A question I’m frequently asked by bereaved parents is, Does it EVER get easier?
The fear in their eyes is palpable. I know. I get it. The answer to that question still scares me too because I’ve been waiting for easier for almost six years straight. And it wasn’t long ago that I was asking bereaved parents who were further down the road of grief than I was that very same question.
I’m not sure when I stopped asking it– probably when I realized it might not ever happen.
Straddling heaven and earth isn’t something that I would describe as easy.
Easier is a tricky word when it comes to something as permanently horrific as child loss. I like to reserve the word easier for things like, Once I learned how to cook, following the recipe was easier, or It’s getting easier to run longer distances now that I’ve been running for a year. Easier is a nice little word for things that can actually be measured. It’s also a lovely little word for things that aren’t irretrievably lost and permanently missing. Forever and ever.
I’m certain the “progress” of moving through the uncharted waters of grief after the loss of a child is immeasurable. It’s one step forward, four steps back. It’s treading water, with your head slightly above, until you’re not. It’s swimming along, then drowning without notice. It’s not linear.
I will repeat: there is nothing linear about grief. Whether in a day, or in the course of a couple years– grief is not linear.
Even still, six years later, I think I’m sailing along ok, then all of a sudden– SMACK– out of nowhere grief beats the crap out of me. Sometimes it will come in the form of a strategically placed gorgeous eight year old, blue-eyed little boy who should be my living breathing oldest son, but who obviously belongs to another mother who is calling after him; sometimes it comes from the missing puzzle piece of my heart the size and shape of my son that starts oozing uncontrollably without warning, and tears leak out of my eyes without asking me first. Sometimes it’s the simple, almost-perfect moments with my 2/3rds children, that smack me upside the head and rob my lungs of proper breath.
Breathe, I gasp. BREATHE.
The thing about life after loss is that no matter what someone is always missing. No matter what, my family is always achingly incomplete. I could have four more children, and these facts would still remain, staring me down like a cruel bully who will torment me for the rest of my life, no matter how much I fight back.
The reality about life after losing a child is that the wrong can never be made right. It can never be fixed. Ever. Life is irreparably broken without our living, breathing child in it. Life will never feel a-okay again. Sure it will have moments of bittersweet joy, and bittersweet happiness, and you will eventually laugh again, and find stupid things funny, but it will never again be what it once was. There will never again be that twitterpated feeling of happiness– the kind that feels naive now, the kind you wonder if ever existed at all? You might never again have the feeling that all is right in the world. You can’t fix it, mend it, or even cry it away. No matter how many years go by, the ache remains.
So back to the question– does it ever get easier?
The hard truth is a resounding no. Not for me, anyway. It hasn’t gotten easier to live without a huge piece of my heart. Grief is always there, lurking around every corner. It doesn’t get easier to walk this earth without my son. It doesn’t get easier to breathe while choking on air. It doesn’t get easier to try to make new friends when you don’t have normal answers to normal questions anymore. It doesn’t get easier to try to live in the present moment while half of you is living in the what should be’s and why the hell is it not, damnit! It doesn’t get easier to answer the question, How many kids do you have? It doesn’t get easier to wonder what your child would look like, be like, sound like, act like, live like?
It doesn’t get easier, but it becomes different— softer, at times– louder at other times. It’s like a storm. You can’t predict when it’s coming, and you can’t predict whether you’ll be able to find shelter or not. You can’t predict whether you’ll even survive. You just hold your breath, brace yourself for the impact, and hope you can find some solid ground. Eventually. Sometimes you’ll get swept under by the tsunami of grief; other days you’ll tread water, and still other days you’ll choke and gag on the on-going horror of it all. Some days you might float above it, and your whole body will feel the glorious feeling of air hitting your skin above water– sun on your face– wind in your hair. Those are the very good days of grief, of life after loss. Over time there might be more of them, so embrace them when they come. And let the sun dry out the soggier parts of you whenever you can.
The thing is– nothing about life after the death of a child is easy. I think it’s all pretty damn freakin’ hard. Whether you’re a day in, or 20 years out, I believe being a bereaved parent is the hardest job on earth. Period.
