Bereavement

Halloween

8:06 AM



ASPEN - 2015 MINION (NOTICE THE BLUE TOES)
ASPEN & AUNT TRISHY - 2015 

ASPEN (NINJA) & AVA - 2014

ASPEN (LION) , MOMMY & JENNER - 2013
AIDEN, ASPEN & JENNER - 2013

It's here. Another holiday.  One of Aspen's favorites! HALLOWEEN!  I'm getting ready to head to school to volunteer in the library as I do every Monday and then help with Jenner's party at school this afternoon. Today I have a lot of anxiety. I spent all day crying yesterday after we attended a Halloween brunch with friends and Jenner refused to take a picture with me. It just made me so sad. I know I'm extra emotional right now, but it just hit me. Jenner is getting too old for pictures with his mommy. If Aspen were here, he would have taken as many pictures as I wanted to take. Not only have I lost my baby, but in a sense, I'm losing my first born. At least that's what my crazy mind is telling me. After brunch we had my nephew, Isaac's confirmation. I cried almost the entire time. I'm sure people in the church thought, what a lunatic, but they didn't know I just came from a brunch we have attended since Aspen was born and seeing all the littles running around just made it all come crashing down again. The picture was just the straw that sent me into another emotional meltdown. Confirmation was followed by our annual pumpkin carving/painting with my sister and brother-in-law, Katie and Adam. I LOVE carving and painting pumpkins. I buy a few kits every year and usually am the last one sitting at the table finishing my masterpieces. This year was no exception, but it didn't feel the same. It felt sad. Instead of my usual printouts, I bought the Paw Patrol printouts to honor our sweet boy! I knew he would be so excited to see the pumpkin I carved especially for him - SKYE the Paw Patrol dog. Aspen also loved this annual event and he'd always paint his pumpkins.

 I got a text from my friend Lisa this morning. Her son Colton has been having dreams about Aspen. She said it had been awhile since he had a dream, but last night Aspen came to Colton in his dream and told him he was going to be SKYE - the Paw Patrol dog. Coincidence?!? I hope not buddy. I hope you see all we are doing to honor your spirit and I'm going to hold on to that today so I can make it through yet another holiday without you. I hope you come to the party tonight and know mommy will be right there with you dressed in my angel costume - just for you! Love you to the moon sweet angel!  

Child's Passing

In the Arms of an Angel

11:11 AM




Spend all your time waiting
For that second chance
For a break that would make it okay
There's always some reason
To feel not good enough
And it's hard, at the end of the day
I need some distraction
Oh, beautiful release
Memories seep from my veins
And maybe empty
Oh, and weightless, and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight
In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark, cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here
So tired of the straight line
And everywhere you turn
There's vultures and thieves at your back
The storm keeps on twisting
Keep on building the lies
That you make up for all that you lack
It don't make no difference
Escape one last time
It's easier to believe in this sweet madness
Oh, this glorious sadness
That brings me to my knees
In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark, cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here
You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here

                - Sara McLauchlan

Child's Passing

Chasing Cars

11:11 AM



This was one of Aspen's favorite songs!

We'll do it all
Everything
On our own
We don't need
Anything
Or anyone
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
I don't quite know
How to say
How I feel
Those three words
Are said too much
They're not enough
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life
Let's waste time
Chasing cars
Around our heads
I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life
All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see
I don't know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
                              - Snow Patrol

Child's Passing

Too Hard to Say Goodbye

11:11 AM


Everytime I close my eyes
You're all that I can see
I hold you in my heart
And know you're watching over me
Standing by your side
It felt like I could fly
If I could be half the man that you are in my eyes
And I could face the darkest day
And fight the tears inside
I can't turn the page or hold back the time
It's too hard to say goodbye
It's too hard to say goodbye
From you I learnt it all
You would never let me fall
Love won't come undone
Between a father and his son
Standing by your side
Felt like I could fly
If I could be half the man that you are in my eyes
I would face the darkest day
And fight the tears inside
I can't turn the page or hold back the time
It's too hard to say goodbye
It's too hard to say goodbye
There will come a day
I'll have to walk alone
And I'll have to make it on my own
You thaught me all there is to know
Dad I'll never let you go
Standing by your side
I felt like I could fly
If I could be half the man that you are in my eyes
I would face the darkest day
Fight back the tears inside
But I can't turn this page or hold back the time
It's too hard to say goodbye
It's too hard to say goodbye
Just can't say goodbye
                - Westlife

Child's Passing

someone told me...

