A Light for My Path

A frequent and poignant question that newly bereaved parents ask is “how do I get used to this life without my child in it?”. That’s often followed by “I don’t want to get used to it. It’s not the way life is supposed to be.”. It’s true that child loss is abnormal. Parents are not supposed to outlive our children. It seems wrong to go on about our life without them.

The absence is especially palpable if you are surrounded by evidence of them everywhere. For all parents, no matter the age of your child and the circumstances of their death, the initial realization that they are gone feels like a physical blow. And, for at least two years, between bouts of hard grieving, you operate mostly on autopilot. You feel guilty if you have a moment of pleasure or enjoyment.

But, when you are reminded of their absence everywhere you turn, there’s no respite from your pain. That empty crib in the nursery, the backpack hanging in the hall, the college stadium blanket at the end of the bed … all these tangible reminders that your child should be here are like a dagger to the heart. It’s no wonder some parents move to a different house and even a different town. Yet, they also struggle with leaving all those memories behind.

My daughter was 30 when she died in a car accident. She hadn’t lived in our home for 10 years. Her husband of two months had to bear the burden of what to do with Rachel’s belongings, including her wedding dress still hanging on the closet door in its dry-cleaning bag. Not that there weren’t any reminders of her in our house. We have family pictures everywhere. The throw blanket that was a wedding favor is draped across the back of a chair in our living room. I have a box of mementoes from when my daughters were young. There’s a letter from Rachel when she was at camp one summer. A Christmas stocking with her name on it. A stack of picture albums in the guest room closet that the grands like to pull out and page through. (Is that really Mommy? Grandmama, why was your hair so big? Look how cute Aunt Rachel was at two!)

Perhaps not daggers to the heart, but pinpricks, nonetheless.

So, here I am eight years down this path I would never have chosen to walk. I’ve gotten used to not setting a place for Rachel when family gathers around the table. I’ve gotten used to curious looks when I introduce her husband as my son-in-law to people who don’t know I have two daughters. (I’m still not used to whether I should say “have” or “had.”) I’m used to looking at the same old pictures of her and accepting that there won’t be any more. Recounting the same old memories because there won’t be any new ones made. I’m used to quickly stepping into a powder room, shedding some tears, then patting my face and returning to the party with a smile.

Life goes on. Grandchildren graduate from high school. Smile lines and gray hairs appear in my mirror. Doctors ask for my Medicare card much more frequently than the cashier at the wine store asks for my ID. Another holiday goes by without a card or a call or a hug from my younger daughter. I’m used to it by now.

But I don’t like it.

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Laura