it wasn’t my child

Guiltily, what comes to mind is, “Thank you God, that it wasn’t my child”.

Sorrowfully, you feel the parent’s pain as your own and know it doesn’t even come close to representing even the smallest of fractions of what it must actually feel like.

By the Grace of God, you’ll never know ,because you can’t even bring yourself to imagine it without the fear, panic, horror and unbelievable pressure to not believe it’s even possible, from making you want to shut down, check out or lash out at the mere idea of it.

The idea that losing a child is possible.

That as much as we love them, we can’t always protect them. That sickness or accidents happen and instead of just injury, the most precious thing in the entire world can be taken from you.

Your child might die before you.

How can you deal with this as a parent? How can you continue to function and be grateful for the gift you had in their presence in your life when all you want to do it die yourself to stop the pain from crushing you to death? How do you trust in a God that has forsaken you by removing his most precious gift from your life?

I can’t think about it. I can’t. I feel the beginning of a panic swell that’s so profound that it takes my breath away. I can’t read about it without feeling a volatile sense of denial, anger of hostile refusal. I want to fight and battle and rail against the IDEA of it. The only thing standing between losing my mind with the grief  that surges through my body, is the thin veil of knowledge that THIS time, it wasn’t my child. THIS time, I wasn’t the parent.

The amount of effort I need to contain my grief is monumental because any child who is in pain or suffering, any child who dies, could have been MY child. Any parent who is grieving for or over a child’s pain or death, and is hurting for their child; could have been me, but for the Grace of God.

Knowledge of death, especially when it’s a young person, a child, makes every day you have with those you love, more precious. It makes you painfully aware that you can not control the world and keep those you love safe. It makes you understand that others have to live with the brutality of this monumental pain and you would do anything to help them get through it because you don’t know how they can make it through an impossible situation, that you can’t even think about.

Guiltily, what comes to mind is, “Thank you God, that it wasn’t my child“.

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10 Responses to it wasn’t my child

  1. Ned's Blog says:

    The best we can do is make sure it doesn’t take experiencing the loss of a child — even peripherally — for us to take the time to express our love for them as often as possible.

    • rougedmount says:

      whether they like it or not…they need the hugs…even when they pretend they don’t. That moment of struggle..proclaiming’ I’m tough enough..I can handle this’…to accepting that it’s okay to accept the strength from someone who loves you when you need it.
      your story has been on my mind and weighted heavy in my heart. shifting focus to remind me of the only thing that matters, is love.

  2. ismeisreallyme says:

    It’s so very true. And just as Ned’s Blog posted last week about the loss of some young lives within his world (thankfully not his own 15-year old son) we as parents not only have a duty but the *opportunity* to demonstrate our love and be thankful it wasn’t their turn if you will. Wonderful post RM, thank you.

    • rougedmount says:

      Neds story has impacted me…it’s a sensitive subject..and I’ve thought about him and his son..about the families that lost their children, ever since I read the post. It’s haunting because there is nothing else you could ask a parent, that would hurt as much as losing a child or seeing their child hurting. The only way I have to express my support of their pain, is to virtually send my thoughts and prayers out into the world to them, that I care, even though not present or known.

  3. georgiakevin says:

    What a sad beautiful poem! My sister lost her only child when she was 8. She died suddenly of a heart attack so your post means so much to me. My deepest sympathy goes out to any parent who has lost a child. The second Sunday in December people around the world light candles in memory of children who died too soon. I will light a candle in memory of my beautiful niece who died 28 years ago.

  4. ordinaryphoenix says:

    Beautifully written. I see these parents on the pediatric unit….the hurt in their eyes while their child is so ill is indescribable. I admire your sensitivity and compassion.

    • rougedmount says:

      (thank you for the kind words) the pediatric unit was the place i discovered at a young age, that no matter how capable i am, i am completely unable to hold it together when a child is hurt. the sheer volume of panicked pain i feel makes me useless.

  5. Dawn D says:

    A friend of mine lost a child when my own were still toddlers. I helped arrange the funeral, I helped her choose readings. I *had* to do something, because I felt so bad, knowing it could have been my own child. It was the only way I could help the grieving family at the time.
    The hardest thing I had to do was explain to my 4 year old what had happened, why that baby died, because it was inconceivable for such a young mind to wrap their head around a baby dying. An old person, it was possible to understand why their body would give up. But a baby?
    I still think of that little angel often. I’m one of the few who got to see her in the NICU.
    Thank you for that post.

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