by Angela Miller
This is what Christmas without you feels like seven years later.
I miss you. I always miss you, even when I don’t say it, I’m always thinking it. It’s an ache that perpetually aches– in my heart, my head, my soul– deep within my bones. The you-shaped hole in my heart will always remain.
There are few people left in my life who knew you when you were here. Few people who know or say your name.
I’m not sure why that is. Honestly, I’ve stopped wondering about most of life’s whys. The whys and what ifs, they all end the same– a dizzying clusterfuck of senselessness that will never make sense to me, no matter how long I ruminate. It all ends in one big, giant headache. That and a whole lot of suffering mixed with endless tears. With no consolation prize, and with no more answers than when I first started asking why, seven, long years ago.
Like that song says, “It’s just a different kind of Christmas this year.” Different, is certainly one way to put it. I could also fill-in-the-blank with a number of other descriptive words, that would all be equally accurate. The thing is, Christmas without you isn’t just one emotion. It’s a jumble of emotions, that still leave me spinning. You’d think after seven years of living without you, I’d be getting the hang of it. But honestly? I’m not. There’s no “getting the hang” of living a life sentence without you. Grief still has a way of sneaking up on me without notice, grinchingly lurking around corners, and ruining otherwise “good” moments. Especially during the holidays. Grief is a bitch like that.
But here’s the other thing. There are so many incredible, beautiful, amazing moments I ache to share with you. Every good, “happy” moment always has one thing missing: you. And without you, it really knocks the goodness/happiness/joy o’meter down more than a few notches, you know? At best, life is bittersweet. Never again will it be purely happy and joyful like it once was. When you were here, and we were together. I had everything I’d ever dreamed of and then some. You, were a dream come true.
When I look at old pictures of me from “before,” I sob. It’s painful to look into her eyes. That sparkle. That mom. The normal one. The non-bereaved one. The one not perpetually weighed down emotionally, pinned between a rock and a hard place, by this incessant boulder of grief. The one that was all kinds of happy and joyful and mom to the nth degree. I’m not that mom anymore, sweet boy. I wish I was, I wish that mom was still in me somewhere. But she died the day you did. With you, she went. Together, we soar.
Yet, I’m still a mom. To you, and to the rest of your siblings. And I wonder? Do they know? Do they know how different of a mom they have now from the mom I was before? And if I could meet both of us, side by side, the mom I am now, and the mom I was then– would I really like the old one better? Or is it just that I wish everything could go back to the way it was?– before the nightmare took over? Or is it, I wish with everything within in me, that I could rewrite the ending. That I could edit this story to my heart’s content.
Because this story? This life? It’s not the one I wanted, dreamed of, planned for– and the holidays emphasize that fact loud and clear, like wretched nails on a chalkboard. This is not anything close to the life I had planned for us. Yet no matter what I do, I can’t go back. I can’t change the ending. There are no rewrites. No revisions. No do-overs. Unfortunately we weren’t given that choice.
This. is. it.
Learning how to live with it, this life I didn’t want, this life without you, is painfully hard. And painfully lonely. And painfully beautiful.
All the ways you’ve changed me, leave me speechless. You, sweet boy, are my everything. And death will never change that.
The truth is, this year I can actually smile at the Christmas cards. The cookies even taste a little bit sweeter than they did in years past. I can laugh with your brothers, and not feel guilty about it. And yet? There is still an undercurrent of sadness beneath it all. Our table will always have one empty chair, no matter how full it appears to be. Something that only others who have walked this path can understand.
No matter how “good” life seems at times, I always wonder how much better it could be, if you were here with us. No matter what, you are always missing. No matter what, my heart will always ache for you. No matter what, life will only be as good as it can possibly be, minus you.
To me, that’s just not good enough. Yet, somehow, I have to accept that’s as good as it’s gonna get.
In the grief world, there is a lot of talk of “acceptance,” and I wonder if I have reached the so-called promise land? If I’m honest, I accept that you’re gone. I accept that you’re never coming back. I accept that I’m a bereaved mom. I live in that reality. But, if acceptance means liking those facts, or coming to peace with your absence, I’m not sure I’ll ever get there. And really, should that even be the goal?
I think being a bereaved parent is a whole lot of holding all the shit, and all the joy together in a broken open heart. It’s messy. It’s complicated. I’m still learning how to do it.
This I know: I love more– deeper– than I ever dreamed possible. And, I cry more than I ever dreamed possible too. The tears don’t seem to be running out any time soon. That’s just real life post-losing you.
