The Infinite Fountain of Love and Loss flows unceasingly into the pool of memory and sorrow. On December 28, 2013, the most dreaded tragedy every parent fears, the death of a child, happened to us. Our beloved 24 year old son, Jake died suddenly, unexpectedly, and unnecessarily. This is my public journal of thoughts, feelings, observations, rantings, ramblings, and other therapeutic outlets. It began as a series of Facebook posts whereupon many folks encouraged me to branch out and create a blog. So I did.
We are now on an unimagined journey through this labyrinth of grief and longing. There are no maps, no compass, no guide books to help us navigate the twists and turns of the road that stretches out ahead of us. Many have gone before us, and some of their thoughts and words can be found in the links here to articles and other sites. But ultimately, each of us has to make this passage ourselves, making it up as we go.
If you feel so inclined, please ‘follow’ us and share this with someone who might be on a similar voyage. Perhaps some of the landmarks will be familiar. It is a ghastly and ghostly landscape, but not entirely without hope, this backwards and upside down world we now inhabit. If you are so moved, share your story, your thoughts, your questions, your answers. We strive every day to find the light behind the darkness of this inexplicable tragedy. To find a way to live with the huge hole in our hearts that Jake left behind. He would want nothing less.
I’m right there on this journey as well….9 months in. I am so sorry.
I am new to this journey, 2 months since my son passed. I hope we can help each other heal in our journey in this world of grief.
I am only one day ahead of you on this road. We got the call on December 28th. Thank you for finding us here, and I truly hope we can be of some comfort to you in this unimagined trial. Wishing you peace.
I am also a bereaved parent. I lost a daughter five years ago. Your blog is very touching and a wonderful way to find comfort and connect with others along the same journey. Blessings to you.
I found your blog through “Grieving Dads”
First off, I am so very sorry for your loss. We’re a little over 2 years out from losing our 11 year old son. Personally, I find comfort in reading the blogs of other bereaved parents. Thank you for writing and for pouring your heart so that we all may see.
Kevin- Thank you so much for visiting and commenting. I am humbled that you find some comfort in these words, that is one of the reasons I started this blog. The other is to help me process my feelings as they develop and mutate. I am heartbroken for your loss, there are no words that can convey the hurricane of emotions that buffet us all. I think you have hit on a great analogy with your car. Yes it is just like that, high center, spinning wheels, engine going full bore and moving nowhere. I wish you and your family as much peace as you can find. Be well, and come back whenever you like.
I am acquainted with heartache and anguish from the loss of a child. I am so sorry that you, too, know this kind of pain. I hope you and your family will have peace along th e way and that you will continue to write. It really does help. Blessings from Brandon’s Mom
24 years after:
The hardest task for the bereaved parent:
Rising up from bed in the morning.
It is not a fight with lethargy, nor a battle
Of the will.
If not for the pain,
It would be zen,
For it is an emptying of all desire.
But for one: memory.
Dennis- thank you for this. I tried to formulate a response, but your words are so eloquent, there is nothing to add. Yes, memory. That is all we have left.
I’m on the same journey too. Our baby died. Although he only lived for 41 weeks inside me I had my lifetime with him planned and now lost. You write so beautifully about Jake and life now. I have been writing our story of love, loss and salty tears in http://www.cakesforconor.com
I am truly sorry for your loss. There are no words of comfort I can offer, other than I am walking with you. Your blog is beautiful, so moving. Keep writing, visit us when you can. I wish you whatever windows of peace you can find.