I Am Okay
Coping With the Death of a Child
Pamela J. Kuhn
Just three short months after our daughter Sarah was taken to heaven, my husband wrote in his journal: “I’m not sure about making it. I walked into the bedroom this Sunday morning to take Pam a cup of freshly brewed spice tea. I was met with a crushed wife and mother—a beautiful lady with a face soaked in mournful tears. Pam is quiet with her grief, but I can feel it screaming from every cell in her frame. It reaches out to this man who can only try to swallow and choke out, ‘Will you be okay?’ What a stupid question!”
Those who have lost a child have days when they feel as though they’re not going to make it. How can life go on? Will I ever feel normal again? Will the pain ever stop? These are only a few of the questions that parents—as well as family and friends—ask themselves. The biggest for me was “Why?” Sarah’s room didn’t have much ventilation so I had used a fan to make her naptime more comfortable. Faulty wiring led to the deadly fire which took little Sarah from our arms to the arms of the One who gave her to us. The question “Why?” became my new constant companion. No answers were forthcoming.
A friend who had lost his son told us, “You will never get over it, but you can get through it.” My husband and I clung to those words of comfort in the weeks and months following Sarah’s death. The very first night we lay in bed, held hands and promised each other we’d become better, not bitter. We vowed not to lose each other, too.
The following paragraphs describe some of the ways that helped us to “get through” the difficult times following Sarah’s death, as well as to keep our promises to each other. Perhaps these suggestions will help others who are dealing with the death of a child.
1. Grieve in your own unique way
Everyone grieves differently, and one of the unfortunate mistakes we sometimes make is trying to force others to grieve as we do. My husband has a more melancholic personality than I do. If Sarah had been buried in the town where we were lived, he would gone to her grave every day. I, on the other hand, have never been back to the cemetery from the day we buried her.
My husband wrote constantly in the days after Sarah died, but it was years before I put any of my thoughts on paper. Seeing the stark black and white of my own words seemed somehow to increase the intensity of my grief. However, I devoured any book written on the subject that I could find. These grief patterns we experienced, could have become issues between us, but in allowing each other to grieve in our own way we avoided what could have become stress points.
2. Keep mementos nearby
Some grieving parents put away all traces of their deceased child; others make a shrine of all that is left behind. I would suggest a middle ground. Because I fill my occasional tables and dresser tops with framed pictured of those I love, it was natural to tuck those of Sarah in among them. The brass-framed picture of Sarah and her daddy is still on the piano; others are scattered throughout our home reminding us of our princess. My husband keeps her pacifier—the only one she’d use, and the one we guarded with our lives—in his nightstand drawer. He keeps his loose change in her silver engraved cup, and her tiny baby spoon is used in the jelly dish. These are tiny mementos, but precious to us. They’ve been smiled over, cried over, reminisced over and given a permanent place in our home.
3. Deal with the guilt feelings
In the days after Sarah’s death my heart was filled with guilt. If only I had waited until a later time to put Sarah down for her nap, I thought. If only I had stayed upstairs and cleaned the bathroom. If only…over and over again. But the one thing that bothered me most was that when I finally realized something was wrong and raced to the second floor to find the hall filled with smoke, her tiny room full of flames, I froze. Everyone knows a real mother would have ignored the flames to get to her baby. So why didn’t I?
I agonized over that question, even though the doctor told us the smoke filled Sarah’s lungs well before the flames reached her. My husband, on the other hand, was convinced an angel stopped me at the room’s flaming entrance so he wouldn’t lose both of us. Still, I blamed myself for not having saved my baby. But eventually I was able to see that all the wishing in the world wasn’t going to change what happened. I had to offer my guilt feelings to God. Leaving them with Him hasn’t been easy, and there are still times an “if only” sneaks unnoticed into my heart. But I’ve learned to stop and tell myself, “I can’t change it.”
4. Be thankful for one thing each day
The sun rarely shines in the dark pit of grief. Every day seems dreary and a person’s soul feels chilled. To break out of the dismal place I found myself in, I began a gratitude list. The items on that list weren’t profound, just small blessings I could count. On the first day it was the sun shining through a group of trees, on the second it was the clear amber of my Salada iced tea. I saw drifting white clouds in a clear, blue sky, and the gentle smile of a sales clerk as I made a purchase.
