, which I believe with all my being can only come from the power of God, and I go one more round, one more day.