Dear Sugar,
1. It’s taken me many weeks to compose this letter and even still, I can’t do it right.
The only way I can get it out is to make a list instead of write a letter. This is a hard subject and a list helps me contain it. You may change it to a regular letter if you wish to should you choose to publish it.
2. I don’t have a definite question for you. I’m a sad, angry man whose son died. I want him back. That’s all I ask for and it’s not a question.
3. I will start over from the beginning. I’m a 58 year-old man. Nearly four years ago, a drunk driver killed my son. The man was so inebriated he drove through a red light and hit my son at full speed. The dear boy I loved more than life itself was dead before the paramedics even got to him. He was twenty-two, my only child.
4. I’m a father while not being a father. Most days it feels like my grief is going to kill me, or maybe it already has. I’m a living dead dad.
5. Your column has helped me go on. I can’t explain it, Sugar, but it’s true. My life has been a lot different from yours, but your big heart moves me. No matter what you’re writing about, even if the particular situation has nothing to do with my life, your words feel sacred to me. They hold me up. I have faith in my version of God and I pray every day and the way I feel when I’m in my deepest prayer is the way I feel when I read your words. I’ve never told you this because I’m not the type to write comments on web sites or send fan notes, but I’d like to say it now, in hopes that even if you opt not to publish this, you’ll read it and receive my gratitude for the comfort you’ve given me.
6. I see a psychologist regularly and I’m not clinically depressed or on medication.
7. Suicide has occurred to me (this is what initially prompted me to make an appointment with my psychologist). Given the circumstance, ending my life is a reasonable thought, but I can’t do it because it would be a betrayal of my values and also of the values I instilled in my son.
8. I have good friends who are supportive of me, my brother and sister-in-law and two nieces are a loving and attentive family to me, and even my ex-wife and I have become close friends again since our son’s death—we’d been cold to one another since our divorce when our son was 15.
9. In addition, I have a rewarding job, good health, and a girlfriend whom I love and respect.
10. In short, I’m going on with things in a way that makes it appear like I’m adjusting to life without my son, but the fact is I’m living a private hell. Sometimes the pain is so great I simply lie in my bed and wail.
11. I can’t stop thinking about my son. About the things he would be doing now if he were alive and also the things I did with him when he was young, my good memories of him, my wish to go back in time and either relive happy memories or alter those that are less happy.
12. One thing I would change is when, at 17, my son informed me he was gay. I didn’t quite believe him or understand, so I inquired in a negative tone: but how can you not like girls? I quickly came to embrace him for who he was, but I regret my initial reaction to his homosexuality and I never apologized to him for it. I believe he knew I loved him. I believe he knew I wanted him to be happy, no matter what path his happiness might take. But Sugar, for this and other things, I am tormented anyway.
13. I hate the man who killed my son. For his crime, he was incarcerated 18 months, then released. He wrote me a letter of apology, but I ripped it into pieces and threw it in the garbage after barely scanning it.
14. My son’s former boyfriend has stayed in touch with my ex-wife and me and we care for him a great deal. Recently, he invited us to a party, where he informed us we would meet his new boyfriend—his first serious one since our son. We both lied and said we had other engagements, but the real reason we declined is that neither one of us could bear meeting his new partner.
15. I fear you will choose not to answer my letter because you haven’t lost a child.
16. I fear if you choose to answer my letter people will make critical comments about you at the end of your column, saying you don’t have the right to speak to this matter because you have not lost a child.
17. I pray you will never lose a child.
18. I will understand if you choose not to answer my letter. Most people, kind as they are, don’t know what to say to me so why should you? I certainly didn’t know what to say to people such as me before my son died, so I don’t blame others for their discomfort.
19. I’m writing to you because the way you’ve written about your grief over your mother dying so young has been meaningful to me. I even printed out one of your columns and read it to my psychologist because it had such an impact on me. I’m convinced that if anyone can shed light into my dark hell, it will be you.
20. What can you say to me?
21. How do I go on?
22. How do I become human again?
Signed,
Living Dead Dad
Dear Living Dead Dad,
1. I don’t know how you go on without your son, sweet pea. I only know that you do. And you have. And you will.
2. Your shattering sorrowlight of a letter is proof of that.
3. You don’t need me to tell you how to be human again. You are there, in all of your humanity, shining unimpeachably before every person reading these words right now.
