Life After Death

Stories are meant to be told. Even the painful ones. I actually believe these stories are the facilitators of genuine connection. These things are generally pain points we feel compelled to protect from judgment or from the fear that it’s too personal. The truth is, when we “protect” these stories, we create isolation at a time when we desperately need connection. These tender places are the ones that hold the most valuable parts of ourselves, parts that not only bring us compassion but offer connection and validation for others. I’ve been holding this story for over two years. Perhaps I thought holding it back meant I was protecting my most broken places. What I know now is sharing these stories is less about my fear and more about the desire to be a light for others. If it resonates or if you know someone who might connect with my story, please share.  

I’m not ready to tell you the story of losing our only child, of the pain and suffering, and daily recommitment to get out of bed and keep going. This is not that story - that will come. This is the story of how our marriage deepens and grows because we are the only two people in the world who understand the pain the other is enduring. Because the love that carried us down the aisle, into parenthood, and through what we thought were the most difficult challenges of life, is the same love that pulls us to each other, calling on trust nurtured for over 29 years to be the foundation upon which we must now rebuild our lives and our dreams.

We were just kids when we met, not much older than our son at the time of his death. Electric with youthful lust, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Passionate, naïve, and hopeful. This is where our dreams began so long ago. Passion became love, love grew into devotion. Throughout our life together these three things would remain entwined, carrying the balance in different ways through the inevitable passages of time.

For better or worse, in sickness and health, and so on.

We made these vows, glowing with our hopes and dreams for the future. We believed that sickness and health meant we’d make soup when the flu strikes, and gently spoon creamed whatever when age takes its toll. That “for better or worse” meant we could survive angry words and financial burdens. We’ve survived these and more. Our love was strong, but oh so naive.  

Brain dead. It’s what the doctors say when your loved one is no longer here. It’s what they said right before everything went silent, the harmonic beats that were the sound of his heart, the rhythm of the ventilator that filled his lungs with precious oxygen. And then, “Time of death.” These words burned down everything that gave meaning to our lives, filling us with pain, taking over every cell, making every breath feel as though I was and am suffocating. To be alive after these words feels like a punishment. Monday, September 12, 7:15 pm, was Time Of Death for our only child. And time of death for us, Mom, Dad, family. From this point forward, we will never be the same. We will never walk, move, or breathe without pain. We will never not feel his absence.

We will never be who we were.

When our son, Paul, took his first breath, our lives expanded. Who we were as individuals and who we were together changed forever. We were a family. Our definition of love and life evolved. We had a purpose that, from that point forward, would forever be placed above all else. As months turned into years, we celebrated his milestones and persevered through growing pains. We struggled through screaming time-outs, cheered at every hockey game, waded through the trenches of failure, and let success affirm our dreams. As he grew, changed, and expanded, so did we, as mom, dad, and family.  

September 12, 2022, a distracted driver “failed to yield,” crossed into a busy intersection, and killed our 20-year-old son. When he died, our tiny, precious world shattered, like finely etched crystal splintering into infinite jagged shards. Each one a hope or a memory. So piercing and delicate, they burrow down into the deepest parts of our souls. Every laugh, sob, breath sends pain shooting through our now very fragile nervous system.

Our hands rest over our son’s heart, fingers entwined, palms pressing into his chest as it rises and falls with the rhythm of the ventilator, as though we are protecting him. But he is already gone. We know that. We heard the words time of death. We saw them begin the process of caring for his body. This is what they do for organ donors so they can become the hero of another’s life story - heart, lungs, kidneys, everything creates new life for another human being.

How do you breathe new life into what remains?

“I’m scared.”
“Me too,”
Our painful confession, drenched in fear, pulls us closer. Raw, aching, drowning. We know we are each other’s only source of hope. And yet, neither one of us know how we will survive this.

“I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose us.”

But, the truth was, we were already gone. Who we were died with our only child. Fear was not knowing who I was after, who we were after. It was not knowing if who he would become would love who I would become.

