A Light for My Path

Many bereaved parents express dismay and concern that they are not the same person they used to be before child loss. After the initial tidal waves of grief subside, they often find that they don’t recognize themselves. Yes, grief can take a toll on our physical bodies. But, they feel uncomfortable in their own skin, not just because they look different, but they feel different. Their emotions may be charged or dulled. They don’t enjoy the activities they did before. They may find that they are lonely and need the company of friends and loved ones more, or that they need more alone time to reflect, relax, and recharge after being around people.

My experience seven years down this grief path is that many aspects of my personality – good and bad – are changed. Some are magnified (my tendency to be controlling and to want things to be “just so”). But, where I used to be impatient with others because I needed to get on with the next task, I find myself willing to slow down and pay attention. If the elderly gentleman at the thrift store wants to talk about his years teaching high school French, I don’t mind listening. If my youngest granddaughter wants to contemplate all 32 flavors of ice cream, and debate the merits of cone versus cup, “take your time.” I have a much keener sense of the value of time together and conversation, deep or trivial, than I used to.

I have changed as a person in many ways since losing my daughter. And, if you have too, it’s okay. In fact, it shouldn’t be surprising. Becoming a parent changed your life in profound ways. Losing a child is equally life-altering.

I have mostly accepted and even become somewhat comfortable with how I’ve changed in these seven years. But, there are still times when I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb. When my presence seems to change the dynamics or the mood in the room. It happens when someone asks how many children I have and I say “two daughters, one is in Heaven.” (I refuse to deny Rachel’s existence. Other people might find it easier to just say “one.” That’s an individual choice.) Or when I walk into the room and the conversation quietens or awkwardly changes. I don’t want to be that person who makes people walk on eggshells. I appreciate sincere concern and I understand people don’t always know what to say. Neither do I.

But, I want to be normal.

That’s why people who have lost a child tend to seek others out. It’s not a pity party. It’s not a morbid need to talk about death. It’s a human desire for understanding. The comfort of hearing “me, too.” The reassurance that you’re not a freak. You aren’t “that person.” You are “this person.” The person you’ve become because of the life you’ve lived, the experiences you’ve had, the unique, wonderful, awful, scary, beautiful path you have walked thus far.

Just like everyone else.

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Laura