4. I am so sorry for your loss. I am so sorry for your loss. Iamsosorryforyourloss.
5. You could stitch together a quilt with all the times that that has been and will be said to you. You could make a river of consolation words. But they won’t bring your son back. They won’t keep that man from getting into his car and careening through that red light at the precise moment your son was in his path.
6. You’ll never get that.
7. I hope you remember that when you peel back the rage and you peel back the idle thoughts of suicide and you peel back all the things you imagined your son would be but wasn’t and you peel back the man who got into the car and drove when he shouldn’t have and you peel back the man who the man your son loved now loves and you peel back all the good times you had and you peel back all the things you wish you’d done differently, at the center of that there is your pure father love that is stronger than anything.
8. No one can touch that love or alter it or take it away from you. Your love for your son belongs only to you. It will live in you until the day you die.
9. Small things such as this have saved me: how much I love my mother—even after all these years. How powerfully I carry her within me. My grief is tremendous but my love is bigger. So is yours. You are not grieving your son’s death because his death was ugly and unfair. You’re grieving it because you loved him truly. The beauty in that is greater than the bitterness of his death.
10. Allowing such small things into your consciousness will not keep you from your suffering, but it will help you survive the next day.
11. I keep imagining you lying on your bed and wailing. I keep thinking that hard as it is to do it’s time for you to go silent and lift your head from the bed and listen to what’s there in the wake of your wail.
12. It’s your life. The one you must make in the obliterated place that’s now your world, where everything you used to be is simultaneously erased and omnipresent, where you are forevermore a living dead dad.
13. Your boy is dead, but he will continue to live within you. Your love and grief will be unending, but it will also shift in shape. There are things about your son’s life and your own that you can’t understand now. There are things you will understand in one year, and in ten years, and twenty.
14. The word obliterate comes from the Latin obliterare. Ob means against; literare means letter or script. A literal translation is being against the letters. It was impossible for you to write me a letter, so you made me a list instead. It is impossible for you to go on as you were before, so you must go on as you never have.
15. It’s wrong that this is required of you. It’s wrong that your son died. It will always be wrong.
16. The obliterated place is equal parts destruction and creation. The obliterated place is pitch black and bright light. It is water and parched earth. It is mud and it is manna. The real work of deep grief is making a home there.
17. You have the power to withstand this sorrow. We all do, though we all claim not to. We say, “I couldn’t go on,” instead of saying we hope we won’t have to. That’s what you’re saying in your letter to me, Living Dead Dad. You’ve made it so fucking long without your sweet boy and now you can’t take it anymore. But you can. You must.
18. More will be revealed. Your son hasn’t yet taught you everything he has to teach you. He taught you how to love like you’ve never loved before. He taught you how to suffer like you’ve never suffered before. Perhaps the next thing he has to teach you is acceptance. And the thing after that, forgiveness.
19. Forgiveness bellows from the bottom of the canoe. There are doubts, dangers, unfathomable travesties. There are stories you’ll learn if you’re strong enough to travel there. One of them might cure you.
20. When my son was six he said, “We don’t know how many years we have for our lives. People die at all ages.” He said it without anguish or remorse, without fear or desire. It has been healing to me to accept in a very simple way that my mother’s life was 45 years long, that there was nothing beyond that. There was only my expectation that there would be—my mother at 89, my mother at 63, my mother at 46. Those things don’t exist. They never did.
21. Think: my son’s life was 22 years long. Breathe in.
22. Think: my son’s life was 22 years long. Breathe out.
23. There is no 23.
24. You go on by doing the best you can, you go on by being generous, you go on by being true, you go on by offering comfort to others who can’t go on, you go on by allowing the unbearable days to pass and allowing the pleasure in other days, you go on by finding a channel for your love and another for your rage.
25. Letting go of expectation when it comes to one’s children is close to impossible. The entire premise of our love for them has to do with creating and fostering and nurturing people who will outlive us. To us, they are not so much who they are as who they will become.