Laughter, joy, freedom, hope, spontaneity. Picture perfect. This is what I see in a photo taken of me and Jeff just months before we lost our son. I loved that picture. It felt like us, the certainty of us. Even though Paul wasn’t in the picture, what he brought to our lives was. I stare at that woman and know I will never be her again.

This is so much a part of the “fear.” We are not who we were, and we have no idea who we are becoming. Paul was so much of who we were, both individually and together. Who will we become? Will who you are now love who I am now?

I thought those days were behind me, the days of self-doubt that interfered with relationships, when I questioned if I was lovable enough for someone to love me back. I worked hard to get to a place of believing in myself, of knowing who I was and feeling confident in my relationships. Our marriage, our family was a place of love and belonging for me. When our son died, that foundation disintegrated.

It hurts, moving, breathing, thinking, everything. Everything hurts.
Opening my eyes in the morning, adjusting to another day without him in the world, choosing to eat when life feels empty. To move when there seems to be no purpose.
I know my husband, his Dad, feels the same. The same sense of emptiness, loss, fear. We just do it differently. He has to keep moving, hold structure. I simply can’t. I’m in slow motion, if any motion at all. I sit, wrapped in the heavy blanket of grief. We have different needs to care for ourselves right now. I am at a full stop. He is in motion. Working, moving, structure.

It’s not that we don’t love each other. Quite the contrary. Love is what keeps us going. How we feel and believe in each other is the only light that offers hope for our future.

It’s normal, expected, for this loss to pitch us into darkness. The challenge is not simply how to go on. It is to not let the pain turn you bitter, to not let fear hold you back. But most of all, it is to be willing to seek hope.

We walk this road together, mom and dad, husband and wife. Separate roads, holding hands across the way. Part of what lights the space for me is that I don’t want to let my husband down. Even more, I want to experience this world with him. I want to do things that bring us hope and strengthen our connection. This seems an impossible coexistence. Even though we are in pain all the time, we love each other and deeply crave that hope will guide our experiences and adventures as we navigate this world without Paul.

There is this weird notion that the extent to which we reflect our emptiness is somehow a measure of our love for the deceased. But that feels truly wrong to me. We don’t honor someone by living in their funeral. We honor them by carrying on their positive energy. Giving up on life is not what will make our son proud or keep his energy alive. And living an empty life is not what will bring hope to me or us. Love is learning to survive the pain while finding a purpose that makes a positive impact on the world.

How could we breathe new life into what remained after the death of our only child?
It was instinctual for us, like gasping for air when you’re drowning. We clung to each other. We leaned into each other for support, love, comfort. Scraps of that once powerful certainty emerged, offering hope for now. The future was too much. But, holding each other in the moment was doable.

Nineteen months after Time Of Death, we are learning to allow our loss to open doors of connection and purpose, bringing hope to our future. If this sounds nice, flowery, happy ending-ish, I assure you, it is not. We continue to require deep emotional work, painful releasing of what was, anger for what cannot be, fiercely confronting the resistance to do anything but feel our loss. This means integrating our pain and grief into new dreams. We are learning to live in two worlds, grief and hope. These seem as opposite as oil and water, repellent of one another. And yet, they are not. These two things, grief and hope, are symbiotic. We are learning to live in both because it is survival. I call it “living in the &.” We ache for our son, & we ache to live our lives in a way that brings hope and possibility.

Time of death, Sept 12, 7:15 pm. Time of life, every day, one breath at a time. Each day, we recommit to love, hope, and possibility. And here is where you find us, savoring the love as husband and wife and working to build hope for new passion in our future. There will be another picture of us in which we see hope, possibility, and certainty. Some days will be better than others. Anniversaries and birthdays will always challenge our emotional composure. But it’s the everyday random moments that bring us to our knees. &, together, we will get back up and seek hope for what’s next.

At the end of every day, there is us.