Sunlight: Living After My Son Has Died

Evan on his 18th birthday standing next to his baby picture.

Evan's death was such a shock that I lost some of my ability to write coherently or read with any focus. I found that listening to podcasts and audiobooks helped me regain some of my focus. More importantly, listening to someone else's voice was a comfort that pulled me out of my own head. If you want to listen to these posts, visit my podcast Sunlight After Evan at anchor.fm/afterevan.

Mothers and fathers writing about the loss of their children seem to open with similar information. You know, the basics: Who was their child? How long has it been since they died? How did they die? How old were they when they left? They seem to use similar language, too. Sprinkled over top of each sentence is sadness, grief, heaviness, pain. I will write all of those same things and in similar ways.

For a long while I only wrote for myself, in large part because I felt pressure to make my writings about Evan as unique as he was. I wanted the words on the page to be a spectacularly, well-crafted tribute to him. He died and I suddenly understood why Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal. Enduring love motivates us. Makes us want to leave a mark on the earth and in other people's heart to show that our loved one was here.

I've since realized that nothing I write will ever be good enough. Ever. Evan was singular. And with his passing--No, his death. (I have to use the word death because I spent so much time not accepting that reality) And with his death, his unique brand of living is gone. I can't bring him back with the perfect placement of words. I realize that now.

I've found comfort in the commonalities we bereaved parents share. You've helped me to know that I am not crazy and I am not required to go crazy either. In fact, despite the constant undercurrent and periodic swells of grief, I can feel the meaning of my name again. My name is Furaha. It means happiness. If you had asked me in the nine months after Evan died if I would ever feel happy, I would have said, NO. In fact, I remember telling a friend that I was going to change my name because there is no way I could ever feel happiness again. The constant, physical pain, the night and daymares, the longing to not be alive, it was nearly unbearable. The tears came so often even Ralph, our dog, stopped checking on me. I think maybe my husband and daughter had resigned themselves to the idea that mom is just going to cry for the rest of her life.

I was told that I would feel that pain for as long as I lived. Other mothers who had lost their sons and daughters long before me said the pain would never, ever go away. It is no exaggeration to say that I longed to die. I refused to kill myself because I wouldn't want to put Mama and Daddy through the pain I was feeling, but if something unpredictable had happened on the highway or suddenly I fell fatally ill or someone took my life, I didn't care. All I could think was, "I'll be with Evan."  The feeling of being mandated to live while Evan was dead seemed impossible to survive.

Clearly, I'm making it though. I begged God to ease my pain a little and to please show me parents who had lost their children, but they could still smile and laugh. Please, God, show me parents who feel some happiness. My prayers were answered in a variety of ways. And I am grateful for that.

One thing I know is that every single one of us is making our way through the loss of our children differently. For most of us, the physical and emotional pain really is acute and for some of us it's complicated and unendingly severe. The mothers who have told me I will be in dire pain forever were being true to their experiences. But I didn't know at the time that each of our grief journeys takes its own direction. I also did not understand that I had some choices to make that would influence my journey.

Evan's smile could light up the room. I bet your child's did, too. I'm writing to you so maybe we can feel some of that smile-light.

I am writing to you because I know your arms ache from not hugging your boy and your chest is in pain because you just want to kiss your girl's cheek again and your back aches from this burden. I know you feel so fragile.

But I'm also writing to you specifically because I don't believe you have to live in that dark cave and feel acute pain for the rest of your life. I am not a mental health professional. I am a mom who is living after her son has died. I am Furaha who is living after Evan has died. My experience is singular and universal. I hope it helps you in some way.

Thank you for finding me here. I figure if you are reading this, you have been scouring the internet for some time. I hope my reflections are helpful in some way.