I was invited to join a Facebook group this week, a group that is a place for parents who have lost a child. The invitation was unusual, because I have not lost a child.
But I almost did.
Twelve years ago, one of my sons had an encounter, while crossing a street, with an SUV moving at 45 mph. It was as devastating as it sounds - and an hour later, just prior to nine hours of emergency brain surgery, the surgeon told us to be prepared for the worst. And even if he lived, going into his head to save his life meant setting aside his right leg, which had been shattered in several places. We were told it might be necessary to amputate his foot, even if his leg was salvaged.
My son lived, and after several subsequent surgeries and much time in traction, his leg was restored, albeit with much metal permanently embedded in it. My son will never play basketball or tennis again, though he can walk.
It’s easy to embrace the relief of a near-miss, and it’s valid to say that I don’t fully know the pain shared by those parents who have actually buried a child – a fate no parent should ever have to endure. I love a handful of people who have lived through that nightmare, and I am certainly deeply grateful for my son’s life.
But I’ve thought a lot about what happened within me when my son was so gravely injured, and I’ve realized something: despite not having to grieve the loss of his life, I nonetheless accumulated a horrific burden of grief. And I packed it away in a trunk in my head and left it there, and never unpacked it.
When that SUV assaulted him so traumatically, maiming him and nearly killing him, it damaged not only his body but his life moving forward. It truncated the possible courses of his future; it disabled not only his leg and back but his sense of himself.
The losses my son suffered sit like hot coals inside me still, as they would for any parent. And though parents who have lost even more can rightly say to me that they would give anything to have their child back, even far more disabled than mine, I nonetheless carry those hot coals still, and have refused to deal with them, so I don’t have to confront them and feel them.
And to make it worse, there lies beneath that packed-away grief a pool of unfocused rage, a burning resentment of the universe for bringing this upon my boy. It’s a rage shared by all parents who have either lost children or seen them suffer – a rage amplified by our own helplessness. A rage that will never go away if the grief remains hidden.
I am a person who shies away from conflict, so the impulse to do so would be there regardless. But this particular packed-away grief has damaged me, because I would not process it: it awakened my sense of vulnerability, instilling a layer of defensiveness that I am only now realizing exists. If you’d asked me a month ago if I have such defenses built up in myself, I’d have laughed.
But now it’s undeniable. Every assault on a child is felt deeply by that child’s parent, and the terrible trauma of my son damaged me as well. I don’t want to deal with that damage, because I don’t ever want to feel such pain again.
And I have realized, even more painfully, that I have never really learned to grieve. My losses have been few, overall, and I was totally unprepared for what happened to him. But it’s time to learn, to unpack the grief in my attic and move through it, whatever it takes. I spent many years just sleepwalking through my life, in a way, not really engaging, and I can’t do that anymore.
So I’m grateful for that Facebook invitation. And I’ll be making some new friends in that group.
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