26. The entire premise of your healing demands that you do let go of expectation. You must come to understand and accept that your son will always be only the man he actually was: the 22 year-old who made it as far as that red light. The one who loved you deeply. The one who long ago forgave you for asking why he didn’t like girls. The one who would want you to welcome his boyfriend’s new boyfriend into your life. The one who would want you to find joy and peace. The one who would want you to be the man he didn’t get to be.
27. To be anything else dishonors him.
28. The kindest and most meaningful thing anyone ever says to me is: your mother would be proud of you. Finding a way in my grief to become the woman who my mother raised me to be is the most important way I have honored my mother. It has been the greatest salve to my sorrow. The strange and painful truth is that I’m a better person because I lost my mom young. When you say you experience my writing as sacred what you are touching is the divine place within me that is my mother. Sugar is the temple I built in my obliterated place. I’d give it all back in a snap, but the fact is, my grief taught me things. It showed me shades and hues I couldn’t have otherwise seen. It required me to suffer. It compelled me to reach.
29. Your grief has taught you too, Living Dead Dad. Your son was your greatest gift in his life and he is your greatest gift in his death too. Receive it. Let your dead boy be your most profound revelation. Create something of him.
30. Make it beautiful.
Yours,
Sugar
131 responses
Every week you teach me so much, Sugar. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
This post is the most exquisite form of the compassion in human nature that I have ever set eyes on. It is a great comfort to me in mourning my own loss. My level of respect and pure admiration for you and your writing has, amazingly enough, gone up a notch higher than the very top. Thank you.
Love is bigger than grief, and grief honours love.
Thank you, Sugar.
There’s yet another way to think of it, grieving dad. What about your own father? If you had died, he would be suffering in the same way you are, because he wanted you to be thriving and finding life meaningful. If your son had lost a family member, wouldn’t you want him to go on living and working to make meaning of his life? Your dad wants the same for you. Be a son who manages to find the strength to honor the good things you life has yet to offer, as you would wish your own son to do. Blessings to both you and Sugar.
This made me cry. Thank you.
#7…..I can’t say anymore than #7. This is why I love you, sweet pea.
To this father, I am so, so sorry. My dad ,too, is feeling a small degree of what you feel. I was hit by a drunk driver 3.5 years ago. I was 23. Except he died and I did not (although I almost did). But my dad knew there had been an accident. I hadn’t arrived home when he knew I should have, and hospitals and police could only say, “yes, there was a casualty” but not whether it was male or female. I’m his little girl, and for 3 hours on that dark, cold, November night, he truly believed I was dead. And a part of him died. Even though I lived, I don’t think that piece of him will ever be revived. He too, wails and cries. He has nightmares. I experience his pain and so I might know a little bit of yours. I am so, so sorry.
“16. The obliterated place is equal parts destruction and creation. The obliterated place is pitch black and bright light. It is water and parched earth. It is mud and it is manna. The real work of deep grief is making a home there.”
You are describing a place for when it feels like there is nowhere to go. I am now imagining all who you might have saved, who might find the strength to stop and listen to what’s in that wake, becaused your words convinced them that such a place is real.
Six years ago, my only child was killed in a motorcycle accident. She was 19 years old. There are still days (and will always be days) where I know I simply cannot bear it for one more second. And then, somehow, how do. Compassion like yours, Sugar, while exceedingly rare, does exist in the world and is a huge part of what makes that possible.
Thank you.
Thanks Sugar, your words are beautiful and heartfelt, tender and true.
Today, I will say two prayers — one for this Dad in agony and the other in thanksgiving that he AND we have you to write to, Sugar.
Number 31. Forgive yourself for initial reaction when son told you about his homosexuality.
Beautiful. Your mother would be proud of you, Sugar.
I shared that one on Facebook – first time ever. Sugar, you may have been speaking to Living Dead Dad, but you also spoke to anyone who’s ever experienced grief. Just wow.
Living Dead Dad, I can only imagine the level of grief you are experiencing though you’ve explained it in a way that makes me weep for you. I’m so sorry for your loss. <3
Sugar, this piece of your remarkable wisdom and compassion–“More will be revealed. Your son hasn’t yet taught you everything he has to teach you”–rings a long note. It could vibrate forever. I personally have no religion, but I do have a deep faith, and from that center of my life I believe Dear Living Dead Dad’s son completed his work here and yet continues to live through the lessons to come. His loving, grieving father has more work of his own to do, which will indeed be revealed by and through his suffering. So perhaps there is no separation. Perhaps there is only (and always) change. I hope this father will feel his son’s spirit within him for the rest of his life, and that it will bring him comfort.
