Grief

There is a woman I know, not well, but enough to know her story. She is one of those people I try to avoid, and secretly, I think she avoids me too. She’s kind of pushy, opinionated, and way over the top with her kids. She’s one of those moms who know everything about family and kids. She was always there at everything her kids did, front row, dead center. She always had her children dressed just so, bought them the most current toy, and overall just held them as the best. Having been labeled the same type of mom, I wince when someone attacks her behind her back. Knowing her story, I have always given her the benefit of doubt and I think on some level we are very much alike. Maybe that is why I avoid her.

We met in a Mom and Tot class when the boys were 2, maybe 3 years old. On the very first day of class, we would introduce ourselves and our children and then share an activity. There were play stations throughout the room and the idea was to meet the other moms and kids by sharing some fun. She somehow found the mom, who at the moment was alone, corner her, and drop her bomb. As each of us stood there in uncomfortable silence, she would go on about how her daughter had recently died and now she needed to find friends for her son. Her daughter was only 4 years old when she contracted a weird viral infection and died suddenly. Apparently this was very recent and she was still not only grieving for herself, but she also knew her son was grieving as well, and joined the class to find a companion for the boy who was too young to understand why his sister was no longer there. Most of us didn’t know quite how to handle this strange confrontation. She was met with awkward compassion, and after a few “I’m sorry’s”, nearly all of the women hurried away to tend to their children. It wasn’t the time or the place to talk about her loss, but I could remember asking myself what I would do. Could I possibly be “normal” again if I ever lost a child? I cannot imagine the pain, the complete loss that comes from the death of a child. I think something snapped in that woman the day her daughter died. Something snapped, a part of her died and she was never normal again. I cannot judge this mom because I’m not sure I could get out of bed more or less join to a Mom and Tot class if something happened to one of my children.

I have been thinking of the parents of the NIU students that were killed this week. How do they go on? How do you explain the loss of such young people with their futures ahead of them? How do you say goodbye, kiss them one last time and shut the casket? How do you ever return to a normal life or any semblance of one? I cannot imagine the pain, the loss, the” what if’s” after such a crime. The idea that I could not protect my child or that I could not spare them from pain or fear in their last moments would haunt me forever. The thought that they died alone or terrified is incomprehensible.

I lost my father when I was 7 years old. I know that this jolt in my life has formed me, made me who I am and what I fear. I walk with trepidation through this life; knowing how fragile it is and how quickly loved ones can one day be gone forever. I control my fears of being separated from the kids, but I do admit they are there. There isn’t a time when I get in the car with my husband, conscience that the kids are alone, and they could be parentless in one fell swoop. I push these fears from my mind and go on with life, but they are there. I would be lying if I said that I didn’t consciously think of death more than the average person. It is who I am. I grew up wondering if my mom would be taken from me too. Loss. That’s a tough one at seven years of age. Maybe for any age.

So, 13 years later, I watch this mom from across the room, and I wonder—I wonder if she ever got over the loss of her daughter. Is she “normal” again? Does she still bring her daughter into every conversation? Maybe not, but I bet not a day doesn’t go by that she doesn’t think about it and how painful it is to be a survivor.