What people don’t seem to understand is– it’s a life sentence. One we didn’t ask for, or want– it’s one we were charged with against our will. The life sentence doesn’t change, or lessen, or ever go away. Not with time, not with a whole lot of anything. We’re forced members of the God-awful club that is every parent’s worst nightmare. A club we can never leave. So what are our options? We are forced to lean into it– to grin and bear it. We are forced to find grit we never knew we had. We are forced to dig deeper than is probably humanly possible. We are forced to live out this horrific life sentence, some how, some way, even though everything within us is screaming, NOOOOOOOOOOOOO. We are forced to learn how to consistently do hard. Over and over and over again.
Because, guess what? Hard is the only choice we have, the only choice we were given. It’s do you want hard, or hard? Either we find a way, or we give up, right? And giving up isn’t an option.
So we find a way. And we keep on doing hard. Together. We find people who can say me too, me too with us– and over time we realize that finding a village who understands the depth of our pain without words necessary is really what makes all the difference in the world when doing hard.
And just because it’s hard, doesn’t mean it’s not also a beautiful life. It can be beautiful and we ache. We can rebuild a beautiful life from the ground up. We can honor our precious child with every breath we take. We can and will be happy again– and I’m guessing it will probably always feel difficult to go through life without our child.
It doesn’t get easier, it just become different. Some might call that pessimism, but for me, it’s truth. It’s simply the reality of bereaved parenthood.
. . .
Note: Grief is as unique as each person’s fingerprint. I’ve met plenty of bereaved parents who would say a resounding yes, grief does get easier over time. And that is absolutely true for them. Easier just isn’t the word I would use to describe it. Each person’s experience and circumstances are different. No two people grieve the same. And our job is to meet everyone’s experience/reality with unconditional support and love.
A couple months from now I might re-read this and think– what was I thinking?!– it totally gets easier over time. That’s what is so incredible about writing. You can see how many times you change your mind about something over time. How you evolve. How you grow into something different and more beautiful. How your words change you, and how you change your words.
. . .
What would you say? Has it gotten easier for you over time?
Or would you use a different word to describe it?
. . .
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I feel that anyone can play off any word and make it not the right word. For me, yes, the journey of loosing two boys in a four year span, has gotten easier. The bitterness is gone and in its place is peace and acceptance. Does crying come out of nowhere at times, yes. I feel that we are all on a journey. Life is about giving and taking. Sadly some lives are taken way too early, but I will always be forever grateful for our boys and for the time we had them. I am thankful I saw your blog. Your words are powerful. Thank You for writing about this.
Thank you commenting, Roberta. I’ve met many bereaved parents who say it has gotten easier for them. Just like grief, everyone has a different experience, a different perspective and different word choices that jive with them. For me, I wouldn’t describe it as “easier”, but it’s certainly changed and become “different” over time. For me it hasn’t become an easier burden to bear, or any easier to live without my son. I guess “easier” just isn’t a word I’d use to describe it, but I completely agree with you that some people do find it easier in their experience. Thank you for sharing with us. It’s great to have different viewpoints expressed.
Roberta – I also lost two sons a little over 3 1/2 years apart, the most recent loss this past December.
I would love to connect with you if you are at all interested. Finding other parents who have lost more than one child (aside from those who’ve had multiple mscarriages ) has not been easy
Author – this could not have shown up in my mailbox at a better time. Yesterday was the four year angelversary for my youngest son. Having this kind of complicated loss kind of messed up the “It gets better” for me. A new raw hole in my heart and soul now exists, occurring just as the pain from the first hole was becoming less acute, and I was beginning to find my way again.
My one remaining son and my husband are suffering in their own way, but I dont think for any of us that it will ever truly get easier at this point.
We are living and enjoying life, we’re not wallowing, but we definitely hurt ALOT.
I have great fear about something happening to my living son. I dont think my heart could withstand a third hole.
What suprised me and made me very sad and feeling very sorry for myself yesterday was how few people remembered, or even let us know they were thinking about us or Joey. My own mother didnt even call, I had to call her. The silence was almost deafening, and was like pouring salt into our wounds.
