I Remember

Hello, Friends. As we prepare for Mother’s Day this Sunday, I’m asking that you remember those around you who may be hurting, for whatever reason.

For many of us, it’s another Mother’s Day without our mothers. I’ve written my thoughts before about losing my mother. You can read that post here.

Today’s post, though, is about remembering those who have lost a child.

On this Mother’s Day, as you are celebrating your mom, or your kids are celebrating you, remember those who may be missing a huge piece of their heart. Reach out to them. Even though there’s nothing you can say or do to make it better, you’d be surprised how much it means to them to know that people still remember and people still care and that people still understand that you “don’t get over” it ever.

More importantly, they are grateful that you haven’t forgotten their child, who is gone.

I wrote the following passage and posted it on Facebook just a couple of days after my best friend lost her youngest son to suicide. I can tell you that I have never felt more helpless in not being able to comfort someone I love so much. I was bewildered by my total inability to figure out what to do or say. The truth is, there’s nothing that I or anybody else can do or say to make it better. We can only offer a shoulder to cry on, strength to lean on, and a distraction when one is needed.

So, today’s post is me reaching out to all of you on this very difficult weekend to let you know that I remember. I remember and acknowledge your pain. I remember and acknowledge your loss.

I remember your child and the mark they left on this world, and on you.

I care.

I love you.

Originally posted January 18, 2016

The one thing they never tell you about becoming a parent is the absolute and complete terror that you will live with for the rest of your life. Sure, you spend most of the time fighting it back, beating it down to the bottom of your belly and the back of your mind, but it creeps up on you.

It creeps up on you when you wake up from a dead sleep and realize the baby hasn’t woken you up in 5 hours and you can’t not get out of bed to make sure he’s still breathing. It creeps up on you when you look at your phone and it’s the school calling and they say there was a little accident. It creeps up on you the first time you let them drive away from you. It creeps up on you when you’re laying there wide awake, waiting to hear their key in the front door. But mostly it creeps up you when you witness the horror of someone you know, getting that dreaded phone call. Getting that dreaded knock on the door. Getting the news that we all, as parents, dread.

The abject terror is much more difficult to choke back when you actually know someone who has lost a child. Nobody should have to outlive their child. Nobody. One person is one too many. As of Saturday, I know twelve.

Twelve. How can that be? I feel so helpless every time it happens. What can you say? What can you do? There’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. Maybe that’s why it’s so terrifying. Because nothing and nobody can ever make it right.

I remember sitting in my bathroom by myself at 10 weeks pregnant. I was bleeding. And I was so afraid, that my hands were shaking and I could barely dial the phone for The Husband Dude to come get me and take me to the doctor. There was instant relief when the internal ultrasound showed a tiny little heartbeat, but the terror didn’t go away.

No, it was quite the opposite. As I watched the little pulsing motion that was his heart, I realized that wasn’t just his heart. It was my heart. Because that’s what our children are. They are literally our hearts. And the moment they are born, the doctors might as well open your chest and place your heart in your arms because your heart will forever walk around outside your body.

I wish I had something profound to say, but I don’t. There’s no way to wrap my head around it. As much as I wish it, I can’t make it better for those I know who have crossed over into a club that no parent ever wants to join. All I can do is hold my son and tell him I love him.

I’m sure he doesn’t understand why I do it so much. When we’re driving in the car, and he’s telling me the latest thing he saw on Instagram, and I’ll reach over and tug at the back of his neck, and I say, “I love you, Bud.”

I’m sure he wonders why I’m so random that way. Or how I can yell at him for not doing something I told him to do 3 times or I can ground him for not completing an assignment at school and then 30 seconds later, I tell him I love him. He’s too young to understand. He’ll never understand it until he becomes a parent himself.

That’s when he’ll understand that I do it because I still can. Because I’ll never waste an opportunity. Because those were the first three words I said to him and, God forbid, I want them to be the last. He’ll understand the feeling of terror that rises up like bile in your throat that you constantly have to choke down because….well, you just have to.

They don’t tell you these things when you become a parent. As much as I would like to make it better for those I know, I can’t. All I can do is honor those broken hearts by seizing every opportunity, by sharing my love, by never taking anything for granted.

It doesn’t seem like enough. But somehow it just has to be. Peace and love to you all. 💖

If you are in crisis, get help. Somebody will miss you when you’re gone. If you see somebody in crisis, say something.

Call the national Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 24 hours a day 1-800-273-8255