Stories of Lost Children To Those Who Would Console by Naomi Wagschal Our children are dying. They die in front of vehicles and in them. They die from disease, abuse, neglect, and war. They die at the hands of others, or themselves. They die violently. They die peacefully. They die suddenly. They die slowly. Every week I hear that another child has died and I grieve. My heart aches for parents whose pain will last the rest of their lives. I know. My child died too. Too soon you may suddenly be confronted with a friend or acquaintance who has lost a child. You may wonder what to say, how to react. I have felt compelled to write this to help you and hopefully, other bereaved. I hope it will alleviate the unnecessary pain caused by ignorance or thoughtlessness. Do you remember an event that took place 35 years ago? The likelihood is that no immediate images will spring to mind. However, if I ask you where you were when John F. Kennedy was murdered you can probably recreate that day in your life. Now put yourself into the position of "the recently bereaved." Our memories of those dreadful moments of discovery and the days and months that followed are seared into our consciousness a million times more intensely than your experience of that Presidential assassination. I cannot close my eyes without reliving those horrifying hours. Please don't ask me to repeat them out loud. Don't subject me to your inquisitive fact-finding. Don't try to find out how much I hurt. I'm a private person and am trying to function in this surreal daily world. I don't want to perform for you. If I say, "I'm sorry, but it's too painful to talk about", understand, I'm not being rude. I'm trying to protect myself from the horror of reliving the night I lost my beloved 21 year old son. Especially in the days immediately following our loss I did not need words of consolation. "There are no words" was a phrase that worked to acknowledge my pain without intruding and making it worse. A heartfelt hug and communication of empathy were what meant the most to me. If you are unsure, send a card. A gesture of this sort tells me you care. It means a lot. Jump in and help without being asked. The initial period of numbness leaves us completely unable to connect ourselves with the minutiae of daily life. Routine jobs take a back seat to shock. If you are close to someone who has been recently bereaved take the initiative, choose a task like emptying the dishwasher, picking up groceries, or preparing a meal, and just do it. The bereaved will appreciate not having to try to concentrate when concentration is impossible - I do not exaggerate. I remember close friends literally making me eat. If they had not been there to put a meal in front of me would not have concerned myself with food at all. Don't be afraid of me. I'm not contagious. Don't cross the street or look the other way to avoid meeting me. Include me in your conversations. A smile does me a lot of good. A laugh is a treasure. If I start to talk about my son it means that I really want to and that's okay. If I'm at work and having a really bad time, thank you for leaving me alone. Thank you for offering to be there without imposing on my grief. Yes, I cry at work sometimes. Grief does not respect business hours and, though I do my best, there are days when productivity takes a backseat to pain. Thank you to employers who understand that there will be a slip in 'productivity'. As I've said, focus and concentration disappear unpredictably. Tasks I was comfortable with before can take twice as long to accomplish on some days. A boss who is wise enough not to place additional demands and stress on an already fragile psyche is immeasurably supportive. If I'm not sympathetic to you when you complain about how much aggravation your children cause you, remember, my perspective has changed. I see you with living children and a future that includes them. Thank you to those parents who have quietly come to me to share their own stories of loss. They helped me realize that I am not alone. I have not been singled out for this torture. There are many others who are also living with this pain. You can introduce me to other bereaved people but please don't expect me to console them. I'm still mired in this myself. I'm in no condition to help others. All I can do is to let them know that someone else is at the mercy of the tides of grief too. When I tell you that I'm involved in grief work with a professional please don't try to do his or her job. Accept that I have made a choice and don't want your interference. Some well meaning people have misguidedly tried to get me to 'talk about how I feel'. I leave those conversations feeling used, angry, and in great pain. I love to talk about my son's life and experiences. I hate talking about his death and how I've felt since then. Please don't tell me that it's been a year, or three, or twenty, and it's time to get on with my life. Bereavement is not something that heals in six weeks, or one year or a lifetime. We each have our own process and our recovery is as individual as we are. I'm trying to function, but whatever 'my life' is going to be in the future, it is unlikely to resemble the past. My life has been shaken to the core and the person I become may not be the person you remember. I am still bereaved. I am still in pain. But I have managed to struggle up to the surface of this grief long enough to notice the things that help and the things that hurt. I hope these words will help you if you should ever be in the position of wanting to console someone like me. Naami Wagschal is the proud mother of two precious sons, Maurice and Rolf. Maurice died on March 2, 1997.

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