Great article. I will be sharing it with my other bereaved friends
Very very good article, very accurate. I have devoured tons of information searching for anything to help me in this horrific journey, and I have to say this hits the nail on the head … At the 15-month angelversary of the loss of my precious, beautiful, intelligent, accomplished, loving 24-year old daughter, Amanda – I do not believe easier will be attainable for me – different but never easier. Living a life sentence with no chance for parole could not be a more perfect description. The Amanda-shaped hole in my soul will always be there. Thank you for your insight and bless you (and all of us) in our life-sentence-of-loss journey <3
Everything about this is so true. People ask me how many kids I have and I’ll say two and then in my mind say ‘five.’ I don’t want to scare away my potential new friend but I also feel like I’m betraying my babies when I don’t include them in ‘the number.’ I am five years into the loss of my daughter at six months gestation, four years past miscarrying at 10 weeks and just seven months into grieving the loss of our baby boy at 18 weeks gestation. Each new loss compiles the last and I feel like just when I’m starting to find peace, it’s gone that easily again. I still stare at little girls all the time wondering what would she have looked like her or sang like her or liked the swings so much like her? I have two living sons and always try to find my third in them – would he have been more like Brother A or Brother B or completely unlike either of them? I don’t think it ever goes away. It has gotten to a place for me where it’s soft a good chunk of the time. But the storms always come back. I’m certain they always will.
I read this in tears a part of me died with my son each day is one in which I miss him and I don’t believe that will ever change I just have to live with that fact
Rainey, I cry all the time about my daughter but these blogs have at least helped me to know I’m not alone that there are others who still cry over the loose of their child. I’m so sorry for your loose of your son but thank you for being able to share
Great blog.
I was going to write. Yes, it gets easier. And then I looked at his picture.
Nope. Still miss him. Still not here. Had to leave him on a table and walk away. Had to hear those words, “He’s not going to make it.” SLAM- wow, wasn’t expecting that. And then I’m a different person.
Every day when I look at the families living in joy (despite how hard raising children is for all of us) I wonder what kind of Mother I would be if I hadn’t lost Zachary. And I know there was a different Mom in me before all this, just waiting to hold and cuddle and live in the “dream come true” moment I’d waited my whole life for.
But she never got to exist. Instead there’s me. A person that knows your worst nightmare can come true. And I’m numb to that reality- it’s just true. I’m not afraid of the next catastrophe, I just know it’s possible. So I don’t love as hard and I don’t feel as sad anymore- not because I choose to be that way, but because that just is who I am now. I suppose it is a coping mechanism, some kind of armor my soul has created for now.
So, in some ways it is easier, because I’m not doubled over in pain anymore. And in some ways it isn’t easier, because I’ve lost a part of me (my child and my ability to really feel things).
Thanks for this post! I am a proud mother of three, too, one on the other side as she was taken from us by cancer, age 9, two years ago.
I liked your description of ‘choking on air’ – very apt.
It took me a while to realise it was because I was holding my breath, as if I’d hit the pause button in panic. Only when you let go – let it go – can the new life giving air rush in. I coined a phrase many years ago now – sometimes it is enough to put one foot in front of the other, and remember to breathe; and that’s okay too.
My sharing, having gone through it for the second time 20 years after the first, in some ways I’d learned a lot from the first journey, and it is a journey, it is always a part of our journey – http://smileyjen101.blogspot.com.au/2012/11/will-this-pain-ever-ease-2005.html
Much love to all on this journey.
Thank you for this. My road hasn’t involved still birth, but it has been hard. My first two pregnancies were miscarriages. I was young. I adopted an, it was for the best attitude. When me and my husband got engaged we accidentally got pregnant and my 3rd pregnancy was successful. Beautiful baby boy born healthy on his due date. When he was 4 months old we experienced our first miscarriage together. When he was 15 months old after 3 months of trying we conceived twins. They were born 35 weeks early and did have some health issues, but they came home after 2 weeks in the NICU and are thriving. When they were 12 weeks old we miscarried again. And again the next month. We decided to start trying to get pregnant. 2 and a 1/2 years later we’ve had 4 more miscarriages and are still not pregnant. Our last loss we saw a heart beat one week, and by the next it was gone. It’s been 4 years, 1 month, and 4 weeks since our first miscarriage. Our child would be turning 4 in January, 4 days before our eldest would turn 5. And I always kind of bristle at the mention of grief getting easier. Maybe this has to be with our most recent loss having just happened a the end of April, so grief is still fresh in my mind. But to me it doesn’t feel easier. It feels different. So thank you very much for this. You put down in words what my heart has been trying to figure out how to say.
