What The Death Of My Son Taught Me

                                  There is a paradox to pain, it softens.

 The first response is shock, a sword slicing into your heart, so fierce it numbs. Once the numbness and disbelief begin to disappear, then anvil heavy boots pound on your heart’s door. The awfulness of the awful leaves you breathless. Somehow, the air has melted as you gasp for oxygen.

 My son died suddenly on a Sunday night in March 2025. When his wife called, I fell to my knees and screamed and screamed one word: NO…nononononoohno.

In stunned 45 minutes of silence, my husband and I drove to their home. Alone we climbed to the second story and there he was, as if in a dream, lying flat on the floor. Peacefully, unnaturally still. I collapsed next to him. A caldera of loss smothered me. All I wanted to do was nestle him back into the soft, warm safety of my body. For weeks the pain sat in my womb. I unconsciously rubbed my stomach to ease the ache of emptiness. 

Over the past 15 months I have thought a lot about loss, especially of a child from the mother’s point of view.  Not to diminish the pain of other’s, I believe the pain of a mother contains another layer of grief…for that part of her that now is gone.

 For nine months my son lived inside of me. We were viscerally and biologically connected. My blood, my tissue nourished him until he was ready to come here and be his own. With fearful anticipation and joy, I felt him tearing through my womb. When he finally struggled his way through an exhausted sweetness blanketed us both as he was placed into my arms.   

Now, 55 years later, he is gone. The layered grief of his death has taught me to see situations with softer eyes, kinder, more open, less judgmental. To breathe deep, to love, to cherish, to adore more.  

I have gathered comfort knowing as long as I breathe, he is alive. All I need to do is open the door in my heart where we sit together as one.