To all the Parents

To all the parents whose lives have been blown up and are staring at the crater where their lives used to be and wondering how to go on. To all the parents who cry in closets, weep in public bathrooms, swallow sobs when there is nowhere to escape to. To all the parents who are not allowed to acknowledge any grief or loss or trauma, let alone express it or require any support or assistance for it. To those parents who go to work, shop for groceries, attend dinner parties, walk the dog and with every step are wondering if anyone around them knows they are barely able to breathe. This is for the mothers and fathers driven to hiding in their car, their bathroom, or bedroom with white noise machine on just to talk about the debilitating pain they are experiencing. To the mothers and fathers who have had to endure friends, family, and professionals supporting and celebrating the most devastating thing that has ever happened to them.

I want to say I’m sorry.

I’m sorry there was no flood of people offering to help, no meal delivery sign-up, no stream of texts and phone calls offering support, no cards in the mail just to let you know you were not alone. I’m sorry there was no fundraiser so you could take time off work or seek therapy, no offers of childcare, no phone calls just to see how you were doing. I am so sorry no one mowed your lawn, took your place in the carpool, cleaned your bathroom, or delivered ice cream and tissues on a random Tuesday afternoon, knowing you probably needed it. I’m sorry there weren’t flowers on difficult anniversaries, or invitations to coffee to “just talk.” I’m sorry the world kept marching on and expected you to keep the beat. I’m sorry your job expected you to show up the next morning ready to work. I’m so sorry the world didn’t follow the well-known advice to friends and family of bereaved parents: speak the name of the child that was lost. Speak about the child and the memories you have and things you loved about him or her. I’m deeply sorry that in fact they spoke a foreign name and pretended your child never lived. I’m sorry no one said, “I’m sorry.”

If only they knew.

If they knew they would ask how you are feeling and really listen without recoiling at the raw and extreme emotions you are experiencing. They would water your plants, take your pet to the vet, drop off groceries, all while not being put off by the emptiness in your eyes and the tears that flow without any apparent cause. They would tell you what a wonderful mother or father you are and how the love you have poured into your child can never be erased and was not wasted. They would tell you how courageous they think you are to choose to speak the truth and love your child, holding two seemingly incompatible things in tension. They would let you take a nap. They would wrap Christmas presents for you if you just didn’t have it in you this year. They would put on quiet music, light a candle, and hand you a latte. If only they had any clue what you were bearing. Your pain would take their breath away and they would just want so desperately to help in any way they could to relieve just a little of it.

I am so deeply sorry this was not done for you. You know a silent grief, an unalloyed loss, a shock, a confusion, a pain most will never plumb the depths of, and you experience it mostly alone. This is one more thing to add to the list of things you must now grieve.

As many times as I have said I’m sorry I also want to say, ‘thank you.’ You have more compassion and understanding than most human beings. You have walked darkness most will never know, but if they do, you uniquely can be the light for them. You have not been seen, but you can see others in a way most cannot. You will suffer alongside others more equipped than anyone else to understand. You have been and continue to be a gift to this mother in her overlooked, misunderstood, unacknowledged loss. You see me and that has made this grief bearable. Thank you.