There Is No Cure

I read a story today about a mother who lost her son at Sandy Hook Elementary. She says he 'still' appears in her dreams and she's haunted by his memory. The word 'still' caught my attention, because it hasn't been that long ago since the tragedy occurred. However, if I could talk to her, my message wouldn't be pleasant. There is no cure for it.

We all expect to lose our parents and grandparents. That doesn't make it easier when it happens, and we go through the grieving process and mourn their passing and the absence of their positive influence in our lives. My dad passed away in October, 1999 and my mother in December, 2003. I still think about them and we have their photos on the wall of our bedroom. They were good parents and we loved each other dearly. I still miss them, but the passage of time has dulled the pain of grief and I think mainly about the good things they left behind and the good times we had. Now, today, I never get melancholy about them, nor my grandparents. They were good people who loved me and I would love to visit them over a nice cup of coffee. But, that's about it.

However, the loss of my child is vastly different. This year will mark the fourteenth year of her passing. I can't look at her pictures on our wall without feeling a knot in my stomach. At times, I see her face and hear her voice and it is all I can do to hold back the tears. Sometimes, I can't. I find myself second guessing on how I could have been a better parent to her and whisper for her to forgive me in my failures. I beat myself up over wanting her to die in the early stages of her life and think about what a terrible thing it was to wish such an event for your own flesh and blood. As her father, I should have been able to protect her until all the breath was gone from MY body, instead of hers. When May comes around, I dread it. It brings floods of bad memories and bad times of pain, suffering, sadness and regret. That long walk we took down the corridor of the funeral home to see her lying in a casket is etched in my brain and I can't get rid of it. We're supposed to go first. We're supposed to go first.

There is no cure for grief and the mourning process when you lose a child. It comes and it goes, and then it comes again. Sometimes it doesn't hit as hard as others. It is the birthdays and the Christmases and the Thanksgivings and...yes...the death where it hits the hardest. Then, there are times like yesterday while at work and sitting at my desk a wave of grief came over me when I thought of her. I had to go outside and sit in my car for a few minutes to let it pass. I have said before, and I'll say it again, that my greatest fear is I might forget what the sound of her voice was like. If I couldn't bring back the vividness of her voice in my mind I think it would devastate me. Sounds silly on the surface, but it freezes me with fear to think it may happen.

And, think about this. I feel this way about a child that I expected to die before me. When we brought her home from the hospital after two and a half months, we brought her home to die. If I still feel this way about her, just think about those parents at Sandy Hook whose children were healthy and expected to live out long and happy lives. No, there is no cure for it. There is comfort in my spirituality and my God allows me to be happy at all other times. But nothing can fully take away the loss in my heart or fill the hole that is there. And, there are no words to help those families in Connecticut. There are no programs, no guides, no quips and no medicines to take away the loss of a child, no matter what the circumstances were for that loss. The reason is as I said before....we're supposed to go first. There is no plan B if that doesn't happen. You just have to cope and move on. And that's the hardest part.