Chapter 29, PART 1

One friend of mine who has lost a son asked me, “Why is the last conversation always a bad one?” To some who lost an infant, this chapter will not apply, but to those of us who lost an older child, we have this conversation to remember.

The person takes a magnifying glass to the conversation. Even if we had similar conversations one hundred times before with no resultant loss of love, we now view what we said with added significance. In relationships, friction occasionally occurs and we bicker or fight. However, when you microscopically inspect the last conversation, the sense of importance of every word and emotion inflates the meaning in our minds.

Chapter 29, PART 2

Several of my friends who lost their children have mentioned the argumentative nature of their last conversations. Perhaps the child had broken curfew and had driven home, drunk, unbeknownst to the parent. Maybe the parent had thrown hands in the air and said, “I give up on you,” or “your behavior makes me sick.” It could be anything that you regret. However, even if the child’s behavior is normally good by any standards, this does not prevent us from being irritated because of a messy room, or because they preferred muttering, “Whatever, Mom,” in a disgusted tone rather than, “Yes, Ma’am,” as they walked out the door for the last time. Even if the last conversation was pleasant, you might regret not saying “I love you” to the child, or hugging them.

If any benefit can possibly be found in the terminal illness of a child, this might be it. You have the time to be prepared for the shock and to moderate those comments which you would normally toss off the top of your head, such as “You always forget your homework. You drive me crazy!” If you know your child’s life is limited, your words will probably be more guarded and tinged with awareness. On the other hand, the terminally ill child’s life brings with it the grief associated with death on a daily basis.

Chapter 29, PART 3

For those of us taken by surprise, the thought of an impending loss does not enter our minds. The last time I saw Logan, five days before his death, I had picked him up on his way home from work and in the car we had the “Aren’t you aware of your drug use and its bad results?” conversation. He blew me off, in so many words, literally saying, “You worry too much.” Five days later he was dead from a drug overdose.

I, however, was one of the fortunate ones as last conversations go, for later that same night, Logan cooked dinner for my husband’s birthday, a balsamic chicken dish which he had invented. My children and I always say, “I love you” at the end of phone conversations or as we leave each other, so our last words and feelings when he left the house expressed love.

Chapter 29, part 4

Despite the love with which we parted, I can second-guess myself. I sometimes wonder if I had been more forceful and become angry about the drug use, might he have changed his behavior and be alive today? Might it have even caused him to pause that Saturday morning of his death if he had realized how upset I was? Then, I remember a friend who also lost her son to a drug overdose. Unlike my quiet conversation, she had a raging argument with her son, trying to prevent the very accident that happened. She and I have the opposite situations: a last moment leaving on a positive note, a last moment leaving on a negative note, yet we both have the same question: could our last conversation have been different and changed the course of events? It’s ironic that I wish I had been more forceful like she was, and she wishes she had been less angry like I was, but we both have sons dead due to a drug overdose.

Chapter 29, part 5

What does this say? It tells me that although our questions are natural, we cannot place too much importance on a last conversation because we have to accept in our work of reframing our thinking that we cannot know the outcome of any possible future. My three-year-old grandson told me, “I hate you,” yesterday because I told him to stay out of our malfunctioning refrigerator. Did I for one second think he hated me? No. He was venting his anger, and as humans we do that from a young age and continue until we die. Words are not the overall, underlying feelings, but expressions of transitory feelings. My grandson loves me. I love him, and children know when they are loved despite an argument.

Chapter 29, part 6

We can’t take back our words nor can we change what has happened. We can realize that while inspecting our last conversation, we will select the worst of what we said and regret it. Remember, however, that this last conversation was not the only talk you ever had with your child. Just as we regret those words we wish we could take back, we can just as easily regret that we did not say something more confrontational. It might help to look at the overall communication between you and your child throughout a lifetime.

Chapter 29, part 7

At first, it’s hard to think of anything but those last words and that last time you saw your child. However, at some point, perhaps write down at least one happy memory you have between you that stands out to you. This will make you cry—the first time. A few years later, it might make you smile. Several months before he died, my son sat in this very chair, in which I now sit typing this book, showing me the website his friend was constructing for him for his birthday. He enthusiastically showed me the crazy robot and a happy picture of himself on the site. Two years ago, I would have broken down at the memory. Today, I smile. My mind is rebuilding.

Chapter 29, part 8

ACTIVITY

Write in your journal or call a friend and bring up one of the good memories of your child. Do not mention the last conversation, but deliberately focus on another memory.