Dear Living Dead Dad,
I am a gay man, 25. I came out to my parents at 15, so two years before your son did. There is no non-awkward way to come out to your parents, even if you are confident in yourself and even if you are confident, as I was, and as I’m sure your son was too, that your parents will love and accept and support you. I know that your son knew that, because your love for him shines out from every line on this page. One wrong word will not outweigh 22 years of loving. Forgive yourself.
There are always things we regret. This past Christmas, I had every intention of surprising my great aunt by showing up at her apartment with a Christmas tree, and helping her to decorate. She was too old to do much herself. For no good reason, I never got around to it. She died on January 17th.
The cases are not comparable; my great aunt was 82; she had lived a long life. But I am still kicking myself for this one small gesture, that would have been so incredibly easy to do, and that I didn’t. We are fragile, imperfect creatures. We do things that we regret; or don’t do things, and regret not doing them. We love imperfectly, and tremendously. And yet this tremendous, imperfect love will have to do.
Your letter moved me to tears. I don’t know you, and didn’t know your son. But I am tremendously grateful that he had such a loving dad. And it made me tremendously grateful that I have such a loving dad, too.
Forgive yourself.
and thank you bennet, your letter moved me to tears. maybe you didn’t go to your great aunts house just so you could share this now. thanks.
Living Dead Dad,
Me too (10 years on June 18).
1) There are a lot of us out here.
2) I love you. Many people love you.
3) It never goes away. It’s been 10 years and I’m crying right now for both of us. It never goes away. I have a 17yo who just graduated and is going into the Marines in two weeks: I’m terrified. It never goes away.
This is the most beautiful piece of writing I have ever read on grief… it is not just beautiful because of Sugar’s response, though that is beautiful, too. Combined with the bravery and honestly of Dad’s letter this piece is a song trying to find a solution to one of our most elemental human experiences. I can’t even put into any more words how much these two voices and this topic have resonated with me today. Thank you Sugar. Thank you Dad.
*sits silently hugging Living Dead Dad*
I dreamed last night I was waiting for the grandparents who raised me in my childhood home. It was dark and empty and they had gone on a trip to Laughlin for a long weekend– but I’d been waiting for six weeks. When I woke I gently told my dreamself that my grandparents had been gone for nearly 20 years, that they were never coming home for me, but the pain of this realization was still fierce and as real as when I first lost them.
Thank you, Sugar for reminding us all that grief is a shapeshifter and a constant, but only because it is the price of carrying the people we loved with us for the rest of our lives. Thank you, Sugar for reminding us that it is a price worth paying. Thank you, Sugar for being Sugar. We needed you.
Wow. Just wow. No wonder you were taking a walk and crying so hard a neighbor asked if you were OK. I am stunned at how much you are able to feel, Sugar. As painful as that can be, it is a gift. Blessings on your dear head.
And for the beautiful spirit who wrote this, I send the emptiness of the bottom of the out breath and the renewal of life at the turn when the breath comes back in.
love,
Maddy
Dear Living Dead Dad:
I love you. I am so glad you wrote this list.
My brother died after getting in a car with an intoxicated driver. He was seventeen and the light of the life of everyone who met him.
My mother became like you are. Of course she did. Though she had two surviving children, she could not see anything else. Her life was lived between wails, just waiting for the next one. She chose a slow suicide herself, and now I live without my brother *and* without my mother. And this pain.
Please keep trying. Please. Oh, you matter so enormously, even when it feels like nothing does. Your son matters, and you. And your story.
I love you.
I had two of my triplets die soon after birth and I understand what the death of a child does to you. I’m 14 years down the road from my loss and the biggest pieces I can say to you are that your son will always be a part of, even if there are eventually days you don’t think about him. You are not doing him a disservice if you forget about him for a few hours, a few days, heck even a few months at a time. You are moving on with your life and that’s what you should do.
Read David’s Story from My Grandfather’s Blessings by Rachel Naomi Remen. And remember that you *get* to get bigger than this giant hole in your heart, in your life. And you will get bigger. Much love to you.
