Virginia Tech Parents and the loss of a child

As a "blogger", I feel like I'm supposed to have some sort of comment to make on Monday's massacre at Virginia Tech. But I feel like so much has been said - what can I possibly add to the conversation?

Sixteen years ago I had a son. He died of spinal muscular atrophy, which is like ALS (also known as Lou Gherig's disease) when he was just shy of being seven months old. Such an event is one of those defining moments in life. I remember the morning after he died feeling as if my life had just taken a sharp turn to the left. I distinctly recall standing in front of the built-in bookcases in my bedroom thinking that exact thought - not that my life took a dramatic shift, but specifically that it had taken a sharp turn to the left. It wasn't a political thought - although I have always leaned rather sharply to the left. But as of that moment, my life was no longer following the same path experienced by the majority of parents in today's world.

In a similar sense, the same thing has happened to the parents of the victims of Monday's carnage at VT. In fact, I'd dare say that the survivors are the victims. They are the people left to mourn the loss of beloved children, the loss of dreams, left with chapters filled with promising memories. And now the book has abruptly ended without warning. It's akin to reading the only copy of a novel and turning the page only to find that someone has removed the rest of the book. You never get over the loss of a child. Time is a great healer, but you always, always, remember.

When my son died, I felt robbed. I lost out on so much - watching him crawl, watching his first steps (which due to the nature of his disease, had he lived, would not have occurred anyway). But I always had some peace in knowing that he died in my arms. He had the security of knowing that his mom was there. He didn't die alone. He didn't die a violent death. And this week, I've come to realize that if he did have to die, I think I'm glad he died as an infant. I don't think that I could bear to lose a child who had just started college; a young adult just beginning a promising new chapter. I don't think that I could stand to lose a child in violence; I don't think that I could bear not knowing what had happened to my child.

In the first years following my son's death, I did quite a bit of volunteer work, working first for children in foster care and then for the rights of persons with disabilities. I felt a strong need to ensure that my son's life had an impact on this world. It felt good to know that in a sense, my son impacted more lives with his short little life than some people impact over the course of many years. It's something that is difficult to measure, but I know that literally thousands of lives were made better as a result of my son's life.

I'm a mom again. Perhaps a somewhat over-protective mom. I a have little girl adopted internationally when she was three and a half years old. She just turned eight. I've told her that she literally saved my life. I'm an only child and a single parent. Before my daughter came into my life it was so empty and void of any real happiness. Today I'm lucky. I have the happiest kid on the planet. My daughter's smile is bright enough to light up the universe. Someone once asked me what my goal is in raising her, and I replied, "to stay out of her way." She needs guidance of course, but for her it is generally a minor correction - a tightening of a sail here, lightening up on the rudder there. Rarely do we need to come about - a sailing term for changing tack and heading in a different direction. In fact, when we do come about, its more because of something that I have done or caused than any doings of my daughter.

How will the parents of the students killed on Monday cope? I used to get so tired of people saying things to me like, "How do you do it?" The statement that always bothered me the most was "You're my hero." You do it by putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes the best we can do is just to get out of bed, one foot at a time. We aren't heroes because our children died. Believe me, we don't WANT to be your heroes - in fact if given the choice, most of us would probably just as soon be loathed and still have our kids alive.

One more thing. Just be there for these parents. If you are their friends - and you know who you are out there, be patient with them. Don't expect much. Invite them to your homes. Understand that if you have kids the same age, they may love them - and then again they may not be able to be in the same room, same house, maybe even the same street. Their hearts are broken. Give them time. Be gentle.

Ratty Old Sweaters

I have a ratty old sweater that I heisted from my now ex-husband. It wasn't quite as ratty when I first acquired it. Neither was he, for that matter. In fact, I used a sweater analogy for years to explain why I stayed with him, in a relationship that was decidedly bad by all accounts. As a matter of fact, for many years I was the only person who "knew" why I stayed with him. I described our relationship and him as an old comfy sweater. It was a bit - okay quite ratty and worn out, but I always knew what to expect. Never mind that what I knew to expect was actually quite abusive, both verbally and psychologically.

I started thinking about this today when I picked my sweater up from the cleaners. The sweater is an old v-neck black cashmere sweater. It's stretched out and riddled with holes; some from wear, some from our bunny nibbling away when he sits on my lap. I don't wear it anywhere except here at home - in fact I wear it in place of a robe on a chilly evening lounging about in my jammies, which are sweatpants. It seems I've become the epitome of "not sexy", but at least I'm comfortable. And life is quiet and I don't get yelled at anymore.

The last couple of times when I've taken the sweater in to the cleaners, the owner's wife, an old Greek woman, has lectured me. "The sweater, it is full of holes! Why you clean it?" Then she would shake her head in a mixture of disbelief and what might have been disgust. So this time when I took it in, I told the owner "I just want it cleaned. I don't want any lectures about it. I know it's ratty and full of holes. I sleep in it. So no lectures this time." He took the sweater and started writing out the ticket. He tossed one arm on the sweater aside and shook his head. "It has a lot of holes," he said. I told him that I knew that and reiterated to him "No lectures this time, I mean it! Your wife always lectures me. Maybe you should write 'no lectures' on the ticket."

Today I picked up the sweater. He turned on the rack to spin the clothes about, asking my last name as he approached the "M's". When I was working, I went there often and he knew me. Now a far less frequent customer, I reminded him "I'm McCoy. It's my ratty old sweater," adding "and no lectures." He smiled wanly and pulled the sweater from the rack. "We did the best we could" he said, as if the sweater was a patient that had died during surgery.

What matters today is that I only have one ratty old sweater in my life. I don't get lectured, yelled at, or threatened by it. I'm moving on.