As my list grew, I found myself refocusing on life. I was claiming the promise of Isaiah 45:3, “I will give you the treasures of darkness, riches stored in secret places.” In the secret place of grief I found riches day by day. Images like our three-year-old Melanie’s pigtails bouncing as she ran to the car after her preschool class, perfect pumpkins to carve, and a sunny basket of yellow mums filled the treasure chest of my mind, and then spilled over into the secret place of my heart.
5. Ponder on the good things
Our minds like to remember the shocking times of our tragedy. I suppose it’s natural to allow those moments to play around in our heads. I kept remembering the suddenness of the tragedy—the race to the hospital, the realization that Sarah was gone. Over and over I heard the screams, felt the despair, and heard the question of an unthoughtful friend who had asked, “Wasn’t there anything you could do?” But then I thought of Mary and the difficult times she must have endured from the moment she agreed to be the mother of Jesus. I found the verse in Luke 2:19 that says, “But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.” Mary didn’t focus on those times that distressed her. Instead she focused on the wonders and joys that came with accepting God’s will.
I needed to do the same. When the disturbing images entered my mind, I would stop and think about the Christian policeman who prayed with us at the scene of our burning home. I’d remember how a family friend had brought her own daughter’s clothes to Melanie, Melanie’s smile when another friend brought her a few toys, and the comforting feel of the satin nightgown my sister-in-law had brought me. I would envision the image of the tiny child nestled in God’s big hand we had chosen to have engraved Sarah’s headstone and the sweet voice of another friend as she sang the words of Ron Hamilton’s “Rejoice in the Lord.”
“Oh rejoice in the Lord,
He makes no mistake.
He knoweth the end of each path that I take.
And when I am tried, and purified,
I shall come forth as gold.”
Like Mary, I pondered the good things and treasured them in my heart.
I’ve never gotten over Sarah’s death. She was our beautiful princess—Sarah of the dark, silky hair, big dark eyes, and beguiling smile. But I have gotten through the deepest pain of mourning. Am I okay?
“He has…given me a cup of deepest sorrows to drink…Yet there is one ray of hope: his compassions never end. It is only the Lord’s mercies that have kept us from complete destruction. Great is his faithfulness; his lovingkindness begins afresh each day.” (Lamentations 3:15, 21-23 TLB)
I am okay.
Sidebar: Comforting Words and Gestures
"The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares." — Henri Nouwen
A simple “I’m sorry” is the most comforting thing you can say. Even the most caring person sometimes say things that comes out wrong, and once said, words cannot be taken back. When a friend of mine was telling an acquaintance about the accidental drowning death of her teenager the man replied, “Sometimes I wish my teenager would drown.” My friend quickly and firmly replied, “No, you don’t!” The man realized how that remark must have sounded to this hurting mother, but it was too late to undo the damage. Stick with “I’m sorry.”
Don’t wait for the grieving family to ask for help. Offer! Many times a crowd of people is the last thing a grieving parent wants to face. If another sibling takes gymnastic lessons, plays on a sports team or has band practice, offer to drive the child to his or her activities. Gift certificates to local restaurants ensure that the family eats a healthy meal. Helping with laundry, house cleaning, and mowing a lawn are practical ways of giving comfort.
Don’t be afraid to talk about the lost child. Most parents don’t want to think others have forgotten their child. If a funny incident comes to mind, don’t be afraid to say, “Do you remember when…?” The story may bring a tear or two, but the healing benefits are abundant.
Remember and acknowledge dates connected to the tragedy. Mark the date of the child’s death on your calendar. Send a note each month on that day during the first year. Try to remember the family annually. We have friends who still remember August 7th. One elderly woman gave us money each year before she died so we could eat out and remember Sarah together. A birthday is another date to remember. Year after year we received pink carnations on Sarah’s birthday from “Grandma” Arnold. Her remembrance was soothing balm to our hearts.
Cry with your friend. A comforting moment for me happened one Sunday in church. The service had not yet begun, but the sacred atmosphere, blessed with God’s presence, brought forth my tears. When I looked up, I noticed a friend in the seat in front of me. When he turned I saw the tears swimming in his eyes overflow to make a trail down his cheeks. He didn’t say a word. He just looked into my eyes and cried.
Pamela J. Kuhn
