Today is the second anniversary of my son’s death. It was the most painful experience I have ever been through. Spencer had been growing in my wife’s belly for eight and a half months. Everything had been perfect. He was healthy, my wife was healthy, everything was great. And then it all happened. My wife started getting an extreme pain on the inside of her hip. We were going to try to wait for morning (and every one of the four doctors said we’d be ok until then), but to cut a long story short, when the pain got to be unbearable late that night, I took her to the hospital. Of course, the staff there was concerned for the baby, so they immediately used the doppler listening device, but could not find a heartbeat. They rushed out and grabbed the ultrasound machine and tech and verified the fear I had in the back of my head. Spencer’s heart had stopped, he was gone, and my heart broke.

To this day, we don’t really know why he died. We do know that the pain my wife had felt had nothing to do with it. That’s small consolation, however, when you ask and search and search and ask and nobody can figure out what went wrong. Was it something I did? Was it something that can happen again? Could we have prevented it? What if, what if, what if? Not knowing why he died only brought more pain.

My wife and I still think of Spencer every day, and we still have the occasional bad day or two.

Despite this great sadness, all in all, today I consider myself fortunate. I am still happily married. I do not live on depression medication (in fact I’ve still never touched the stuff), I haven’t taken up drinking or drugs, and I haven’t collapsed financially.

There are many things others have done to help me out with my grief. I’ve received a lot of supportive communication through letters, phone calls, emails, and visits. I know that a vast number of prayers have been said for me and my family since that day. I thank all of you who have been pulling for us.

Even with all of that support, I don’t think I would be in a good place today if I had not made a few decisions soon after it happened. I consciously chose to do these things which I thought would help me, and they did. That’s not to say that I’m some great shining example of perfect grief recovery or anything. I’m just going to say that this is what I did and I know it helped me.

I Supported My Wife

I’ve always felt like it’s my job first and foremost to be the provider and protector of my family. Upon losing Spencer, I passed many an hour feeling like I had failed in these primary duties. Or worse yet, like I had been cheated out of the opportunity to fulfill them. I felt weak and useless.

However, it did occur to me that while I was unable to prevent this tragedy, I could still, or perhaps I could finally play my part by providing for not only the physical, but the emotional needs of my wife.

I decided that she would not be finding her way through the grief alone. I decided to talk about it whenever she wanted, and for as long as she wanted, even if it was extremely uncomfortable for me. Even if I didn’t have the answers. Even if we had the exact same conversation a thousand times. Anytime she needed to cuddle, I’d be there, no matter how uncomfortable a position in which she made me sit. Anytime she needed help getting around, I’d give her a hand. (The pain did not go away immediately after birth. It took several months. And she was in a wheelchair for about the first week.) Every time she needed anything, I’d get it for her. Anytime she wanted a foot rub, I’d give it to her.

Here’s the deal. It may sound like I became her little slave. Who cares if I did (even though I didn’t…)?  It gave me purpose and fulfillment to be doing something after so great a perceived failure. It kept us close, and we were able to lean on each other. It made me love my wife more than ever.

I Found an Outlet

I decided I would get out much of what I was feeling through the written word. This is when I really started pouring something new into my fiction. Even though my skill wasn’t (and still isn’t) good enough to transfer all of that emotion full force onto a page, it was good for me to create something, to get some of the pain I felt out of my head.

And it wasn’t just fiction. I spent a lot of time writing in journals, too. I filled many a page with exactly what I was going through, and what my wife was going through.

Writing helped me work through a lot of issues. It forced me to think about, define, and clarify a lot of emotions.

I Sought Out A Higher Power

I really don’t talk publically much about my faith. Perhaps that is a mistake.

In talking with other parents who had lost kids, it was easy to pick out two types: Ones that blamed God for their loss, and ones who leaned on Him for strength. I also saw which ones were more at peace, and which ones still, years later were experiencing pretty much exactly what they were experiencing when their loss first happened.

Also, I have always been taught about, and have always believed in an afterlife. It is a basic teaching of my religion that families can be together forever. When faced with tragedy, though, repeating something in your head and knowing something in your heart are two very different things.

I decided early on that I was going to lean on Him. I studied the scriptures, I prayed more fervently than at any other time of my life, and I did what I could to serve others through my church. I haven’t been perfect, of course. I’ve had my doubts and weaknesses. I’ve had my moments where I begged the heavens “why me,” “why us,” and “why Spencer?” It hasn’t been easy.

I will tell you this. Every effort I took to seek out my Heavenly Father was rewarded. I know now that He never abandoned me. I know now more than ever that He loves me and my family. He has helped me make my peace with the fact that horrible things happen in the world, often to good people. He has helped me and my family heal. He has made things happen that helped keep my life together.

In The End…

There’s no right or wrong way to grieve. I understand it when I talk to parents who have been swallowed up in their pain for years.

For what it’s worth, doing these things helped me cope. They helped see me through. More than that, they helped me become a stronger, a wiser, and more understanding man.

If you have lost a child, I am deeply sorry for your loss. My heart and my love go out to you. If you ever need a friend, I’m here for you, (Just use the Contact link above)

Thanks for letting me ramble a bit, folks. I appreciate your patience. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to regular, timely fiction authoring any day now.

Keeping that in mind, I thought today would be a good day to share same ideas that everyone should know about talking to folks that are grieving.

