Grief teaches a mother lessons she never wanted to learn
My husband Brad came home to tell me what he had learned minutes earlier. Sarah is gone… Our Sarah-Grace. Our beautiful 24-year-old daughter. Dead. With three words and within mere seconds, I was shattered, gutted, disoriented. Any word that implies destruction, pain or confusion is relevant to that moment, but none alone, or combined, capture the devastation and confusion I felt after hearing those words.
Two years later, I’m trying not to evaluate a string of heavy days where my grief is so raw it feels frighteningly new. I remind myself that grief has nothing to do with functioning well or poorly, and the characteristics of it on any given day don’t mean much. Instead, I’ve learned that grief is my constant companion with a rhythm and intensity that’s unpredictable and often overwhelming.
Processing death, understanding grief
After Sarah died, I’d catch myself thinking that I’ll be relieved of this suffering because I’m trying so hard and I’m doing my best. The process of understanding that Sarah is dead, however, has been an agonizing and bizarre evolution.
First, there were the feelings of anticipation. Most days during the first year of grief, I’d tell myself, I can’t survive this. Then, Yes, I can. Just hold on. This will go away. When Sarah comes home. For a second, relief soothed my broken heart until truth slapped me in the face. No! That’s not true. These battles with reality went on for months. I don’t know what made them stop, but one day I simply noticed they had ended. ‘I’ve been defeated,’ I thought. ‘Truth and reality have won. I know the truth about Sarah will never change.’
In more grateful moments, I marvel at the way my psyche works to gently integrate this truth into my consciousness. When the words, Sarah can’t be gone, pop into my head, I recognize that my grief is changing. But it’s slow and subtle, and grief is still wildly and strangely independent of my other emotions, making any day unpredictable.
And these days, I have two kinds of days, OK/fine or bad/terrible. Both are unsettling. On the bad days, I wonder, will I be this way forever? On the OK days, I wonder, does this mean I’m over the trauma of Sarah’s death? I know the answer to both of those questions, but I’m new in this process and I don’t know what the future will bring, so I have to ask.
What I’ve learned about grief
All that I’ve learned as a grieving mother is only vaguely describable and not very teachable.
I remember in the early days being told that my grief will change. After two years, I can say that’s true, but I can’t really explain what’s changed other than, it’s different. Or, how it still feels painful, but in a different way. Or, what occurs to make that happen other than an excruciating breakdown of life and self, followed by the arduous rebuilding of everything. And that’s not very helpful.
So, when I read that people feel their child, or that they carry their child’s heart in their heart, I wonder how that came to be? What am I doing wrong that I don’t have that? Is it even true or possible? What does that even mean?
But I know there’s nothing of what I will come to understand about grieving and surviving the death of my daughter that can be fast-tracked or transferred from one person to another. I know I’ll find answers because parental grief is the most persistent and demanding teacher I’ve ever encountered. The insights are so painfully acquired.
Charting a path toward survival
I can’t imagine ever breathing easily when I think of or say the words Brad came home to deliver. I don’t even write them with ease.
I’m not innately wired to cope with the death of my child. Instead, I must consciously try not to fight against my grief and be, as is often said, present with it. That’s the second hardest thing about Sarah’s death — the daily decision to accept my grief and keep going. But I made a commitment to do just that on the day Sarah died.
That commitment was made during a desperate phone call to Brad’s brother Blaine as the two of us drove to the mortuary. Blaine and his wife, Cheryl, buried their only child, Kyle, 18 years and 5 months before we would bury Sarah. Brad and I had gone to the mortuary with them. We were broken-hearted for their loss and grateful we weren’t in their shoes.
“How do we do this, Blaine?” I sobbed. “How do we even survive?”
“You really have two choices,” he said. “You can either let it completely destroy you or you can try to keep living.”
Somehow, I got through the worst weeks of my life. Later, when time demanded a routine, I was unprepared for what was required of me to heed Blaine’s counsel. The seeming ease and comfort of giving up, rather than trying, has always been alluring.
So, I remind myself of the promise I made when Sarah died: That through every dark, gut-wrenching, lonely day, I will keep trying. I will slog through hell. What I learned in the conversation with Blaine still grounds me. Surprisingly, it’s not that he pointed out that we have a choice. Rather, it was the chilling summation of his advice, spoken with heavy, palpable sorrow. After giving us our two options, he added, “and I don’t have to tell you what I chose.”
I cry thinking about the price that was paid, so he could impart that wisdom.
Resolving to do it again
When Sarah died, I expected my grief and faith to be companions, but grief is lonely. At the end of the day, I’m alone with thoughts, questions and fears that make me an inhospitable environment for the whispers of spirituality. Yet, I still hold on to my faith, knowing a power beyond my own helps me through the minutes and hours.
And each day, I resolve to do it again, though it’s never an easy decision.
Doubt and dread can strike without warning. It’s a constant fight through pain and confusion. But, I want to keep trying, for those I love and for those who love me. And, missing Sarah as I do, I hope and pray that someday, somehow, I too will know what it means to carry her heart in my heart or feel her with me.