Being honest about it– this thing called grief– is really all I can do. I can’t pretend it’s not this way. I can’t pretend I’m “ok,” that I’m “over” you or “healed,” or that I miss you any less now that it’s been seven years. None of that is true. I can’t pretend I like being a bereaved mom, or that I don’t miss my old self, my old life, my precious, one and only you. I can’t pretend I’m wiser, more enlightened, or more of anything, really. I can’t pretend that any of this is easy. I can’t pretend I even know how to do this.
What I can say is– I’m better for knowing you, loving you, and missing you. You make me the best me. Our love does that. Your love sustains me. When I think I can’t do it anymore, our love reminds me I can do anything. I’ve already done the hardest thing there is. And no matter how much my heart aches for you– during the holidays, or any day of the year– I am thankful for you, eternally grateful, that out of all the moms in the sea,
You chose me.
ANGELA MILLER is an internationally known writer and speaker on grief and loss. She is the best-selling author of You Are the Mother of All Mothers, and the founder and executive director of the award-winning grief organization, A Bed For My Heart. After the death of her son, Angela founded A Bed For My Heart in 2013, and has given people around the world a compassionate and supportive community to express their grief and honor their children. Her article, “7 Things I’ve Learned Since the Loss of My Child,” has been shared over one million times. Angela’s website ABedForMyHeart.com has almost two million visitors per year, and has become a trusted resource for grieving families worldwide. She has been featured in People, Psychology Today, Huffington Post, Blog Talk Radio, Love What Matters, Listen to Your Mother, and more. Angela’s writing has comforted millions of hurting hearts around the world. You Are the Mother of All Mothers is her first book, and is dedicated to grieving mothers everywhere.
Join Angela’s compassionate village at A Bed For My Heart.
Wow. It’s like this is everything I’ve been trying to put into words. It’s so perfectly written for my situation. Thank you for this.
I loved every word you wrote here. My only child died on August 30th to suicide, he was 18 years old. This is my first Christmas without him. It is brutal. I so relate to the “why’s” and today I am especially exhausted from thinking about them and crying all day. I’m a little disillusioned to hear it doesn’t get much better after seven years but it’s just like you say, this is it. I don’t think acceptance means “liking” either. Thank you so much for writing this, I love your blog.
My heart ached when I read your comment Heather, My son Tommy committed suicide on Dec 29th 2002, a week before his 17th BIRTHDAY, yes the first year was Brutal and CHRISTMAS just isn’t the same anymore ……..I had to learn to live without him didn’t want to but I did have 2 sons that still needed me ….. And now after 13 years my pain is still here it will never go away ,,,, I have been BLESSED with 3 gran children who make me smile and want to love again ….I wish you healing and lots of strength and Prayers its the most painful devastating road to continue …. I had many set backs grieve as long as you wish speak of him often and he is HONESTLY WITH YOU EVERY DAY …..MUCH LOVE ????…
Thank you, Michelle.
My only child died at 25 when he also took his life. I feel your pain.
Charmayne dowd says
I just lost my second son in oct to sucide. My 1st one I lost 14 yrs. Ago and it never gets easy….we just adjust to the new normal
Denise Gunther says
I am SO sorry to hear that you haven’t just lost one child, but two. I know losing mine was horrific, I can’t imagine how you’ve survived two…prayers for peach and comfort.
Lost my only son too, but I got to know him longer (29yrs). My 1st Christmas without my son too, so painful!
Carol-Ann Wodehouse says
7 years seems like a long time but it has been 13 years for me. I lost my heart the day My only son at the hands of a drunk driver. Your life as it was is no longer from the moment you here the words ”
“He is gone” it I the end of hoping and wishing to give your child the best life ever. The pain of grief is forever with you from the time you wake up,until you go to sleep. You may say it has to get better but the reality is not, so don’t try it make it go away, just let it do,what it wants to do because it will do it anyway To me I have reached the next level oh grief the “what ifs” what he be like, wondering about beautiful grandchildren wondering what he would look like and many many more things. My son was was my past, present & future never to stop hearing his voice or the clean snell of him after a shower, all the friends that would visit him that have now long gone with families of their own. I ache for him to be back but I know iy will never happen. Life I so full of happiness and death is final.
Denise Gunther says
The worst part is not being able to hear his voice again…not have him hold you again and say I love you mom 🙁
You speak my heart; thank you.