What qualifies me?

Professionally, absolutely nothing. I’m not a councilor. I’m not a psychiatrist. I’m a programmer.

What I also am is a father who has lost a child. Eleven months ago, my wife and I had a stillborn son at 8 & 1/2 months. He was 8 lbs 3 ounces.  I know what I have felt, what my wife has felt, and since our loss, we’ve had an awful lot of contact with other bereaved parents. So that is where I draw my ideas.

What to say

There are two things that need to be said. If you know someone that loses their baby and you can’t say anything else, at least say these:

1. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
   Just let the parents know you are aware of their pain.
2. “I love you.”
   Everybody needs to hear it anyway, but especially when they’re going through pain. If you aren’t comfortable telling someone “I love you,” feel free to soften it a little and and say something like “We love you” if you’re in a relationship or “I love you guys” if you are talking to both parents. If you’re not with your significant other just make it, “My wife and I just wanted you to know we love you.”

   If you can’t say any of that, then you need to grow up.

That’s it. Those are the two most important things to say.

How to say it

In person is best. Over the phone is horrible, unless you really can’t be there. And then, the next time you see the parent, you better say it again.

If you are comfortable doing so, say it with a hug, too. It seems like our society is too cool for physical displays of friendship and support these days (although oddly enough, public lewd acts of ‘love’ seem to be accepted and even applauded. Go figure.) But trust me, a hug can help.

Another way to say it is in a letter. One of the most touching things anybody did for me was a letter.

I have a neighbor up and around the block. He’s an older gentleman and I have never known him well. A few days or a week after we lost Spencer he came by our place. Now, he’s old, so even though it’s only a block and a half away, he drove his giant old-guy sedan over and handed me a letter. In his letter, he expressed his love and sorrow for us, and he told the story of how he had lost his first son, too. There were many similarities between his story and my life. I cannot begin to express how grateful I was and am that he took the time to reach out.

You can also say it with service (along with the actual verbal saying it.) When we lost Spencer, people kept bringing dinners by, and I didn’t cook for a month, which was beyond helpful. We had neighbors, friends, and fellow churchgoers clean our house, rake the leaves from our yard, babysit our daughter for an hour or two, and do a bunch of other little stuff that really added up.

What not to say

1. Advice.
   If you have not also lost a child, your advice will be deemed as worthless. It doesn’t matter if it’s fantastic advice. Unless a parent actually asks you for it, don’t do it. Even then, it’s better to start it out with “I don’t know, but I’ve heard that _____ helps.” or “I wonder if it wouldn’t help to…” In general, its better to just avoid giving advice altogether.
2. Anything that starts with “At least you still have…” or “At least you didn’t…”
   Anything you say to try to help the bereaved parents “put things in perspective” will only piss them off. Trust me on this one. They will probably hate you forever if that’s the kind of stuff you tell them. I know you think you’ve got a good point. Maybe you do. Maybe it’s even an excellent point. It doesn’t matter. It will not help the parents at all, ever.

Listen

The bereaved parent may want to talk about her(or his) loss, and she may not. Respect her wishes. Don’t pry and prod if she seems hesitant. If she does want to talk about it, just shut up and listen. Even if she says stuff that’s illogical (which they probably will.) You don’t need to correct her about any details (unless they ask) or criticize her actions in any way. Just bite your tongue and pay attention.

It’s been shocking to me how many people are incapable of just listening. My wife’s been interrupted dozens of times with advice, old wives tales, and other useless stuff. I don’t get interrupted, as I just talk over other people anyway (bad habit.)

I’ve heard this complaint over and over again from bereaved parents. Don’t be an angry story at the next group support meeting. Just listen.

Talk again

It will be a long time before the parent(s) will heal, and they may never heal completely. If at all possible, be sure to check up with the parents from time to time.

The loss of a child damages and destroys a lot of friendships. That’s just the way it is. The bereaved parents quite often have difficulty making new friends. It is really hard to reach out when you’re suffering. The end result is that six months later, one or both parents feel utterly forgotten by the world. People were nice, really nice that first month. After that, nothing. The occasional hello in the store, phone call, or visit “just to say hi” can make a world of difference.

Don’t worry. Parents who have lost a child will not always need to talk about it. But they do need social interaction, no matter what. So even if the first couple of visits are uncomfortable and there is lots of crying, don’t give up.

Just a note: unless the parent you’re visiting is clearly having a terrible day, just talk to them like you would talk to anybody. You don’t need to bring up the loss every time you see them. You don’t need to cock your head to the side and say in that whispery concerned voice (and with that uber-concerned look on your face,) “How are you?” You just need to make contact.

Just talk

Now, that’s a lot to think about, and you may feel like there’s nothing you can say without getting in trouble. The important thing is that you try. The more people that reach out to a grieving parent, the more likely it is that someone is going to say the perfect thing that they need to hear. You may end up offending them. That’s OK. You have to try.

The world has too much suffering. Let’s do what we can to help each other.

Plus, now you’ve read the article, and you know what to say, anyway. No excuses.

To all those who have experienced the loss of a child

I am so sorry for your loss. I love you, and I share in your pain. If you ever want someone to talk to, please drop me an email (runamuck40 at gmail.com) and I’ll be happy to give you a call. Or if you’re a mother and you’d rather talk to a mother, my wife would be happy to talk.

More info:
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