ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD

On the list of human tragedies, the death of one's child hovers close to the top. In the first place the parent is supposed to die first; in the second, a parent projects their child's future continually as part of the parenting process. This said, it is curious to me that our culture ignores these tragedies, has never given a name to them (as we have widow, or widower), no Hallmark cards, no day of remembrance. The only trace I've discovered is on medical forms where it asks: number of births, number of live children. Clinical, insufficient.

So yesterday was my 38th observance of the death of my son, who was six and drank kerosene in the middle of a night. For the sake of other parents who have "lost" their son or daughter I want to say every observance is different. A few years ago I was hysterical much of the day, left a gathering and drove home to curl up in a ball in my blankets. But yesterday, spent with a dear friend in a city I adore, the day flew by with gratitude in every moment.

How can a parent be grateful that her child has died? I certainly was not for many years! I held his death against the compassionate god, the just god and all the rhetoric of "everything has a reason." Still I believe if there was a reason I'm totally unable to fathom it. So I've come to ascribe to the "x factor" theory. Yes, apparently there are reasons for much of our lives' events, or we make reasons for them. But there are also other events that are "x factors": unexpected, traumatic, unacceptable and sometimes unresolved.

After these many years of seeing his absence in a kalidescope of colors, changing from year to year, I really have come to gratitude. Without his passing I may not have experienced unutterable depth of pain, and couldn't have witnessed to others' despair. I may not have developed the delicate rapport I have with children. Just yesterday in PetSmart, a 2-year old toddled into my aisle. I waved, he waved, then proudly displayed a rubber ball in each hand, smiling up at me. That moment was a Divine Gift from his trusting heart to mine. Also when the babies pick me out in a cafeteria with their wide searching eyes and engage my eyes with a tiny smile. They see my rainbow, and I open to their hearts. Had I not been torn from my moorings, I would not be the hawk for children's safety that I am. I would not have made as many phone calls to protect abused children, and I wouldn't be working with parents to cherish their children through their divorce. Not to mention carrying on to raise two extraordinary offspring that do me proud every day.

My gratitude for his death supports my vulnerability and feeds a courage to speak up that comes straight from my bones. Finally, it has led me to a profound honoring: the dance life and death are engaged in that seems so opposite, melts eventually, like the dwindling sunset reveals the stars, and the stars fade into sunrise. One is not lost from the other, but arising in every moment.

My daughter and her children gift me flowers on February 9. My husband touches in with my heart to offer support. And my long departed son arises in my being more fully than other days of the year to remind me of the treasures of pain and healing, melting into each other.