W Miller says
All my emotions as well. 2nd Christmas without my daughter.
First Christmas without my beautiful boy, My goal is to just make it through the day. Thank you for sharing it gives me hope for years to come….
Kerry haque says
It really hit home. I just see sadness in my eyes. Before my sons suicide they sparkled. I try to be a good mum to the others but something has died in me. I go through the motions but don’t feel. 3 years now have PTSD been in and continue therapy. Cannot accept he has gone. Suicide grief is different not worse just different because if you had known you could have stopped it. It seems senseless and unreal. I have aged on the outside and in the young vibrant woman is gone. Only Ben coming back like he does in my dreams can heal me. I am broken now.
so very sorry. I lost my son to suicide also and you are so right. it is a different kind of grief and hurt. this is my 2nd Christmas without my son and I have 3 other children whom I truly love, but that other me is gone.
Colleen Wadman says
You totally hit the nail on the head with this. We try to be happy for our other children but the truth is I will never be the same happy go lucky person I was before the loss of my son. I only have 2/3 of a heart. The other 1/3 is shut down or concentrating on how much I miss him and wish I could have changed that last night so it was not the last night. December 25th through February 6th are so hard to deal with. Holidays, then my sons birthday and then the dreaded death day all in a cluster. It will be 3 years February 6th since I saw that beautiful smile and those kind eyes. He will forever be 1/3 of my heart and soul. Thank you for your words and letting me know I am not the only one with these feelings.
Same for me Collen! Holidays- Jan 12 is his death day and Feb 17 his birthday. I wish I could fast forward to March. God bless.
Carol-Ann Wodehouse says
This is is beautifully written and so true. You are definitely speaking from deep down I your soul and heart. I lost my 19 year old son to a drunk driver 13 years ago and don’t have any other children. But I don’t think you grieve any different you are just a mom who lost her son. Thank you for this I needed to read this so badly
This was beautiful! It has only been 6 months since I lost my daughter (she was 28 but developmentally disabled), and I am having a really, really hard time, especially at this time of year!? I just bought your book and it is unbelievable! Thank you for all you have done to help other parents that are grieving from the loss of their child. It hits me at the oddest places and times. I just know that we will eventually be reunited, and what a glorious day that will be! But, right now, I have a pain inside that never goes away. A part of me died when my daughter died – she was the joy of my life!! It is disheartening to hear that 7 years later, you are still in as much pain as you were the day you lost him? I guess the only way to go on with life is to take it one day at a time. Thank you for sharing your story and helping others that are going through the same thing.
So perfect Angela! You have the most beautiful way of putting this horrible journey into words. I came to a conclusion about the why of Cooper’s death shortly after year 2, I think we’ve talked about it before. I realized that if God himself stood in my living room and said this is why he died…. It wouldn’t make one bit of difference if he didn’t bring Cooper back with him to me. And that’s not happening. So now when the whys come up, I think about that. I definitely have a ton of what would it be like if he was still here, how much fuller, happier our family would be. That’s usually enough to take me out for a day when I really “go there”. Thank you for opening your broken heart to us in a way that helps us feel understood. Love you- k
Every word resonated with me. Thank you for putting words to the story my soul has been trying to tell.
Cindy McGee says
Thank you for sharing your heart. It speaks the words I can’t find. I wish with all my heart that none of us belonged to that exclusive club, bereaved parent, but we do. I would not wish this pain on anyone. Our wonderful son, Doug, died 3 years ago on December 16. He is forever 39. The hole in my heart cannot be mended. The holidays suck. That first Christmas doesn’t even register. I still feel frozen in time. I too wish others would say his name. Even his brothers and children seem to have a hard time talking about him. This year my goal is to try and change that. Tears always come when we talk about Doug, but that’s the way it is. I want to help my family deal with this loss, it is so hard because I don’t know how to help myself. I too am a different mom and person, I love deeper and also with fear. Fear of this happening again. This has made me so aware of the moments in life that we let slip by, taking for granted their will be another in its place. I am haunted by the sound of my phone ringing and seeing Doug’s name come up, I didn’t answer that morning, I was busy fixing breakfast for our out of town guests. I was going to call him back later or the next day. I took it for granted there would be a later or tomorrow. I let my last chance to talk to him slip by, unnoticed for the monumental moment it was. I have been taught in the bowls of hell not to let that happen again. The what ifs truly are a clusterfuck. The next time my phone rang and his name came up it was after midnight and he was gone, the voice on the other end was my 15 year old, hysterical, grandson telling me the paramedics were working on him, trying to get him breathing. He was already gone, a massive heart attack. I just want to roll the clock back, I want a do over, a second chance to talk to him, tell him I love him and how proud I am to be his mom. But I know that isn’t going to happen. So, I am trying to hold on to the moments, make them count. The constant pain and tears a reminder of what really matters, the moments in life. Once they slip past us they can never be regained no matter how loudly our tortured souls beg for a second chance. So, this Christmas and the coming days are dedicated to making the most of the moments. That’s the best I can do right now. Thank you again for sharing and I ache for your loss to.
