I’m writing to the families who have lost children. Maybe like me, you thought you’d been managing your grief pretty well. Sure there are recurring tough dates and would-have-been (or should-have-been) milestones, like graduations, that you struggle through. But overall, you’ve managed the sadness as well as could be expected. And then Sandy Hook happens. It’s like a knife reopening a wound and exposing the raw pain underneath.
Maybe the strength of your reaction to Sandy Hook surprised you. It did me. When I first read the news, I got the same sick feeling in my stomach I had around 12:30 p.m. on July 26, 2008. God, no. Not innocent, little children.
An onrush of shadows shoved me back into THE moment. We’ve all had that moment. If you’re like me, you choose not to reflect on it. But then some gun-wielding asshole walks into an elementary school. And so here I am. And maybe here you are…remembering the moment when the ground disappeared and the plummet into the parallel universe where bereaved parents live began. Here the “Welcome to the New Normal” sign squeaks overhead and memories sometimes dust up so thick you don’t think you’ll be able to breathe again.
The moment of the fall is different for each of us, but the end result is the same. One second your child is alive; the next second the phone rings, you hear a knock on the door, or you watch your child’s last breath slip away. The earth shakes fiercely and you topple into the wide chasm that is the gateway to the New Normal. In Sandy Hook’s case, a cluster of families was thrust violently into our sad world. I grieve for their babies, their anguish, their lost naivete, the struggles that are yet to come that they cannot fathom yet. It’s so damned unfair. But then, the death of a child always is.
Remember life on the other side of the New Normal, when your child’s death was your worst fear? Remember the days when you would hear a sad story about a grieving family and you’d say things like “I can’t imagine…”
I remember. I also remember worrying about my child’s safety after hearing horrific stories of loss, like the mother who was unable to rescue her daughter from a crushed vehicle but would forever hear the girl’s screams as she burned to death. I would read these stories then hug my children close. It didn’t take long, though, before I’d be back to my routine – picking out clothes for school, making breakfast, thinking about the to do list that needed my attention – without another thought for the family whose life had been altered. I’d read about killings, drownings, drunk driving accidents and feel sorry for the families who lost children. I’d be grateful it wasn’t my child. Then it was. Then it was my family driving down the street with an empty car seat in back wondering how all the people we saw scurrying about their business could not know the world had changed.
I asked a psychologist friend, what’s going on here? I keep crying. I can’t sleep. I’m obsessed with hearing every detail about each of the Sandy Hook children. I feel the need to imprint their name on my soul so that they’re never forgotten. Charlotte, Daniel, Olivia, Josephine, Ana, Dylan, Madeline, Catherine, Chase, Jesse, James, Grace, Emilie, Jack, Noah, Caroline, Jessica, Avielle, Benjamin, and Allison.
She told me that my reaction to the Sandy Hook tragedy is a natural part of the grief continuum. Parents who have buried a child may be affected on a deeper, more personal level. Maybe you see something of your own child in the victims or your own circumstances in this situation. We, in the bereaved parents club, have the capacity for profound insight and profound empathy for the Sandy Hook families. That was reflected in recent media stories in which family and community members of similarly violent events shared their reactions.
In a Yahoo news story, a resident of Dunblane Scotland, where a man shot 16 kids in a gymnasium, said “a dark cloud came over us” when she heard the news. ” The heaviness, the sorrow. Just disbelief and shock. Our hearts go out to the people of Newtown. It’s still very painful and when something happens elsewhere it sort of bubbles up to the surface.”
Tom Mauser, whose son died in the Columbine shootings told the Denver Post that he had a hard time digesting the news. “I was just too shattered,” he said. “And I can’t say that it was so much directly Columbine, that I was thinking of that day. It was just, ‘Oh my God, it’s come to this.’ ”
Some people might understand that you are grieving with the Sandy Hook families and that the tragedy might be amplifying that grief. However, it’s also possible you’ll encounter individuals who do not understand your reactions to the tragedy and perhaps your need to talk about the children who died and your own. Some individuals might suggest you’re minimizing Sandy Hook’s horror and grief by mentioning your child, that the Sandy Hook situation is much worse than yours, or that you’re making this tragedy about you.
My psychologist friend tells me this kind of reaction is normal too. They’re circling the wagons, she explained.
As a society, we need to explain why bad things happen even if there is no good explanation. Imagine the response if parents had to acknowledge that their child could die at any moment and there was nothing they could do about it. That every precaution, every bit of hovering might not matter. Accidents happen. Sickness happens. Random acts of nonsensical violence happen. I just read today about a six-year-old boy, deeply loved by his family, who died from complications of strep throat. I’ll say it again – It’s so damned unfair.
The Sandy Hook case showed our vulnerability in the most awful way. But we’re already trying to find an explanation that will give us back our sense of control. Why Sandy Hook? Why did the shooter drive five miles and not stop at another school? What was the connection? Is it because the shooter was mentally ill? Is it because guns are too accessible? Did the school have adequate security? Was he raised poorly?
Often the blame is placed on parents or the child who dies. Your child killed himself, so you must have been a bad mother. Your child was abducted and killed, so you must not have been watching her close enough. Your child ran in front of a car, so he must not have been well behaved. You child was shot, so he must have been hanging out with the wrong people.
I know I’ve placed blame for my son’s death – on myself, on others. And I have been blamed. However, in four years, I’ve learned to stop asking why or what could have been done differently. It’s exhausting to ask questions that have no answers.
We as a society place blame and we often place value judgments on death. Even bereaved parents do it. I know I have. Maybe it make us feel better to compare our situation with one that seems worse. We rank types of death on a scale from bad to worst and sometimes our compassion or patience for the grieving process is moderated by the value we place on the death. Suicide – the person didn’t want to live. Awful but they had problems. Babies – it wasn’t even a real person yet. Can you really be that sad over a being you never got to know. Murder, sure that’s bad but only if it’s random. Most likely the person was a trouble maker and involved with drugs. Haven’t we heard these statements – some spoken, others implied. The heavy-handed judgement. The quips about natural selection. Even within the bereaved community, I’ve seen examples of competitive grief. I’m sadder than you are. My circumstances are worse.
Do we really have to go there? Can’t we just open our minds and our hearts to the gut-wrenching sorrow shared by all?
Grief is grief is grief, my friend said. But she also points out that we grieve in different ways. Harsh judgement can stem from this too. Some individuals need to talk. Others don’t. Some become more devout. Others less. Some build shrines. Others give everything away.
When blame and judgement are removed, though, we remain the bereaved. We are the homes where little shoes are packed in boxes, where pictures hang on the wall but the face never ages, where visits to the cemetery may be part of a biweekly routine. We are the homes where one Christmas stocking may always hang empty, where remaining brothers and sisters may occasionally burst into tears and in a quivering, thick voice tell us they don’t want to grow up, where family gatherings are one seat short. We are the bereaved. The unwilling residents of the New Normal, a place with a perpetually growing population. Yes, our circumstances may be different but what we share is something that no one outside the realm of the New Normal can fully understand or appreciate.
Families of Sandy Hook, I am terribly sorry for your loss. I am terribly, terribly sorry. It’s so damned unfair.
Hey Jude 