11:11 PM




…that life was made of moments.
I didn’t believe them.
I worked hard to be the good mom instead.
Scrubbing finger prints from windows and handprints from walls.
Wiping down faces and tucking in covers.
Drilling math facts and reading reading reading.
Worrying.
Much worrying.
Waking without sleep and brewing coffee.
Driving here and there and here and there.
Rocking babies.
Texting teens.
And then one day I realized that I was wrong.
The moments that I remembered weren’t the moments of outward victory.
They were the little simple things.
The first grader’s art project.
The look on the toddler’s sleeping face.
The smile from the teen.
The 20/20 on the math fact sheet.
The hum of the dishwasher and the island clean.
The hand holding in the grocery store.
The dinners pulled together at the last minute.
The worrying about being a good mom.
The sleeping and exhausted and giving.
And I realized that until one sees the simple beauty in motherhood there isn’t joy in the big.
So let me tell you.
Celebrate your normal.
The simple.
Because that?
That’s exactly what being a good mom is.
It only took me living life to figure it out that what someone told me was absolutely true.
~Rachel

Child's Passing

An Uncharted Journey

11:11 AM



The past 3 days I've been in Hell.  That's what it feels like anyway.  It's not hot like I imagined, instead it's cold. It's actually substantially worse than I pictured. It's empty and dark and lifeless. It's filled with the most utter sadness and gut wrenching pain.  No words can begin to come close to describing it. I didn't mean to put myself in this place; trust me no one would ever intentionally put themselves here, but I did. I've been sobbing uncontrollably since Sunday and after I read a Facebook post from a mom who too, lost a her daughter in a drowning accident, I realized that this is what losing a child is, it is as close to Hell as we as parents will ever be. Her words, but it is such an accurate description.

 On Sunday, we had an entire day with no plans other than dinner with my family.  I thought, I'm going to make this day productive and get organized. I've been living in chaos since Aspen's accident. I rarely make it down to our basement because the memories are too much for me. People who know me well, know that I am a little OCD when it comes to having things in their proper place. I have more label machines and storage containers than the Container Store can keep in stock. Jenner has been having friends over and I just knew the basement was probably a disaster area. So I made it my mission to organize the playroom and give some of Aspen's toys to his cousins and a few close friends who have toddlers. What a huge mistake that was. It is a prime example of how grief can run you down like a Mack truck. As I sat on the floor going through each bin, I'd come across Aspen's very favorite things he used to love to play with and just start sobbing in disbelief.  Disbelief that he's really gone. I know it sounds dumb, it's been 4 months since he died, but as a mom, I just don't know how you ever really wrap your heart or your head around the fact that your baby is gone.  

 Shopkins were some of Aspen's favorite things to play with, to his father's dismay. You know those miniature grocery store items; the choking hazards that are not meant for a toddler. I vividly remember the day at Scheels we went to buy a trampoline. It was 3 weeks before his accident. We had been at our friend's home over the weekend and the boys spent the entire night jumping on their trampoline. They LOVED it! The next day, I told Clint, I wanted to get a trampoline for the boys. So off to Scheels we went. Little did I know how expensive trampolines were, but it was too late as we had already told the boys were getting one. After we made the trampoline purchase, Aspen immediately gravitated to the Shopkins aisle.  What a weird thing for Scheels to carry, but they do kind of have everything.  I explained to Aspen that we were there to buy a trampoline and Shopkins would have to stay in the store. Somehow that little stinker talked me into getting those Shopkins. That was Aspen. He knew what he wanted and wouldn't stop until he got it. I being THAT mom, would give in more than I'd like to admit. Which now I look back and do not regret for a single second.  I spent the rest of Sunday and all day yesterday sobbing. It's day 3 of this roller coaster of emotion and I am working on trying to get everything ready for the launch of the Stuff the Turkey for Aspen's Angels stuffed animal drive. Guess what that entails?  Looking for pictures of Aspen to include in our TV commercial and promotional material. Just constant waves of sadness come over me as I sit here and try to be productive and make this an awesome event in my angel's honor.