When you write it’s like you are in my head. Except I don’t have any other children. Thank you Angela…… June
Colleen Wadman says
JANUARY 11TH WAS WESLEYS BIRTHDAY AND FEBRUARY 6TH IS HIS DEATH DATE. i JUST CAN’T BELIEVE HOW MANY WINTER BORN TEENS/YOUNG ADULTS DIE AT SUCH A YOUNG AGE. MARCH CAN’T COME SOON ENOUGH. GOD BLESS!
This is beautiful. So raw so honest so true. This wpuld have been my sons 7th xmas but instead it is the 6th without him. Thank you and my sincerest condolences.
Kerry haque says
My son visited me today. I have EMDR therapy, I have had a year of it. They do not hypnotise they guide you into a higher level of consciousness where you meet your higher spirits that are there within you, pure and untouched while sitting at the special place my guides were advising me over something else we were trying to resolve. Then Ben walked towards me and sat and held my hand. I said I miss you, why did you go? He just replied it is in the past mum the why’s don’t matter now. He was wearing the jacket I have been struggling to put away. I asked him how he had it. He said he had everything just in a different place to earth so the jacket on earth could be put away as he had it. We hugged, I felt his arms so tight. It was beautiful. The therapist then said when you are ready come back into the room. I resisted long enough to kiss him and to both say I love you, which were his last words to me. He said I can sit with you in this special place anytime mum you just need to come here and I will. When I came back into the room I felt such peace and calmness. EMDR is not always so lovely to start with it was torturous but as time has gone on and I can reach the higher levels in your brain that you are unable to do without this therapy it has become a blessing. Initially I would just see him dead, the rope was so hard we tried burning it everything eventually it went we turned it into a hundred balloon strings and sent the balloons into the sky.
I would highly recommend EMDR for the trauma of losing your child. It does not make it better that it has happened but every week I get a day of inner peace. I live in England and with insurance am able to access this remarkable therapy. It is used for soldiers with PTSD but they need less sessions because although traumatised it was not their child. Slowly it gets rid of the demons and moves your grief from your fight or flight it has just happened to the library where it is stored in the time it happened. Through the transfer the therapist helps the memory to be stored with less trauma attached to it.
I am very lucky to have a specialist with so many years experience and a psychiatrist I can call any time day or night. I have another years therapy planned and today I saw a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. I can’t ever be me again but I think the pain will ease. The flashbacks are rare now. I can see him alive when I think of him before he was always dead in the chapel.
If you are struggling as I am with mental health since your loss. It is worth exploring. Holding his warm hand today was the best Christmas present I could have and I feel a little better about surviving Christmas.
I wanted to share because my PTSD from losing Ben nearly took my life too. So if you cannot move forward at all, have flashbacks, find noise and crowds difficult or impossible and feel stuck on the day it happened. Seek help sooner rather than wait till it got as bad as mine causing a 3 month stay in hospital trying to be with him.xxxxx
I struggle every day with flashbacks and the utter inability to get my life back on track. I loved the life as both mother and na na to my precious little Aryanna. On 2-25-15 I got a call at work – I heard my daughter screaming in background – I heard “she us not breathing”. A policeman came on line and told me there was a urgent situation with 5 month old baby at my daughter’s home. I threw phone and raced in my car to her home. I reached her house and the road was blocked with police and ambulances~ my heart sunk to my feet~ we were raced from her house , my daughter and I to the hospital by a policewoman. We reached the hospital and there she was in a room surrounded by doctors and paramedics~ pumping on her chest….my daughter was laying on the floor screaming, a nurse pushed me from behind and said go to Ary, talk to her hold her. I did that… I held her head in my hands I rested my cheek against her I pleaded with her to please come back… Please Ary please na na loves you.. I sang and hummed my special song to her in her ear… The dr said she is gone… I sat there in disbelief swirling in agony… I screamed in desperation while my soul seemed to leave my body. I watched my daughter hold Ary for hours wrapped in her little blanket rocking her while her body was cold. My hesrt broke that day shattered into a million pieces and has remained so. I remember calling my mom and her screaming what, how can this be… Ary died on the same day as my little brother Andy who had died 6 years earlier 2 -25 -2008…Ary was named after him. Aryanna Andy Allen… Born 10-8-13 and died 2 – 25 -14. I had also received a call about my father at that same job in the morning telling me of my brother’s death from my father. I have never been able to go back to that job. The flashbacks are endless for me…. Karen
Thank you for opening up. It is sad that comfort comes from such dark truths. My daughter left us last June. Suicide by drug overdose. 23 years old and her last words were the ‘Now I lay me down to sleep prayer’ on facebook. The horror lives in my mind. The truth is Unfathomable and I just get worse daily. This is hell on earth. The pain is so deep, like new roots. I am not the same person.
