I wish I could take it all away from you

A letter to a grieving parent from a grieving parent.

I wish I could take away the pain of losing your child. I know it hurts so much. I wish I had the journey laid out and highlighted all the to-dos and to-don’ts.

I know it is impossible, but I can't help feeling like a failure when you're hurting, and I can’t take it away. It makes me feel helpless because no words or actions will make things better for you now, but I wish there were. By navigating child loss, I wish that I could make your journey hurt less. I wish my journey revealed everything you needed to bypass the complex parts, the firsts, the pain, but there are no side roads on the grief journey. There are only potholes, twists, and turns. You will have to face every one of these surprises head-on as you stare through grief.

I wish I could do more than be here for you and offer you a shoulder to cry on and a listening ear as you begin your travel.

I hope that my presence helps in some way—that knowing someone is willing to climb in when you are ready. Someone willing to endure slow or fast speeds, hard braking, or swerves to miss obstacles along the way would be okay with it all.

I wish there were a secret map that we would get after we climbed into the grief mobile after our child dies. Kind of like a treasure map, but avoiding the pirates, piranhas, and shipwrecks that lead us to a treasure - a secret key. That hidden key unlocked a secret place of joy in our hearts that was hidden from our very being, and only when suffering entered the depths of our hearts would this place be revealed—instantly overshadowing the grief of child loss. Or what about a grief book that unlocked the magic recipes to get rid of grief. It would have a magic word recipe we could say like Oh grief, Oh grief disappear, no one really wants you here, and our grief would just poof be gone. The reality is that these all don’t exist, but I wish they did.

I wish the truth weren’t that you would have to find your way through this.

I wish I could help you navigate your grief; I can only encourage you to listen to your navigator. I know some things that I can share, though; grief is not a linear process. It does not follow any particular pattern, and it can happen in many different ways. You may have a completely different journey than me. Many people find that their emotions cycle back and forth between sadness, anger, and numbness. You may cycle through a whirlwind of emotions.

Grief is unique and may not reveal itself to you the same as the people living in your house. I wish I could predict every twist and turn for you, but your road will look different than mine, and that is okay. We can still be with you on your unique journey. 

You may feel trapped and alone in a deep depression for months or even years before finding the strength to rejoin life again; others may never fully recover from their loss because it changes us. But we can learn how to live with it instead of trying to run away from it. I can walk you through each surprise on the road if you allow me to be a passenger in your grief mobile. But I can't drive it for you. You will have to take the directions and apply them along the way. And I know that is scary.

For some people, these feelings can be overwhelming at first—but in time, you will learn how to cope with them and move forward on the road of life. You will learn how to listen to your navigator, Jesus Christ. We will be right by your side in that passenger seat, riding shotgun if you let us. We are encouraging you and praying with you.

Don't worry about what others think of your grief mobile right now. The make, model, or color is irrelevant. Your grief mobile will change as you travel your healing journey. Some days you will be full of muck. Some days you will be riding on fumes. And some days you will be shinning feeling like you just got a new wax.

Take one day at a time, maybe even one hour at a time, one minute at a time, or maybe today, one second if you need. As time goes by, you will go through different phases of grief. There will be good days when you feel happy again but bad days when nothing seems right anymore (or maybe even worse some days). I’ll be here to listen if you need me, or we can turn up the volume and be with one another. No talking today.

The truth is: that no one can take away the pain. You will have to learn how to live with this new passenger called grief and maybe even with me if you let. You have to find a way through this on your terms with the support of your Red Bird community, the sacraments, and our Lord—recovering from grief isn't something anyone moves past but only through. It’s a journey and not a fun one. You may hate every minute of it. You may not want anyone to be with you, but even misery loves company. 

Finally, I’ve convinced you to let me in. You look so tired, my friend. We lock eyes as we both know that we can’t take it all away from one another, and knowing that makes it okay. I strap myself in beside you as I reflect on where it all started for me. You give me your phone so that I can log in to our destination; I type the healing journey. The ways app says Let’s Go; your healing journey is only 1,567,876,345,234,234,897 miles. We both take a deep breath and let the air out of our lungs. Pray a Hail Mary. Put on our shades, open the sunroof, turn on some worship music, put the grief mobile in drive, and pray Jesus, Mary, and Joseph take the wheel. 

Finally, we are on the road together, and having a friend by my side, having a friend by your side, we realize that it makes the journey less scary.