 I decided mid-morning, after sheer exhaustion from crying, that I needed yet another paradigm shift. I can't let Hell win. Aspen would be so very disappointed in his mommy if I did. The problem is, I struggle to find a balance of experiencing the grief and trying to ignore it. Experiencing it is just so painful. Looking through pictures and videos - it's just too much for me. Apparently organizing toys is also too much for me. How do I attempt to live a somewhat normal life, when I don't know what is going to take me down? Is normal for me to feel like I'm literally living in Hell for now? Shouldn't my days be getting easier instead of more difficult?  Am I doing this all wrong? It's like I'm trying to navigate an uncharted journey without a clue on what first step to take. And I know, I know, there is no roadmap for grief, but oh how I wish, I at least had a compass.

Child's Passing

Children Don't Always Live

4:20 PM



Written by:  Jayson Greene
My daughter, Greta, was 2 years old when she died — or rather, when she was killed. A piece of masonry fell eight stories from an improperly maintained building and struck her in the head while she sat on a bench on the Upper West Side of Manhattan with her grandmother. No single agent set it on its path: It wasn’t knocked off scaffolding by the poorly placed heel of a construction worker, or fumbled from careless hands. Negligence, coupled with a series of bureaucratic failures, led it to simply sigh loose, a piece of impersonal calamity sent to rearrange the structure and meaning of our universe.
She was rushed to the hospital, where she underwent emergency brain surgery, but she never regained consciousness. She was declared brain-dead, and my wife and I donated her organs. She was our only child.
The incident was freakish enough to be newsworthy. Requests for interviews flooded our email while we still were at our daughter’s bedside; television trucks trawled Manhattan looking for us. When we left the hospital, I caught my daughter waving at me from the corner of my eye. A picture of her from my wife’s Facebook page was on the cover of The Daily News.
Over the next year, we became another local story about the quiddities of fate, the heartless absurdity of life in the big city. “Oh, you’re that couple,” a father said gravely when we introduced ourselves at a support group for bereaved parents. The attention was both bewildering and gratifying. We met couples whose children had died at home, in private, with only their shattered family to help them cope. There was succor to be drawn from all this awe and care, and I found myself leaning into it as often as I pushed it away.
Seven weeks ago, our second child was born; a son, Greta’s younger brother. They would have been exactly three and a half years apart. With his birth, I have become a father to a living child and a spirit — one child on this side of the curtain, and another whispering from beneath it. The confusion is constant, and in my moments of strength I succumb to it. I had a child die, and I chose to become a father again. There can be no greater definition of stupidity or bravery; insanity or clarity; hubris or grace.
Lying on the floor, talking to my son in soothing tones and jingling bright, interesting-looking things in front of his eyes, as I did with his sister, I yearn for him to feel his sister’s touch. Then I remember with a start: We were never going to have him. We always said Greta was enough — why have another kid? I gaze in awe. He wouldn’t exist if his sister had not died. I have two children. Where is the other one?
Becoming a parent is already a terrifying process. After a child’s violent death, the calculations are murkier. What does my trauma mean for this happy, uncomplicated being in my care? Will it affect the choices I make on his behalf? Am I going to give a smaller, more fearful world to him than I gave to Greta? Is he doomed to live under the shadow of what happened to his sister?
After Greta was born, my wife, Stacy, and I had a habit of checking to make sure she was still breathing. During that time, we ran into a fellow parent, a mother of two children, and Stacy made a nervous joke about it. The woman smiled. “They’re always breathing,” she said.
I imagine it’s the same for all parents. You begin to adjust to the reality of your child’s continuing existence. Their future begins to take shape in your mind. They’re always breathing, you tell yourself.