I meant on my comment above the twins were born 5 weeks early at 35 weeks, sorry!
This is easy, typing this, making toast or tea is easy, walking the dogs is easy. Waking to this; my missing self, my lost darling boy each and every day is not easy, is not getting easier. My grief is becoming softer Yes, kindlier somewhat, then at times horrid and cruel and well…just not right (for me) And the change in these feelings come uninvited, without prior warning, and certainly without invitation. To change how I feel about this requires effort, requires, requires, requires but for whom I ask, more effort required on my part (well that’s not gonna be easy now is it)? I never know from one day to the next how I will feel, so one day at a time and that’s OK, that’s the softer part. Nothing is right, nothing will ever be the same. Not being the same is scary, very silent, very still, very graphic (in my mind) on constant rewind, pause then rewind, pause then rewind…no fast forward, no new memories. I really like things to be just the same, strong tea, burnt toast, lazy dogs…easy but now not the same, not in the slightest. Different sums it up horridly well. Much Love Lolxxxx
I believe the way to describe my journey of grief is it softens, but always will be with me. I am still early days 14 months from losing my son xox
Beautiful article. I am a little more than 5 years down the road of this unimaginable grief of losing my 2 year old daughter. I read a quote recently that said “it doesn’t get easier, but it does get better.” I have pondered that statement, and for whatever reason, it resonates with me. My life is definitely better than those hellish early weeks and years, but it is not easier.
Thank you for writing this and your last sentences describe our journey – some day good and others just plain bad. They come out of nowhere. You are so right to say you might think in a few months, what was I thinking, but it is the reality of it. We bereaved parents will always live on an emotional roller coaster filled with a roller coaster of emotions and with that comes second guessing. I guess the phrase “live each day as it comes” most certainly apply to us; we just never know what will happen from day to day. Godspeed to all of us.
This article came on a day I needed it badly. Nearly 17 years into the loss of my beautiful Tracey, to cancer, today was hitting me hard. Cleaning out my closet, bins filled with her stuff. Still don’t know what to do with sociology papers from college homework, ceramic statues with her name painted on for preschool grad, trophies won in softball. Thank you for this powerful and comforting article. I feel not so alone or alien. Easier still not a word I would use to describe. Perhaps somewhat manageable is the best I would use.
They say Time makes all things easier. It doesn’t .Time can be either your best friend or worst ememy.I lost my daughter Renee , my best friend when she was 27 years old..She was just becoming the woman I always knew she could be. We worked together.One of the hardest things I ever did was walk back into our workplace a week after her death and see her empty desk and chair.I still cannot walk past her desk..She had 2 beautiful boys born on the same day exactly one year apart.On their 3rd and 4th birthday she died.I held her hand and told her I loved her . How do you say good by to your child? You don’t, you can’t.It broke me down to where I just wanted to crawl in a big black hole and never come out.But..I had her daughter to think of and the boys.. and I had to work.My family was just existing, not really living, just existing..going thru the motions of life. It was more than my son could bear. I had raised them to take care of each other and her death was evern more harmful to him than I could ever realize. On a cold November night he decided to end it all and took his own life. How do you go on living when everything that made life worth living is gone? My husband and I were both lost in our grief. This was 10 years ago. Do I still grieve? Yes.. Sometimes it seems like in my house ,they are just leaving the room or if I listen close enough I can still hear them talk and laugh. A child dying takes a piece of your heart that can never be replaced or repaired. It is the joy, and a life void of joy is not easy. Ther may be laughter. or a happy time.. but Joy…this is gone from me forever. So I go on, I go to work, I don’t make any long range plans anymore.. hope is a commodity that left with my children it seems..,in a instant your world can be forever changed and not for the better.
