As I approach the two-year mark since the passing of my son, Ethan, I find myself reflecting on the journey of grief. Ethan lost his battle with cancer just 13 days after turning five, leaving behind myself, my husband, Mark, and our younger son, Alex, who is now five.
In the time since Ethan’s death, I have tried to find my footing again. Like many parents who have walked this painful path, I started a nonprofit to honor his memory and to help me channel my priorities into something meaningful. For years, I was entrenched in the world of hospitals and treatments, caring for my sick child every moment of the day. After his passing, I felt an immense void, a silence that replaced the constant buzz of anxiety, hope, and determination. This silence is filled with grief, a darkness that I seek to combat by immersing myself in the world of cancer advocacy once more. It’s my way of trying to keep his memory alive, to feel like I’m still caring for him, despite the helplessness that comes with his absence.
I often wish I could have the noise of the hospital days back. I remember those moments spent in a cold, hard chair beside his bed, never truly sleeping but holding his hand and assuring him everything would be okay. I was his anchor, and he was mine.
Every day presents a complex blend of emotions. Some moments are filled with pain and melancholy, while others bring unexpected joy as I navigate daily life. Grief ebbs and flows, a constant companion that can either whisper softly or roar like a storm inside me. It’s invisible to others, but always there, carving away at my heart.
Mornings are a struggle. In those brief seconds between sleep and wakefulness, I forget the weight of my loss. But as soon as I attempt to rise, it settles on me like a heavy blanket. I drag myself across the room, often pausing to look at Ethan’s picture on my dresser, next to his urn. Some days, I manage a quiet “good morning” to him; other times, the tears come rushing in, overwhelming me before I even start my day.
I remind myself that I have Alex to care for. As I walk past Ethan’s closed bedroom door, I feel the emptiness. I brew my morning coffee, recalling how Ethan used to help me prepare it, saying he wanted to add the “wub” (love) to it. Even during his illness, we maintained that ritual, our own little moment together.
Alex brings me immense joy. I hold him a little longer during our morning hugs and spoil him with breakfast requests. I remember how Ty would sit in his favorite spot on the couch, watching cartoons, and I see Alex now occupying that same nook. When I go to pour a drink, an old water bottle falls out, reminding me of Ethan’s voice saying, “I love my shark cup.”
Even two years later, I find reminders of him hidden in every corner. A crumpled paper with doodles, remnants of his life that I cherish and tuck away for future reflection. I see Alex playing with toys that once belonged to his brother, a bittersweet reminder of the childhood they could have shared.
After work, I take Alex swimming, trying to create joyful memories before school begins. I feel proud watching him learn to swim, yet my mind wanders to how Ethan would have been a little daredevil, diving into the deep end. I picture him as a seven-year-old, splashing Alex, a vision that fills me with both happiness and sorrow.
Time doesn’t stand still, yet it feels like it has for me. Days pass, but the reality is that Alex is now older than Ethan ever was. Soon, Alex will board a bus for his first day of kindergarten. It’s a milestone that Ethan never got to experience, and the thought weighs heavily on my heart.
Back-to-school season is more challenging than any holiday. I scroll through social media, seeing photos of children embarking on their academic journeys, and it stings to remember what my son has been deprived of. Each image serves as a reminder of my loss, and I cannot help but feel overwhelmed by the ache in my heart.
I can’t enjoy Alex’s first day as other parents do. Each milestone he reaches is shadowed by the absence of Ethan, filling me with guilt. I often struggle with how to answer questions about how many children I have, navigating the delicate balance between honoring Ethan’s memory and sparing others from discomfort.
In casual conversations, I find it hard to engage in typical parenting chatter. While others discuss trivial matters, I sit with memories of hospital visits and heartache. Instead, I confide in my husband or other parents who understand this journey.
At night, I still brush my teeth with Ethan’s toothbrush alongside mine, a small ritual I can’t seem to let go of, even after all this time. Some nights, I find solace in the fact that we still sleep with a doll resembling Ethan, a gift that came after his passing. It’s a strange comfort, and it reminds us of the love we shared.
Grief keeps my husband and me from fully comforting one another, as we both know there’s no way to “fix” this. We share our sorrow, sometimes crying together, sometimes finding joy in our memories of Ethan. The best moments are when we all snuggle together in bed, saying prayers with Alex, feeling the warmth of his little body between us—a bittersweet reminder of what we’ve lost but also of what remains.
There will never be a “perfect day” for a grieving parent. Time may help us heal, but the loss is a wound that never fully closes. We learn to find joy in small moments, but the reality of our grief will always be a part of us.
I miss my son.
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Summary:
This reflective piece portrays the daily life of a grieving parent, exploring the complexities of loss following the death of a child. The author shares a poignant account of navigating through grief while raising a younger child, illustrating how memories of the deceased son permeate daily activities, relationships, and milestones. The constant presence of grief is emphasized as an invisible companion, shaping the parent’s emotional landscape and interactions with others.