I will never forget the first time I encountered a mother who had lost her child. She may very well be reading this entry. It was just a few years ago, at a fundraiser. Our charity had put on a softball tournament for her beloved son, who passed away at a young age from cancer. She was also there to show support and was setting up a stand for the absolutely, incredible, charity she put together in his honor. It was just a few months shy of his passing, and it was my first time seeing her since his devastating loss. I knew I needed to go up to her, that I would see her there and I needed to approach her.
I felt frozen.
What do I say? Do I mention his name? Do I not? If I do, will it make her sad? If I don’t, will it make her upset? Do I avoid her altogether? Will she know I’m avoiding her for fear that I’ll say something wrong? Or will she think I’m avoiding her because I’m a heartless person? Do I just pretend nothing happened and ask her how she is, although I can’t even begin to imagine how she is? Do I just talk about something else and not acknowledge his loss at all?
Thoughts racing, blood pumping, palms sweaty.
Maybe not everyone in the world has had these same battles going on in their mind as they are about to approach a bereaved parent, but if you’re the type to give anything in life an extra thought or two, then you know exactly what I’m talking about.
I decided I had to go up to her.
What I said to her next, will always stay with me.
And I’m writing about it because I’ve been there. I was that person, the person who had no idea what it was that grieving parents wanted to hear and I so wish I knew then what I know now. The unfortunate part is that it took me losing my own child for me to actually understand it. This is what I want to change for all of you who are taking the time to read this entry right at this moment.
“Hi. I’m, ugh, hi, how are you? Ughh how’s it going? I’m ugh so ugh sorry.”
I couldn’t even get the words out of my mouth. I had no idea what I was even saying. I just know I wanted to give her a hug and tell her how beautiful her son was…IS. I wanted to say his name, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know if it would hurt her to hear.
So I didn’t.
This mother, as incredible as she is, knew I was struggling. She must have heard the same muffled words before by someone else who has had a hard time getting them out. Before I could mess up anything any further, she immediately jumped in and said,
“It’s okay. It’s okay, thank you.”
She saved me.
She saved me from the awkwardness and discomfort of talking about it.
About her son.
But what I'm learning is, she shouldn't have had to.
Isn't dealing with having to say goodbye to your child enough to not have to now take care of every single person who you now encounter?
That's why I'm doing this. That's why you're reading this. So you know that to a bereaved parent, it can be mentally and emotionally exhausting for us.
I think I may have touched her arm at that point and muttered, “I’m sorry” again, and walked away faster than my legs could carry me.
That was it.
That’s all I could manage to say and I felt awful the rest of the night. The whole time I struggled with wanting to go up to her and say more, but afraid that what would come out of my mouth wouldn’t be right and I would upset her more.
So I didn’t.
I stayed away.
I avoided.
But, you don’t have to.
If you’re reading this, wondering if you should come up to me, or not.
I WANT YOU TO.
If you’re reading this, wondering if you should tell me that you’ve been thinking of me.
I WANT YOU TO.
If you’re reading this, wondering if you should mention Julian’s name.
I WANT YOU TO.
If you’re reading this, wondering if you should give me a hug because you see the hurt in my eyes.
I WANT YOU TO.
The thing about us, is that we can tell when we’re being avoided. We know we can now be “the elephant in the room” with this new loss.
And who wants to be?
I know I didn’t sign up for this.
I’m pretty sure no parent has asked for their child to be taken so that, what? We can now live out the rest of our lives being avoided on top of it?
No.
Come up to me. Hug me. Mention Julian. Send me quotes/poems/songs because it made you think of me. Talk about my blog. Like my posts.
I’m human, just like the rest of you. I always know who my people are who do these things; and I know who doesn’t.
You can never go wrong with, “I don’t have any words, but know I’m here for you.”
Presence is what we need. Presence is what we long for. More times than not, a simple hug is better than a thousand words. I can’t tell you how it makes me feel when someone just comes up to me or says, “It looks like you can use a hug.”
I promise I won’t deny it.
Acknowledge our loss; don’t pretend it didn’t happen. We live it every day.
To go on pretending it didn’t happen is like taking a knife and slowly turning it little by little with each encounter.
I stumbled upon this and thought it was quite fitting,
“You may be afraid of intruding, saying the wrong thing, or making your loved one feel even worse at such a difficult time. Or maybe you think there’s little you can do to make things better. That’s understandable. But don’t let discomfort prevent you from reaching out to someone who is grieving. Now, more than ever, your loved one needs your support. You don’t need to have answers or give advice or say and do all the right things. The most important thing you can do for a grieving person is to simply be there. It’s your support and caring presence that will help your loved one cope with the pain and gradually begin to heal.”
To end, I just recently ran into the same mom who I spoke about. Only this time, I approached her with more confidence. I didn’t avoid her. I didn’t stumble on my words. I mentioned her son’s name and we talked about him and the signs that he shows her since his passing.
Because at the end of the day, our children, whether they are living or not, matter to us. They matter enough to not be an avoided topic of discussion, they matter enough to say their name, they matter enough to a grieving mother who just wants to know,
you didn’t forget.