I wanted to skip xmas. But I have family who need me and I need them. I try to describe the depth of my pain/loss. The latest one I have thought of is it is like a color is missing in my world. It is just not as complete and changes everything I view. I pray so hard to just touch her one more time or tell her I’m sorry. How can I go on in this world withot her?Thank you for allowing me this comment.
God Bless you!!
This is my 21st Christmas without her, and this feels like the first.
Thank you for having the abilty to put into words what it is like, being the *after* mom.
Some years are better than others, and sometimes, like tonight, the waves keep crashing until there are no more tears……for now.
Tonight I cry for my little girl, but tomorrow I will smile seeing her sisters & nephews opening their gifts.
emily miller says
wow……………………….. 6 years for me wow
Vickie Tucker says
This story is exactly what my best friend needs to read. To know others feel her pain. She is so close in my heart that I could have written this for her because I feel her pain in my own heart. I am not saying I know how she feels I am saying I love my friend so much I feel the pain of her heart. And, I do miss my old friend before the time of loss of her daughter whom I and my whole family loved as our own because she was shared with us from her start. But, I love the new friend that now has emerged from this tragedy just as much and we will share this storm for the rest of our lives together. Thank you for this story and for all the people you have made to feel they are NOT alone.
Connie DeVol says
I lost my only child AJ in January of 2002. He was hit by a truck while walking to his school bus stop. H e only 15. Your grief never goes away. It just lays dormant until all those special days come along and it starts all over again. Wish I could say that holidays would be good again but for me that will never be. I don’t do any decorating for Christmas like I used to only a small blue tinsel tree for him. I have since given away all my beautiful ornaments and the many trees I used to put up. Family always gathers at my place because they are all quite poor and know I will give them a good Christmas even if my heart isn’t in it. I always cry when I bring out that lonely little tree and try to make it look nice and can’t wait to take it down. On Christmas eve we take a tree to his grave and my husband uses a tractor battery to light it for the night. It is really quite beautiful and we know that he is there with us. I hope that every parent who has lost a child can find peace someday for it is a long trip this journey of grief. Wishing you all hope for the new year.