Sugar, amazing response, as usual. Moving and true.
Living Dead Dad – I am sharing with you a quote from my favorite musician, Joanna Newsom. While I have not experienced a loss as great as yours (and my heart breaks for you, dear man, and bless you for loving so much), it has brought me comfort in dark times:
“The thing that I was experiencing and dwelling on the entire time is that there are so many things that are not OK and that will never be OK again…But there’s also so many things that are OK and good that sometimes it makes you crumple over with being alive. We are allowed such an insane depth of beauty and enjoyment in this lifetime. It’s what my dad talks about sometimes. He says the only way that he knows there’s a God is that there’s so much gratuitous joy in this life. And that’s his only proof. There’s so many joys that do not assist in the propagation of the race or self-preservation. There’s no point whatsoever. They are so excessively, mind-bogglingly joy-producing that they distract from the very functions that are supposed to promote human life. They can leave you stupefied, monastic, not productive in any way, shape or form. And those joys are there and they are unflagging and they are ever-growing. And still there are these things that you will never be able to feel OK about–unbearably awful, sad, ugly, unfair things.â€
I hope you will be okay.
18. More will be revealed. Your son hasn’t yet taught you everything he has to teach you. He taught you how to love like you’ve never loved before. He taught you how to suffer like you’ve never suffered before. Perhaps the next thing he has to teach you is acceptance. And the thing after that, forgiveness.
This, i believe is relevant for every experience in life: death, divorce, happiness and success.
Wow…I was just introduced to you, Sugar, yesterday by a dear friend. I know that there is a reason that this happened, and today’s article is it. I am a living dead mommy, having lost her dear 4.5 year old son to Cystic Fibrosis after weathering 13 months in Pediatric Intensive Care with him, across three states, before he passed. It has been sheer torture. I got through the first two years by “faking it to make it”. I have found that over the last few months, I can not cope. I am in therapy and am on medication, but no amount of psychotropics can take my hurt away. I aprpeciate your thoughtful response to living dead dad’s letter…and I too, like others have commented, want him to know that there are so very many of us out there. So many that the sheer number is almost too much to bear in and of itself. To know that so many suffer in similar ways that I do…and I wouldn’t wish my suffering on anyone. Or maybe I would. Because maybe, just maybe, my suffering is directly proportionate to the love I had for my son…my hurt has no limits, because my love had no limits. I have regrets like most people, but the one thing I do not regret, and that I know makes it possible to try to conintue living, is that I surrendered myself, wholly and completely, to the process of caring for my son when he fell ill. Nothing mattered except him. My husband and I were by his side every moment of those long, arduous, soul crushing 13 months. Our love for him was all that mattered. We lost our jobs, got moved out of state for care, lost a car, lost a house, went bankrupt. And I would do it all again to be able to know that I surrendered myself fully to my love for Finnegan and being his mom. I have founded a non profit in his honor, to help other families fighting CF to be able to surrender more fully. It’s a step. Though the road is long and frought with landmines and other difficulties, I trudge on…my son fought so hard for life that I can’t imagine not fighting too.
Dear Sugar,
I noticed Living Dead Dad’s list comprised 22 points, the number of years in his son’s life. Does your choice of listing 30 points in your response have some hidden meaning that I can’t figure out?
“My grief is tremendous but my love is bigger.”
Sugar, I lost my mom at the end of May, and this statement just saved me years of therapy bills. I know you wrote it for Living Dead Dad but you wrote it for me too. Thank you.
We sit with and for you, Living Dead Dad.
1. I am sobbing as I write this, triggering my asthma, wondering why am I having these big feelings? I regularly have big feelings when I read Sugar’s responses, but not to this degree.
2. Then I remember that my wife and I lost our unborn daughter 18 months ago. A child so wanted and desired, hoped for, worked for and prepared for – but with a 100% fatal condition that required us to make the heartbreaking decision to end the pregnancy.
3. And then I remember that I had to function and to work and to take care of my heartbroken wife and that I shut the door on my grief.
4. I have not felt this alive since Dec 3, 2009. This despite the birth of our very much healthy and vibrant daughter in March of this year.