Sarah’s death on Nov. 7, 2016 brought devastation, pain and confusion to my life with a power that could have destroyed me, Brad, our two sons and youngest daughter. Today, one of the most important truths that keeps me going is Sarah wouldn’t want that to be her legacy. She doesn’t deserve it either.
So, to honor Sarah and her indelible place within our family, for Brad and our wonderful, grieving children, I do the hardest work I’ll ever do, even when it feels impossible.
A leading expert in child death investigations talks about his unlikely career.
A parent’s response to grief comes in many forms. And, after decades as a medical examiner, Dr. Thomas Andrew, among the country’s leading experts on child death, knows all about that.
Andrew is New Hampshire’s former chief medical examiner and spent decades conducting autopsies and describing to loved ones, often parents, about why somebody died.
Some are angry. Unlike in television crime shows, autopsies often don’t uncover an exact cause of death. In the case of one 15-month-old, however, Andrew did. An immune disorder that led to a widespread infection killed the child. But the parents, recent Russian immigrants who didn’t understand IVs and technology, didn’t believe it.
“They were convinced the child was killed by some sort of fluid mismanagement in the hospital,” Andrew said. “What I was trying to get across to them, which was hugely important, is that it’s a genetic disease. They needed genetic counseling. They need to strongly consider family planning going forward, but they were having none of it.”
In other cases, from the depths of their grief, they find unbelievable kindness. Andrew still gets emotional talking about the case of a seven-year-old boy who died during a pick-up basketball game. Andrew’s autopsy revealed that the boy had an undiagnosed congenital heart condition.
“When I called his father, and I explained what the findings were, he said, ‘Doc, I don’t know how you do this day after day,’ and he said, ‘How are you doing?’” Andrew remembers. “I just fell off my chair. Even as I tell the story now, I can’t believe he found the strength to ask that question. I just wanted to say, ‘Are you kidding buddy? Don’t think about me.’ That was an amazing, amazing experience.”
In his decades talking to mourning parents, “if you can imagine everything in between those two extremes,” he said, “I’ve seen it.”
An unlikely move
Andrew didn’t set out to spend his career analyzing why somebody died. It began with the goal of helping young people live. Fresh out of medical school, Andrew worked as a pediatrician — and loved parts of it, especially interacting with the kids.
“They bring so much to the table,” he said. “They are such intellectual sponges and are really curious about everything.”
But he didn’t enjoy the frenzied daily pace of ear checks and camp physicals. “I’m a plodder by nature,” he said. “I like to look at things from many different angles, and that didn’t fit with that model.”
At the same time, the cases that really engaged his intellect as a pediatrician were those that included aspects of forensic medicine, such as Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, consumer product safety issues and incidents of neglect.
Forensic medicine wasn’t a new topic for him. In medical school, a series of lectures in a basic pathology class captivated him and, as a senior, he completed a pathology rotation. Eventually, he made the switch to forensics.
Trying to answer, ‘Why?’
The job shifted from dealing daily with the living to studying the dead and explaining to their loved ones why they died. Andrew’s career took him from Ohio to New York City and, in 1997, to New Hampshire. Before retiring in 2017, he had conducted more than 5,200 autopsies to explain a sudden, unexpected or violent death.
And, with his training and work as a pediatrician, he carved out what he calls “a bit of a niche” in child deaths, focusing some of his writings on the topic. Today, Andrew’s White Mountain Forensic Consulting Services specializes in reviewing medical records and autopsies and testifying about deaths in criminal and civil cases.
Throughout his career, there was a common frustration: He couldn’t uncover why a child had died, yet he knew a family was desperate for answers.
In New Hampshire, parents often had two questions: Why did my baby die? And will this happen to my next one? They were queries that Andrew, many times, couldn’t fully answer.
But, despite their anguish and a lack of clear-cut answers, he said, it’s critical for medical examiners to be intellectually honest with families.
“To feel like you haven’t helped that family is a really empty and desolate feeling, but there is nothing crueler than a kind lie,” he said. “You’ve got to be totally honest with people when you don’t know those answers.”
And when they deliver their discoveries to families, medical examiners must be prepared to tailor their message to their audience. Empathy, he said, is critical in every conversation. If they can’t be sensitive to a specific family’s needs, they need to find a social worker or grief counselor who can. “They do more harm than good by being a bull in a china shop,” he said.
For families who seek answers, Andrew said their path doesn’t have to end with an inconclusive autopsy. He encourages parents to send their child’s case to researchers and groups, such as the Sudden Infant Death Syndrome Project, who are investigating particular health issues and causes of death.
“That’s what’s going to get answers sooner than later,” he said.
Finding the ‘trifecta’
These days, when he’s not testifying in a court case or reviewing medical records, Andrew is working on a master’s degree in divinity. He hopes to eventually become the full-time chaplain for the Daniel Webster Council of the Boy Scouts in New Hampshire. Both his faith and his involvement in Boy Scouts have provided a necessary relief from the seriousness of his day job.