Life remains precarious, full of illnesses that swoop in and level the whole family like a field of salted crops; there are beds to tumble from, chairs to run into, chemicals and small chokeable toys to mind. But you do not see death at every corner, merely challenges. The part of you that used to keep calculating the odds of your child’s existence has mostly fallen dormant. It is no longer useful to you; it was never useful to the child; and there is so much in front of you to do.
At 2, your child is a person — she has opinions and fixed beliefs, preferences and tendencies, a group of friends and favorite foods.
What happens when that child is swiftly killed by a runaway piece of everyday environment, at the exact moment you had given up thinking that something could take all of this away from you?
When I am on the playground years from now, watching my son take a fall from the monkey bars, I might not panic. But some part of me will remember: A heartbeat can stop. Hearing a heartbeat for the first time during the ultrasound, and then watching doctors shine light on unresponsive pupils two years later, you stop thinking of a heartbeat as a constant, and more as a favorable weather condition. Now I am a reminder of the most unwelcome message in human history. Children — yours, mine — they don’t necessarily live.
When I realized Greta would not live, I wanted to die so purely, and so simply. I could feel my heart gazing up at me quizzically, asking me in between beats: “Are you sure you want me to keep doing this?” But I found I could not give the order.
Since my son was born, I’ve caught myself making concrete plans for my suicide if he were to die. I will draft a letter to my parents, or even tell them face-to-face. “I’m going to meet my children,” I will say. If the world takes this one, I am not meant to be here. It is a frightening thought because it is so logical. How would anyone argue me out of it? Who would even try?
I do not believe anything bad will happen to him in his infancy. It makes a sort of sense: Nothing bad happened to Greta as an infant. I do not wake up in the middle of the night to check on him. I do not even flinch when I hand him to others and watch them grapple awkwardly with his floppy neck.
However, some part of me is grimly certain he will die at 2. The evidence is all on my side: 100 percent of my children have suffered this fate. Even as I carry my baby into the world — this crowded, clamorous, septic world — I am holding a breath that I will not release until he turns precisely one day older than Greta.
During my son’s birth, I leaned into the crook of my wife’s neck while she pushed, just as I did when Greta was born. I closed my eyes and smelled the gauze from her deathbed. My boy came out sickly white, with the umbilical cord knotted around his neck, and he was silent for an eternal second before his gurgling cry bubbled through his lungs and my wife clutched him and wept. “This is a miracle baby, I hope you understand that,” said our midwife. She was the same woman who had caught Greta and handed her to her mother; Greta had promptly let loose a tarry slick of meconium all over Stacy’s belly and wailed, her feet swiping feebly in it like a bird in an oil spill.
Children, hospitals, blood: It’s all a confused swirl of joy and agony. Somewhere in my subconscious, my daughter is on a scale, her birth weight being calculated; in the same moment, she is blue and cold and being carted away. All I am is a spectator: Her body is not mine to protect, not mine to save.
My wife and I are young still. With our son’s birth, we have committed to another round here on earth. My son will always have a dead sister; when I am 50, my heart will ache in this exact same way it does today. Children remain dead in ways adults do not, and on bad mornings, in the wrong light, everything from here on out feels like ashes.
Thankfully, I see it that way only in the margins. A breezy day, a good drink, my wife laughing, holding my son’s head to my chest — these things help dispel it. I look at my boy, a beautiful already-fattening baby, and this world, the one that senselessly killed my daughter, is benevolent once more.I talk to him about his sister, whom I think he met before arriving. “Your daddy will always be sad your sister’s not here,” I tell him. “But you fill Daddy’s heart up with joy and he loves you more than everything.” I also want to say, but do not: I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’ll never be the same father I was before. I’m sorry that you will live with me, to some degree, in grief.
But life is good: Greta loved it. She found every second of it delightful, and at its best when appreciated with others. I think of her hand touching my cheek and I muster up every drop of bravery I can: “It is a beautiful world,” I tell him, willing myself to believe it. We are here to share it.