KATHLEEN TAFT says
SO I AM AN OLD WOMAN NOW. 73YRS OLD ON JAN 2ND. AT 48YRS OLD I FOUND OUT I HAVE A VERY SEVERE LEARNING DISABILITY. ABOVE AVERAGE IQ FOR WHATEVER THAT MEANS. BUT WHEN IT COMES TO WRITING I CANT AND WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO PUT WORDS ON PAPER OR THE COMPUTER IN ORDER OR USE THE PROPER WAYS TO LOOK LIKE I AM NOT ILLITERATE. I DONT KNOW WHERE OR WHEN TO USE A COMMA OR END A PARAGRAPH. IT IS BECAUSE I CANT REMEMBER HOW. A PART OF MY BRAIN THAT IS BROKEN JUST LIKE MY HEART. AND IT CANT BE FIXED. SO IF YOU CAN BEAR WITH ME I WOULD LIKE TO LET YOU KNOW WHAT I WROTE WHEN MY SON DIED. NOT SURE IF IT WAS A WEEK OR A MONTH AFTER BECAUSE I LOST A WHOLE YEAR IN MY LIFE. I AM NOW THE MOTHER OF A DEAD CHILD AND A MOTHER WHO IS ANY DAY NOW ABOUT TO LOOSE ANOTHER CHILD. SHE IS 46YRS OLD. I FOUND YOUR BOOK ON LINE.AND BOUGHT IT. ON CHRISTMAS THE ONLY HEALTHY CHILD GAVE IT TO ME ALSO. I DID NOT TELL HER I HAD BOUGHT IT ALREADY. I LIKE THE OTHERS UNDERSTAND EVERY WORD YOU SAID. I DONT LOOK LIKE THE OTHER ME EITHER. I ALWAYS LOOKED YOUNG FOR MY AGE. AND HAVE ALWAYS BEEN PLAYFUL. I LOOK OLD NOW. TIRED AND YOU CAN SEE THE LIFE HAS LEFT MY EYES. I HAVE A LITTLE DIFFERENT STORY BECAUSE MYSON WAS BORN SICK. NEVER EXPECTED TO LIVE PAST ONE YEAR OLD. BUT I LOVED MOTHERHOOD AND WORKED HARD AT KEEPING MY CHILD ALIVE AS LONG AS I COULD. ONE DISEASE AFTER ANOTHER. SIX IN ALL. AND BLIND IN THE END. BUT HE NEVER NOT EVEN ONCE WANTED TO DIE. SO I WORRIED EVERY MOMENT OF HIS LIFE. 49YRS OF HIS LIFE. THAT HE WAS GOING TO DIE. AND WHAT I WANT EVERYONE TO KNOW IS THAT EVEN KNOWING THAT I WOULD LOOSE HIM NO ONE WAS MORE SHOCKED THAN ME WHEN HE DIED. ALL I EVER THOUGHT WAS I WANTED HIM ALIVE. I HAD NO IDEA AT ALL OF WHAT IT WOULD BE LIKE TO LIVE WITHOUT HIM. AND HERE I AM JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE WHO GOT THAT CALL OR SITTING IN THAT WAITING ROOM AT THE HOSPITAL AND GOT THE WORD THAT THEIR BELOVED CHILD WAS DEAD………….WHAT…………….YES I WAS SHOCKED. AND SO EVEN KNOWING MY DAUGHTER IS DAYS OR WEEKS OR A FEW MONTHS AWAY FROM DEATH I NOW UNDERSTAND THAT I CANT UNDERSTAND WHAT THAT WILL FEEL LIKE BECAUSE SHE IS STILL HERE. AND I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IT WILL FEEL LIKE TO LOOSE ANGELA. THE PAIN THAT WE WHO LOVE OUR CHILDREN SO DEEPLY IS LIKE NOTHING THAT CAN BE DESCRIBED. I SAY UNBEARABLE. AND YET EVEN AS I TOLD MY DOCTOR AND THE NURSE YESTERDAY THAT BILLY WAS GONE AND ANGELA WAS ALMOST GONE I WAS HUSHED WITH THE WORDS THAT HE WAS STILL WITH ME. AS WOULD ANGELA BE WITH ME WHEN SHE PASSES. AND I SAID WHAT I JUST READ FROM YOU. THAT IT WAS THE MISSING. NO ONE CAN UNDERSTAND WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO LOOSE A CHILD UNTIL IT HAPPENES TO THEM. AND EVEN I CANT COMPREHEND WHAT IT WILL FEEL LIKE WHEN I WONT HAVE TO GET UP AT THREE IN MORNING TO TAKE MY CHILD TO DIALYSIS. I KNOW I WONT BE SLEEPING. I KNOW THAT FOR SURE. SO TO EVERY MOTHER OUT THERE WHO HAS LOST A CHILD OR CHILDREN I JUST WANT TO SAY I AM SO VERY SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS. AND YES REALLY DO UNDERSTAND WHAT EVER IT IS THAT YOU FEEL. FROM ONE MOTHER TO ANOTHER. SINCERELY KATHY TAFT
Kathleen KLine says
Thank you. Sometimes, even though I know better on one hand, I think I am alone. Thank you for putting into words that I am not alone. I have been missing my son for 6 years now.
Loved reading your blog. A friend sent it to me. This will be our third Christmas without my beautiful daughter. She was a gorgeous 34 year old mother that was hit head on by a drug out 50 year old woman. I received a phone call at work and those so dreadful words will never leave my ears “She’s gone”. Now I hear them every day. The only time I’m not heart broken is when I’m laughing at and with her two beautiful little girls that are forced to grow up without her! Life just isn’t fair!