This is just what I needed to see I felt like I’ve been so alone in my thoughts with feeling how can anyone say it is easier with time it’s exactly it never does it get easier just different I lossed my son almost 2 years ago and I will tell you it still feels fresh in my head and the achy feeling in my heart hasn’t subside but I know when I look at my sons pictures I feel happy, glad ,and proud I got to be his mother he was 13 years old so I thank you for this Article!
My daughter died in my arms at the age of 17 from cancer. That was 29 years ago this past June, her 47th birthday would have been this past Sept. I was 36 years old I am now 65 and my son is now older than I was when my daughter and his only sibling passed away. His son, my grandson is now my daughters age when she passed. My daughter, whose name was Terri is a permanent part of my memory. Terri is forever immortalized in my minds eye as 17 yrs old, yet all around me I see people aging and the “what ifs” have never been answered. This normal aging process of those of us who were left behind is a constant contrast to my memory of Terri. Does it become easier, not for me and at this point I doubt that it ever will. Do I dwell on her death, the answer is NO, that part has passed a long time ago. But the pain of her absence, consistently through the years and out of the clear blue sky, suddenly grabs and squeezes my heart until the tears roll down my cheeks and that will never change. I will always love and miss my daughter until the day I close my eyes for the last time and we meet again.
It will be 9 years 02/16/16…& it does not get easier. You cope with it on a daily basis. Crying; that can come without any notice…and can leave within a split second. Every year, for all my kids, for thier birthdays, I always made thier special dinner. When I lost my son, I never noticed, but for 5 years afterward, I made his special dinner and it was his younger brother who finally told me; apparently, I was doing it without even thinking about it. You think about your child more than you know. It’s heartbreaking and its a pain you cannot describe. I pray that no one has to join this club and if they do, may they find some strength while sharing beautiful and wonderful memories! This hit home and I wish I found this a lot sooner. God bless us all!
This is one of the best articles I have ever read. My beautiful son died 9 days short of his 21 birthday from cancer. He was my only child. I have been so fortunate to have a husband and loving friends and family to support me on this impossible journey. I miss the joy, laughter and love he brought to my life every day. I think of all the things I will never have, a daughter-in-law, grandchildren, holidays to enjoy for years to come. Holidays mean nothing to me, especially Christmas and it’s hard for others to understand but thank goodness they don’t stand in my shoes. I would have loved to have never gone through all of this but every day of grief was worth all the joy I had for almost 21 years. Thank you for writing exactly how I feel.
Thank you for this article. I struggle greatly with close family who think I should “get better” and “may need grief counseling” because at times I still cry or get choked up when talking about my son, Tyler, who died in a car accident 3 years ago just before his 19th birthday.
Luckily, I have a wonderful fiancee who has also (unfortunately) experienced similar loss and who truly understands my grief, as does my daughter 18-year-old daughter who lost her only sibling.
Like another mother mentioned, I think about my daughter now being 18, the same age Tyler was when he died and how soon she will be older than he ever lived to be.
For me, it has been 3 years so his photos still look as I imagine he would look if he were here today. But I, too, have thought about all the years ahead and how he would look, where he’d be working, living, who he’d be dating…the wife he would have had one day and the grandchildren that will never be.
I have gone on, because there is no other option and my daughter needs me to be strong. The grief changes, as have I. It will never go away. The depth of the grief can only be comparable to the depth of the love. Not an hour goes by that I don’t miss my son immensely!
I now treasure the people who love me deeply and are positive in my life. Only those very few get the majority of my time and effort. I prefer to spend my time with those who love me wholeheartedly, accept me completely and are supportive, knowing that I have a finite amount of time with my loves.
The best way I have ever heard it put, was that it gets softer. These words were spoken by an 80 year old bereaved mother and grandmother from my grief support group. She said it doesn’t get easier, but it gets softer. That doesn’t mean that the edges aren’t still sharp, but that you don’t cut yourself open on them quite as often.