And, after years of uncovering what bad decisions may have killed a person — whether it was drug abuse, dangerous driving or other unhealthy lifestyle choices — he’ll get to be on the front end of public health, providing tools for young people to help them make better decisions.
“Guiding these young people to make moral and ethical decisions, not only for their own sake, but the sake of others, it’s the trifecta,” he said. “I’ll get to do all these things that I love.”
June 2013, during recovery from what was supposed to be a routine heart catheterization to assess his heart condition, Ron Kelly’s son’s heart failed. Doctors weren’t able to revive 16-year-old Jon. Today Ron helps other grieving fathers, particularly those in the workplace.
After struggling with identity after his son’s death, Ron Kelly helps other men mourn
*Evermore is dedicating this Father’s Day week to bereaved dads who will always be fathers.
R. Glenn “Ron” Kelly’s son was supposed to make it.
Jon was born in 1997 with a rare and potentially deadly heart condition, but doctors were optimistic. He’d need medical intervention, including three open heart surgeries before the age of two to rebuild his heart, but, they said, he’d live a full life.
“He had a wonderful childhood,” Kelly said. As a teenager, Jonathan picked up golf, and the family moved to a golf course community where he could play all the time.
“The year that he passed, he was in line to be the first freshman to make the high school golf team,” said Kelly of his only child. But, in June 2013, during recovery from what was supposed to be a routine heart catheterization to assess how he was doing, Jon’s heart failed. Doctors weren’t able to revive the 16-year-old.
Ron Kelly said his son Jonathan had a wonderful childhood. As a teen, he picked up golf, and the family moved to a golf course community where he could play all the time.
“I take a lot of comfort that I got to hold him when he took his last breath,” Kelly said. “To me, that meant a lot. Not at first, but it certainly does now.”
Still a dad?
The death left Kelly and his wife reeling. Kelly, a former Marine and cop, grappled with an identity crisis and tried to quash any emotion. After his son was born, he had walked away from a career serving others to work as an executive in the defense industry and focus on being a father. But, after his son died, he didn’t know if he could still call himself a dad.
“I went back to work where I could control things,” he said. “I would go back as the number two man in a large company and control my environment and repress my grief in that way. I’d walk by pictures of Jon and avoid looking at them. I was repressing the grief, but I was still wondering, ‘Who was I? Was I still a parent?’”
Six months after his son’s death, said Kelly, “I think Jon came to me and said, ‘How dare you.’ He asked, ‘Are you still a Marine?’ Of course I’m still a Marine. ‘Are you still a cop?’ Part of being a cop will be in me for all my life.”
Then, Kelly said his son asked him, ‘How do you think you’re not still my father?’ It was a good point.”
It was a watershed moment for Kelly, who realized that he needed to let himself grieve. But as he looked for healthful ways to mourn his son, he found few resources.
“There was nothing out there for men by men,” he said. “I had to strike out on my own. I met some wonderful people in the field who nurtured me on my way. I studied human emotions and why we are the way we are.”
As he navigated his grief, he decided to share what he learned with other men by writing a book. And that book, “Sometimes I Cry in the Shower: A Grieving Father’s Journey to Wholeness and Healing,” launched a new career that’s focused on helping men and working with employers to build grief-friendly workplaces.
“It’s been a wonderful opportunity to go out and help others heal,” he said.
Today, Kelly is the author of four books, including “Grief in the Workplace,” “The Griefcase: A Man’s Guide to Healing and Moving Forward in Grief,” and “Grief Healings 365: Daily Inspirations for Moving Forward in Your New Normal.”
Before his son’s death, for example, his managers would stop by his office each morning to let them know what their plans were for the day.
“When I lost Jon, I came back to work and nobody stopped by my door anymore,” he said. “It’s a small anecdote alone, but think about what that did for productivity.”
Those managers just didn’t know what to say, said Kelly. And they weren’t trained in advance to know how to interact with Kelly upon his return.
Now, he said, “I’m going around to businesses and civic organizations and advocating the care and feeding of the bereaved once they return to work.”
Those efforts don’t have to take up a lot of time and money, Kelly said. It can be as simple as sharing, with the employee’s approval, details about how their loved one died before they return, so they aren’t bombarded with questions from curious co-workers.
It also could include teaching managers to spot signs that an employee might need to take a break from time to time. Giving those employees a little grace, said Kelly, “beats rehiring fees and retraining costs and turnover costs.”
Kelly recommends that grieving employees take off their “grief mask,” and be honest about the moments when they need a few minutes outside the office to take a walk.
Serving once more
For Kelly, his work, now a full-time job, has helped him in his own grief. But, he said, he’s also taking a cue from Jon.
“All those years, as Jon was going through interventional trips to the doctors (for his heart condition), he also voluntarily put himself up for research,” Kelly said. “And in his own words, he said, ‘I am helping out other children who were born after me with the same condition.’ He was serving.”
And now Kelly, the Marine and cop, is serving once again.