The first piece of writing I ever had published was a lengthy poem about my 2-year-old daughter. I was inspired to write it because, at the early age of two, Sam asked me where her daddy lived; this question came shortly after my husband and I had finalized our divorce. I enjoyed writing about my experience of being a single mom to this beautiful and ridiculously inquisitive daughter, but it was also cathartic to summarize our life adventures into a fun and playful poem.
Fast forward 25 years, and I once again feel compelled to get my thoughts and observations down on paper. Sixteen months ago, Samantha died suddenly at the age of 26. She had just started her dream job in the hospitality industry two days prior. My ex-husband had arrived home to find Sam lying still on her bed. Immediately after calling 911, it didn’t take him long to conclude that our daughter had been gone for a while.
I have spent many sleepless nights thinking about Samantha, reflecting on the grief one feels after losing a child. My favorite quote when I was raising my kids was from writer Elizabeth Stone, “Making the decision to have a child—it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your
body.”
And with each pregnancy, I quickly found that observation to be true. Within six years, I had three little people to share my life with, and I was grateful for each of these blessings. I could not have imagined losing one of them, and even if I had feared it, what one imagines and what one lives through are two totally different things.
Following Sam’s death, I immersed myself in reading about grief; fascinated with stories of the afterlife and triumphs of mothers and fathers who had been through what I was going through and felt brave enough to write about it. I surrounded myself with countless quotes and depictions about the enormous weight that is carried by those of us who have lost children. Much of what has been written is accurate while other shared observations . . . well, not so much. I feel the need to join the other parents grieving the loss of their sons and daughters by sharing some insights of mine as well.
Through the years, I have heard so many say that we lose a piece of ourselves when someone we love dies. After experiencing the sudden death of my dad when I was 15, and more recently the loss of my mom, I can honestly say that through each of their deaths, as devastating as they were, I did not feel that I lost a piece of myself. Not until the passing of Samantha, did I delve into the gut-wrenching pain a parent feels when they lose a child. Through this pain, I have not felt like I have lost a part of myself at all. In many ways, I think that would have been easier.
I think it has been so hard for me because Samantha was uniquely and wonderfully her own person. To be honest, I’m not sure I saw myself in her at all. Not only was she physically beautiful, but her creative mind, sense of adventure, and hilarious wit made her unforgettable to those who knew her. Since she has been gone, I miss her, I grieve for her, and I question our Father in Heaven on why He allowed her to be taken from us so early. When I say us, I include her many siblings, cousins, friends, aunts, uncles, and all the people she would have encountered throughout her life. I am certain she would have made an enormous impact on so many, and the reality that she will never have that opportunity breaks my heart.
How does a grieving mother reconcile these things? Several years ago, a friend of my sister’s lost her daughter Jamie, who was just 18 years old. Being extremely faithful, the parents sought guidance from one of their local priests. Kathy, Jamie’s mom, had shared with the priest that she couldn’t get over the fact that her daughter would never get married, more specifically, that she would never see her daughter in a wedding dress. The priest wisely and succinctly said, “Jamie was never going to wear a wedding dress, it was never going to be.” Somehow, that response brings me some comfort even though I find myself dwelling on what Sam might’ve been destined for if she were still here.
Like most of us who have carried this cross, I have to balance how much I allow thoughts of Sam into my daily life—either through conversations, displayed photographs around the house, or quiet moments of profound sadness. I hate to admit it, but after all this time, I cannot look at pictures of Sam for more than a second without feeling sad. But when I do, I get stuck on the idea that she is frozen in time with me, her father, her siblings, but most of all in the photos of her with my nieces’ children that she so enjoyed being around. It is in those photographs that it hits me the hardest. In the 16 months since Sam has been gone, those babies have changed drastically. And Sam, well, she has and will forever stay the same.
I suppose the unforeseen impact that Samantha has on those closest to her is in her death. We have become people we never would have been. Have we become stronger, more resilient, more reliant on God, or have we become angry, despondent, and cynical? I hope I have become a better person in the midst of this tragedy. Because as much as I would love to go back and have just one more day with my firstborn, I wouldn’t do that if it meant I’d have to sacrifice the days I have to look forward to, spent around those who are still here.