5. Dad – you are alive. You are feeling every feeling you are supposed to. The option you chose is better than mine. You are human – so very human – you didn’t stop feeling human, you just started feeling different.
6. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANKYOU THANKYOUTHANKYOUthankyouthankyou
7. I am leaving work now to start my day over.
Living Dead Dad, do not let that drunk driver kill another person — you. Think of what your son would want; it’s probably a lot like what you wanted for him. And though it will never bring him back, perhaps you might mentor the parents of gay youths who are having a hard time coming to terms? I know that even getting through the day is hard, but hopefully Sugar brought a little light, as she always does. Thanks to you both, for writing and being.
Can anyone please point to which article this dear Dad is referring to in his #19? My best guess is “#67 – The Black Arc of It” but I wanted to be sure.
I have a friend who lost her mother and know Sugar’s words would probably comfort her. I’ve read every single column Sugar has put out, but just can’t quite tell which one he is talking about that so profoundly affected him. Thanks!
It was like the misery felt by an old man
who has lived to see his son’s body
swing on the gallows. He begins to keen
and weep for his boy, watching the raven
gloat where he hangs: he can be of no help.
The wisdom of old age is worthless to him.
Morning after morning, he wakes to remember
that his child is gone; he has no interest
in living on until another heir
is born in the hall, now that his first-born
has entered death’s dominion forever.
He gazes sorrowfully at his son’s dwelling,,
the banquet hall bereft of all delight,
the windswept hearthstone; the horsemen are sleeping,
the warriors under ground; what was is no more.
No tunes from the harp, no cheer raised in the yard.
Alone with his longing, he lies down on his bed
and sings a lament; everything seems too large,
the steadings and the fields.
Beowulf, ll. 2444-2462
translation by Seamus Heaney
It is a beautiful and horrible thing to be human. How lucky we are to feel this depth of love, this depth of compassion. We are at our best when we are courageous enough to help each other.
Dear Dad (you will *always* be Dad),
I lost my 22 year old nephew in a car accident 6 years ago. Everyone in my family still thinks about him. Cries because they miss him at times. I have written a short story about him as part of my way of honoring him/coming to terms with his death. He continues to teach me how to live, love, and accept the world around me because of the brevity of his existence.
I’m not asking you to forget him–you won’t be able to anyway. He is a part of you. Grieve when you need to. It is okay.
But when you can, step away from that grief and notice what is around you. You are alive. You breathe. You think. You feel. You remember.
You don’t need to become human again–you ARE human.
*Much love and compassion*
-Corinne
Just beautiful, Sugar. I cried while reading this too.
Thank you for plumbing into the depths of your own grief to write this for us all. Someday I hope you’ll write about your experience doing this writing.
Another beautiful column. I am continuously amazed at the truth and wisdom Sugar finds.
A great book that may also help is “Forgive for Good” by Dr. Fred Luskin of the Stanford Forgiveness Project. They have worked with people who have suffered loss and grief from all over the world. I found it to be a straight forward and powerful book.
The pain and the beauty of this letter and the response is almost too much to take in.
Living Dead Dad, the world should be filled with dads of your caliber.
Sugar, the world should be filled with the generous compassion you possess.
Everyone before me has said the deep profound beautiful things. I have 2 practical things to say about grieving, having lost both my parents when I was 27.
1. Suicidal wishes are simply the wish for some thing to end. I think you want your pain to stop.
2. You need to take care of yourself. Find something that gives you pleasure or happiness, however small it is: a walk in a park, a bike ride, a kitchen spice. Do it. Find another thing. Do it. Make a list of those things. Do them. At least one a day. This is not betrayal. It is how you become whole again, and honor your life and his.
Thank you for your courage to write. Look what community you have created.
This is simply the most beautiful and compassionate thing I have ever read. I am moved beyond words.
“There is no 23.” That made me lose it.
I’m am constantly in fear of losing those who I love. Thank you, Sugar, for writing this. Because I know it will happen eventually. And I know that I will always carry these words to help me through it.
Living Dead Dad, you are in my prayers. And, even though I don’t know who you are, you have my love.
I love you Sugar. For how brave and generous you are. And for how you help me see new parts of myself every time I read you, even if the story doesn’t initially seem like it’s mine.