Child's Passing

4 Months

11:11 AM






I can't believe 4 months ago today you left us to be with God.  My sweet angel, I miss you more everyday, but know you are in the happiest place where there is no pain, no evil - just love.  We are at the hunting cabin this weekend which was one of Aspen's favorite places on the planet. He used to love to fish, ride on the mule, and throw rocks in the water.  He was the most spirited little boy who had a zest for life and all it had to offer. I'm praying for strength today as I try to enjoy a beautiful fall day with Clint, Jenner and our friends. Aspen would love this day and I pray he is here with us, running free and loving how much we continue to honor his one-of-a-kind spirit.  

 A week from Monday, on October 31st, we are launching our first initiative through a new foundation we've started in Aspen's name (Aspen Drake Seemann Foundation).  We will be promoting a stuffed animal drive, called "STUFF THE TURKEY for ASPEN'S ANGELS" to benefit first responders and patients who are  being treated at Children's Hospital and their families.  These are who we now fondly refer to as "ASPEN'S ANGELS".  As many of you know, without the first responders from the Waterloo Fire Department and the doctors and nurses at Children's Hospital, we would not have had a few days to be with Aspen and say "goodbye."  I will never stop working to honor these amazing people who helped our family and who help countless others every day!

 More details will follow, but please spread the word! Starting NOVEMBER 1st through the month of November, we will be collecting NEW stuffed animals and dolls with original tags.  We will have two drop off locations: (MANGELSEN'S - 3457 S 84th Street in Omaha and ST. PATRICK'S CHURCH - 20500 West Maple Road in Elkhorn).  

 We will never stop honoring your memory by helping those in our community who have touched are family most during our darkest days! I hope you this makes you so happy in  Heaven, Aspy! Miss you so much buddy - hope you enjoy the weekend with us!
SaveSave

Child's Passing

Courage to Choose

11:11 AM


Sometimes it’s the smallest decisions that can change your life forever.                                                
- Keri Russell
We can watch the news on television; we can listen to our radio or read it on our computers. All the news about the negativity of our world is thrown at us all day, every day. We are exposed to bombings, terrorists, murders, flashbacks to other traumas and tragedies, revisiting past traumatic news stories, fear, violence, gun control and death statistics. And what do we do?
  • We can choose whether we watch television or read the newspapers.
  • We can choose to refuse to admit, watch or listen to the negativity. (but this ultimately gives it power over you so that is another story and another post!)
  • We can choose to empathize with the victims and feel compassion.
  • We can choose to allow our passion to move us.
  • We can choose to let love and light guide us.
  • We can choose how we are going to react.
  • We can choose to trust our faith
  • We can choose to move ourselves to operate from our higher self.
We clearly have choices. There are different perspectives and we can choose ours. How?
You can choose what you want to give your focus to. Choose. Choose what you CAN do. Honor and care for each other… Smile… Say thank you… Let the person ahead of you in line… Hold the door for someone… Help the elderly with a task… Give a compliment… Be courteous and polite… Say hello… Offer help to others… Be a good listener… Start a conversation with someone… Give someone an unexpected gift… to name a few…
I realize this post sounds quite repetitious but in grief we tend to lose our focus, feel out of control and feel an inability to decide anything. In life (not just grief) you can look from a different perspective. You can choose love where, when and with whom you want to share it. You can focus on love and not the negativity and fear that abounds in our world.
Do you want to feed the reactive emotions or create positive ones? Do you want to let go of the negativity?
We each have the wisdom, passion, love and light inside of us to adopt a different focus. We each have the ability to choose love.
I don’t believe negativity will be abolished in my lifetime and with improving technology we will continue to be bombarded with disturbing world events and shocking news. So it is up to us to determine if we want to continue the loop of the familiar (fear) reaction or be a part of the creation of change in our world.
By being aware and changing your focus, you will be a part of the goodness in the world. Also, while you are learning to face your own challenges, you will be demonstrating goodness, love, and hope and healing to others.
Wishing you courage to choose… 

 Written by:  Chris Mulligan (thegrieftoolbox.com)

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Child's Passing

So Here I Stay

11:11 AM

So Here I Stay

I love you even more with each day that passes. 
How is my heart suppose to mend? 
Life goes on for everyone else while I stand still.
Not wanting to move. 
Not wanting to breathe. 
Not wanting to move from this place.
I want to stay with you here in this place.
Here in the moments that I feel you are still.
Still around me, inside the depths of my soul, still with me. 
Our souls of two, only one.
We as one could feel what was to come.
The inevitable ripping apart of two hearts made into one. 
And now only a half. Half of our love. Half of our soul.
I don't want to move. I don't want to breathe.
I don't want to lose the moments that are forever etched in my memory in time.
How do I go on without you? How do I move?
The pain of you not wanting to move.
Not wanting to leave.
Not wanting our hearts to be ripped apart.
You are now in Paradise.
You are now happy.
You are now young again. 
You are now without that dreaded evil.
I don't want to move from this place 
If I move, I may forget. 
I may not be able to feel.
I may not be able to remember.
Trying to breathe.
Trying not to move.
Trying to keep you.
In my own time and space.
Feeling the moments that were you.
I'm watching life pass me by. 
I don't want to leave you behind. 
I could feel the indescribable pain of losing you before you left.
I can't move, I can't breathe. 
I still see every moment of pain that was in your eyes.
You are now with Jesus.
I love you, I miss you, I want you back. 
So, here I stay. 
So here I stay.
That were once you and me.
My Beloved Barry​ Bear

