Chapter 18, PART 1

Some people are tactless. One woman called me the day after my son died and suggested that I should have had him in a drug treatment program. I screamed into the phone at her and threw the phone across the room. My daughter ran in because she could hear the hysteria in my voice. Logan was twenty-five years old and lived on his own; he held down a job; he was happy; my son looked healthy and the last time I saw him alive he cooked my husband’s birthday dinner. Logan certainly did not seem on the edge of death and did not seem as though he needed rehabilitation. I could not believe the audacity of the woman and her accusing tone as she told me this less than 24 hours after his death. I do not even know why I answered the phone myself that day, perhaps out of habit. As with this woman, not everyone knows how to react.

Chapter 18, PART 2

I have found that young people, with whom I deal on a daily basis, do not know how to react to the statement that I lost my son. In class, I act matter-of-factly, but I had to explain the first term I began teaching, two weeks after his death, to all of my classes that I had lost a son recently and I did not know how his death would affect me. In the literature portion of the writing component, we touch upon death and I did not want them to be hesitant to speak openly about the subject. I decided to let them know up front that we would be talking about these issues of a general nature in class, but I could not predict my reactions.

Chapter 18, PART 3

Whenever I mention my son’s death, a pall comes over the room and it quiets down because the students do not know what to say. I mention it as factually as possible, but I see them thinking, “Should I do something? Should we say something?” I keep talking and continue on with whatever subject we are addressing and they continue with me, relieved. Only once in class did it become uncomfortable for me when we were reading a story called The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien and one student kept bringing up morphine. I kept cutting her off and changing the subject, so after class I apologized to her and explained that Logan had overdosed on morphine, so I didn’t want to delve too deeply into it. As it turned out, the student had not even noticed that I was cutting her off.

Chapter 18, part 4

Just last night a student was talking about overdosing on pills and the effects it has on the individual. I left the room as he was talking, not caring if anyone noticed. After two years, my son’s death is not in the forefront of anyone’s mind. This talk was just an offhand conversation, nothing special to anyone else, but I had to leave in an effort to avoid thinking that Logan might have suffered. In my mind, he died in his sleep because of the morphine patches, but last night’s conversation, in an instant, brought back the what ifs.

However, even the people who love you the most, in an effort to help, can say something to you which appalls you, although they do it with the greatest of intentions. I do not fault any one of these people because I still, even after losing a child myself, do not always know whether what I say will comfort a grieving mother or not. If I, who have experience, struggle trying to offer comfort where none is to be found, how can someone who has not known this type of grief know what to say?

Chapter 18, part 5

Once a close friend called me up telling me to run to a department store because there was a young man there who “looked just like Logan” and I might want to befriend him. I know she meant well and that she could not know that I would want to avoid seeing someone who looked like my late son at all costs, let alone want to try and befriend him, but who knows? Maybe for some people, this type of action might help, but not for me. My friend did help me much of the time in other ways, and this was the only gaffe she ever made. I am grateful to her because she’ll speak to me about Logan sometimes because she’ll dream about him or mention him in a matter-of-fact way which comforts me.

Chapter 18, part 6

My friend Hazel felt offended by people who would make comments, such as “God needed him.” As she told me, “If God needed him more than earth, heaven must be a poorly run place.”

“It could have been worse” bothered her a lot. Her son was almost decapitated in a car wreck—how much worse does it have to get? Sometimes I think to myself about Logan that his death could have been worse, but if someone else told me that, I might find it difficult to restrain myself from punching that person in the face.

Chapter 18, part 7

People do not mean to be insensitive. One analytical friend suggested that some of my sadness might be due to menopause, but that I would naturally blame it on the death of my son because that’s where any deep sorrow would lead. This statement did not help me although she meant it analytically with nothing negative attached to it, but I felt the negative. How can you explain to someone that the emotions attached to death override all others? Menopause often causes strong mood swings with very deep valleys, but it also has peaks. Grief at losing a child isn’t a valley. It’s the Grand Canyon of sorrow. I cannot explain to her that feeling sad from menopause is distinguishable from mourning. Mourning consumes all else.

One friend said, “Life is for the living.” I agreed and talked about something else, but I wanted to say to him that he knew nothing about it. Logan lives in my soul and being, and until I die, he will always live for me. However, I see no point in making the people who say these things feel embarrassed, for they are only trying to help and have no reference point from which to operate.

When people love you, they want to help, and what remedy can they give a person in such obvious pain? Sadly, no remedy exists other than to accept the situation and know that your grief is natural. Luckily, I do have friends that speak about Logan and do not ignore his existence.

Chapter 18, part 8

ACTIVITY

If someone has said something particularly insensitive, write it down, along with reasons they might have intended it in a good way. A person might suggest that you just have to get over it, but perhaps they just hate to see you suffer. Write “No one else carries my pain, so I will not take [person’s name] comments personally.”