Living Dead Dad, you are lovely. I wish for you more and more moments of peace. You have a tremendous beauty, I hope you let it shine.
I am floored by every aspect of this letter. The mother of the man I love passed away this morning, and since then I’ve cried and wondered if there will ever be anything I can say to him to make him hurt less. There won’t be. But I will show him this letter when he’s ready.
Please, Living Dead Dad, please look up Sobonfu Some, http://www.sobonfu.com, and see about attending one of her Grief Rituals. Sugar’s words, as always, are so heartfelt and blessed. I want to put out there, for us all in the modern world, that we need to grieve in community. Consciously, intentionally. I don’t want to sound preachy, I’m sorry if I do. I wish I knew you and your ex-wife enough to take you by the hands and gently go with you to see Sobonfu and the magic and healing that her ritual brings.
I am so moved by Living Dead Dad, by Sugar (as always), but much more than I’ve ever felt, by the community that reads and responds to Sugar’s column. So many beautiful, thoughtful, kind, wise people. It fills me with hope to know that you are all out there in the world.
so moving, I am balling. Thank you to Dad for writing this, proving you are not alone and to Sugar, for being an amazing guide.
To Living Dead Dad and the others here who have lost their children, I cannot claim to understand the depth of your pain but I feel so badly that you’ve had to deal with what seems like the most horrific pain imaginable. And I appreciate that you continue to make it through, even if making it through is merely the action of taking your very next breath.
“The obliterated place is pitch black and bright light. It is water and parched earth. It is mud and it is manna. The real work of deep grief is making a home there.” Such caring and insight, Sugar. Thank you.
Living Dead Dad, I was glad that you still have a relationship with your son’s partner. He knows why you and your ex-wife didn’t come to that party. He utterly and completely knows.
That night you lost your son he lost the man he loved. He’s probably terrified that something will happen to take his new love away, too. He also might be scared that by loving someone else he might lose you and your ex-wife; the two living, breathing connections he still has to his dead partner.
No one will replace your son in his heart. No one can. He knows that and his new partner does, too. In a previous post Sugar mentioned the things we carry with us. You, your son’s mother, and your son’s partner will always carry him with you. Always.
dearest dad,
i am so SO sorry for your loss.
all i can tell you is love is never wasted.
feel your love and let it spread. your son’s ex’s new love? it’s all a continuation of the love your son surfed. from you and your ex, to him and his ex. it’s all of a piece. hold it. wrap it around you. your relationship with your son will never end. it can grow — if you let it — even if you can’t see him. sending you love and great hugs xo
Two days ago, I celebrated the birthday of my only child, a son, who died two and a half years ago at the age of twenty. Actually, I have to celebrate his life every day — if I don’t, I’m not sure I’d make it through the next day. I became a new person when he came into my life and his death changed, again, the kind of person I am–and through both of these events, I became a better person (not necessarily a happier person right now, but a person who now takes less things for granted).
A dear friend sent me this link today, and I was frozen in fear as I read it because I felt someone had stolen my identity. And, yet, I was strangely comforted because I was reassured that I was not alone in my feelings of loss, anger, and helplessness (along with the darkness and suicide). Losing a child is something I could never even wish upon my enemies–the pain is so great! Sugar, I’m not sure who you are, but your generous and empathic words are some of the most comforting I’ve yet experienced. Thank you–for him, and for me.
I simply want Dad to know that what he’s experiencing is ok . . . there’s nothing right about it . . . there’s nothing wrong about it . . . and no one can tell you how you’re suppose to grieve. That is something you must embrace for yourself. This was one of two valuable things some friends (who also lost their son too soon) shared with me when my son died. The other thing was that the pain of your child’s death will never leave you, but there will come a morning that he will not be the first thing you think of when you awake. Although I initially found this too ludicrous to believe, I have now understood the implication that life has to continue and the pain will cease to be all-consuming. Life has to be celebrated–his life–every single day . . . and especially on holidays . . . like birthdays, Christmases and particularly, Father’s Days.
Give it to us.
Give us what your son made of you.
Show everyone you meet
what he took out of you. The hole he left.
Show us like we haven’t seen it yet, because
we haven’t seen it yet.