 Written by: Lisa Beckermann

Child's Passing

Memories

8:26 AM


I joined a "Grieving Parents" group that was created by a pastor in Texas.  His son passed away 3 weeks ago today in a drowning accident.  He has too, started a blog.  Reading it this morning, brought back those flooding memories of the pain and trauma I felt the day of Aspen's accident. I remember sitting on a gurney in the emergency room just shaking uncontrollably. Nothing could comfort me.  I feared at any moment, the doctors would tell me, he was gone.  After an hour, they were able to bring him back.  I can only imagine the lengths they went to. The doctors warned me that it wasn't good, but I didn't care.  For all intents and purposes, Aspen was breathing again.  Albeit, with the help of a ventilator, he was breathing and alive.  There was hope.  I was able to lay with him and talk to him and sing him songs.  My family was able to talk to him.  I remember the hours my dad spent next to him, singing him the same songs he sung these past 3 1/2 years when he would lull him to sleep. Aspen opened his eyes.  His long beautiful brown eyelashes were wet, it almost looked like he had tears in his eyes.  I saw his piercingly stunning brown eyes for the last time. For the days that followed, his eyes became fixed and dilated which was a sign his brain was slowly dying. The memories of those days in the hospital took me down this morning.  As dumb as it sounds, I want to face this grief.  I do. I know it's the healthy thing to do. As Rabbi Baruch HaLevi states in his book, Spark Seekers, Mourning with Meaning; Living with Light, "Darkness denied is darkness delayed."  I know this is truth, but some days the pain just takes my breath away. It's days like this, where I lose all momentum to accomplish anything.  With laundry piling and beds unmade, clean dishes waiting to be put away - I just sit at my desk and sob. I need to pull myself together.  I have so much to do.  I need to face my day and realize...

 The darkness is beyond your full control, and just when you think you have ascended beyond it, you find yourself back in the grief and feeling like you're at square one - like a game of Chutes and Ladders. 
                                                                      - Rabbi Baruch HaLevi

Child's Passing

7 Things I've Learned Since the Loss of My Child

11:11 AM

Child loss is a loss like no other. One often misunderstood by many. If you love a bereaved parent or know someone who does, remember that even his or her “good” days are harder than you could ever imagine. Compassion and love, not advice, are needed. If you’d like an inside look into why the loss of a child is a grief that lasts a lifetime, here is what I’ve learned in my seven years of trekking through the unimaginable.

7 Things I've Learned Since the Loss of My Child
1). Love never dies.
There will never come a day, hour, minute or second I stop loving or thinking about my son. Just as parents of living children unconditionally love their children always and forever, so do bereaved parents. I want to say and hear his name just the same as non-bereaved parents do. I want to speak about my deceased children as normally and naturally as you speak of your living ones.
I love my child just as much as you love yours– the only difference is mine lives in heaven and talking about about him is unfortunately quite taboo in our culture. I hope to change that. Our culture isn’t so great about hearing about children gone too soon, but that doesn’t stop me from saying my son’s name and sharing his love and light everywhere I go. Just because it might make you uncomfortable, doesn’t make him matter any less. My son’s life was cut irreversibly short, but his love lives on forever. And ever.
2). Bereaved parents share an unspeakable bond.
In my seven years navigating the world as a bereaved parent, I am continually struck by the power of the bond between bereaved parents. Strangers become kindreds in mere seconds– a look, a glance, a knowing of the heart connects us, even if we’ve never met before. No matter our circumstances, who we are, or how different we are, there is no greater bond than the connection between parents who understand the agony of enduring the death of a child. It’s a pain we suffer for a lifetime, and unfortunately only those who have walked the path of child loss understand the depth and breadth of both the pain and the love we carry.
3). I will grieve for a lifetime.
Period. The end. There is no “moving on,” or “getting over it.” There is no bow, no fix, no solution to my heartache. There is no end to the ways I will grieve and for how long I will grieve. There is no glue for my broken heart, no exilir for my pain, no going back in time. For as long as I breathe, I will grieve and ache and love my son with all my heart and soul. There will never come a time where I won’t think about who my son would be, what he would look like, and how he would be woven perfectly into the tapestry of my family. I wish people could understand that grief lasts forever because love lasts forever; that the loss of a child is not one finite event, it is a continuous loss that unfolds minute by minute over the course of a lifetime. Every missed birthday, holiday, milestone– should-be back-to-school school years and graduations; weddings that will never be; grandchildren that should have been but will never be born– an entire generation of people are irrevocably altered forever.
This is why grief lasts forever. The ripple effect lasts forever. The bleeding never stops.
4). It’s a club I can never leave, but is filled with the most shining souls I’ve ever known.
This crappy club called child loss is a club I never wanted to join, and one I can never leave, yet is filled with some of the best people I’ve ever known. And yet we all wish we could jump ship– that we could have met another way– any other way but this. Alas, these shining souls are the most beautiful, compassionate, grounded, loving, movers, shakers and healers I have ever had the honor of knowing. They are life-changers, game-changers, relentless survivors and thrivers. Warrior moms and dads who redefine the word brave.
Every day loss parents move mountains in honor of their children gone too soon. They start movements, change laws, spearhead crusades of tireless activism. Why? In the hope that even just one parent could be spared from joining the club. If you’ve ever wondered who some of the greatest world changers are, hang out with a few bereaved parents and watch how they live, see what they do in a day, a week, a lifetime. Watch how they alchemize their grief into a force to be reckoned with, watch how they turn tragedy into transformation, loss into legacy.
Love is the most powerful force on earth, and the love between a bereaved parent and his/her child is a lifeforce to behold. Get to know a bereaved parent. You’ll be thankful you did.
5). The empty chair/room/space never becomes less empty.
Empty chair, empty room, empty space in every family picture. Empty, vacant, forever gone for this lifetime. Empty spaces that should be full, everywhere we go. There is and will always be a missing space in our lives, our families, a forever-hole-in-our-hearts. Time does not make the space less empty. Neither do platitudes, clichés or well-wishes for us to “move on,” or “stop dwelling,” from well intentioned friends or family. Nothing does. No matter how you look at it, empty is still empty. Missing is still missing. Gone is still gone. The problem is nothing can fill it. Minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, month after month, year after heartbreaking year the empty space remains.
The empty space of our missing child(ren) lasts a lifetime. And so we rightfully miss them forever. Help us by holding the space of that truth for us.
6). No matter how long it’s been, holidays never become easier without my son. 
Never, ever. Have you ever wondered why every holiday season is like torture for a bereaved parent? Even if it’s been 5, 10, or 25 years later? It’s because they really, truly are. Imagine if you had to live every holiday without one or more of your precious children. Imagine how that might feel for you. It would be easier to lose an arm, a leg or two– anything— than to live without your flesh and blood, without the beat of your heart. Almost anything would be easier than living without one of more of your precious children. That is why holidays are always and forever hard for bereaved parents. Don’t wonder why or even try to understand. Know you don’t have to understand in order to be a supportive presence. Consider supporting and loving some bereaved parents this holiday season. It will be the best gift you could ever give them.
7). Because I know deep sorrow, I also know unspeakable joy.
Though I will grieve the death of my son forever and then some, it does not mean my life is lacking happiness and joy. Quite the contrary, in fact, though it took awhile to get there. It is not either/or, it’s both/and. My life is more rich now. I live from a deeper place. I love deeper still. Because I grieve I also know a joy like no other. The joy I experience now is far deeper and more intense than the joy I experienced before my loss. Such is the alchemy of grief.
Because I’ve clawed my way from the depth of unimaginable pain, suffering and sorrow, again and again– when the joy comes, however and whenever it does– it is a joy that reverberates through every pore of my skin and every bone in my body. I feel all of it, deeply: the love, the grief, the joy, the pain. I embrace and thank every morsel of it. My life now is more rich and vibrant and full, not despite my loss, but because of it. In grief there are gifts, sometimes many. These gifts don’t in any way make it all “worth” it, but I am grateful beyond words for each and every gift that comes my way. I bow my head to each one and say thank you, thank you, thank you. Because there is nothing– and I mean absolutely nothing– I take for granted. Living life in this way gives me greater joy than I’ve ever known possible.
I have my son to thank for that. Being his mom is the best gift I’ve ever been given.
Even death can’t take that away.
Written by:  Angela Miller