Give each and every one of us you meet
from now until the day you die
(or the day we do)
a piece of what he did to you, to make
you feel like Dad.
Apologize for none of it.
Be vulnerable.
You can handle it.
Oh Sugar and Living Dead Dad, I howled and cried when I read this letter. I stopped after each point to let the waves of grief pour through me, reached the end, and repeated the entire process.
I often feel very alone in my story, but no matter the details of my story, at the end it is me and unimaginable grief.
The next time I question if I can go on, I will have both of you in my heart to guide me back to the light. Much love and compassion to you both.
Painful, yet moving, and oh so compassionate response, Sugar —-
shortly after my mother died, I was on a phone call at work talking to a colleague at another office, and after the shop talk, we talked a little bit, he was offering his condolences on my mother’s death, and a little about his mother’s death. “You never really stop missing her,” he said. You never really do stop missing the people you love.
I love this. #23 and #28 are my favorite. Thank you Sugar.
Dear Dad,
I’ve never met my own dad and in this is a grief and a hopelessness of ever being able to be a recipient of ever being loved by a man they way that you love and grieve your son. Your longing, your liquid love that pours from you is such gift to this world. Imagine if we all remembered how sacred life is, the way you cherish the moments that you once had. This tends to be the underbelly of tragedy, is our own remembering of how sacred every moment of joy, connection and love we will have. But sometimes the pain is too much. I love the line from Khalil Gibran when he writes of pain. “Pain is the breaking of the shell of your understanding.” I honor you, your soul’s journey and the blessing for being able to know of a man who is capable of great love, not only for his son, but for himself.
Dear Sugar,
This is the first article I have read of yours after a girlfriend told me about this piece at dinner last night. I am so grateful for the soul voice that you are able to access and channel. I am so grateful that you are sharing your gifts with the world so generously and look forward to being in sacred space again with you on your next post.
To all,
We are so much stronger than we think and so much stronger together.
With love,
Rochelle
I lost my eldest child before there were more. It’s not the same – she was an infant – but we called it “parent without portfolio.” I hope this helps a tiny bit.
My grandmother lost a child who was 5 and was never the same, no parent is. She couldn’t love my mother, she never spoke to any of her grandchildren directly. She lived to 101, so almost 75 years in her hell. You wouldn’t have known unless someone told you – she seemed a cheery woman who was a great seamstress and baked pies.
I wrote a novel about a mother who lost her son, but it doesn’t hold a candle to this column. Living Dead Dad, you’ve already helped more people than you know. I hope some of what’s here helps you.
Sugar, this was a big one and I think you know that. I can feel all the people you speak to simultaneously busting into tears. Your gift to us is great. Today I will be kinder.
Sometimes I think these columns are too powerful to read. There is so much bravery in the writing and in the reading of it too.
My children sent me this link. We lost the youngest among us last October. 10-10-10… 42 in binary… twice her age. My Angel Baby will always be Forever 21, and bigger than life in all our hearts. Thank you LDD and thank you Suger. Sometimes there is no 23. Sometimes there is no 22. Sometimes there is no tomorrow. I wake up everyday and decide to live that day, one more time, and to try to bring honor to my daughter as well as her siblings. Thank you for sharing.
Dear Sugar,
You are so right! It took me a long time to realize. My mother always said she never wanted to live to be old, and she died in a plane-wreck, 6 months pregnant, at the age of 36. I used her words as my crutch, “See! It’s OK ‘cos she didn’t want to live a long life!” but it never range totally true to me. It was only relatively recently that I came to see that her life was just 36 years… 36 very full years… and that those year were what one should focus on, not the missing future years that never were. You say things so succinctly!
Thank you.
To Jeffrey Bennett:
Yes!
HUG!
Dear Sugar and all – another deeply moving, powerful letter and response on one of the deepest losses ever confronted by a human being. My brother was killed in car crash when I was 19. He was 15. My mom was 41, and her years following that were so painful, so tortured. She did not want to live. She suffered serious physical illness the rest of her days, culminating in a fatal brain tumor. I am convinced that it all spiraled from her broken heart.When she passed on, for me I felt more relief to see the end of her suffering than anything else. She was so angry, unhappy, confused, miserable. Only her grandchildren brought some happy hours. My dad – somehow kept going, caring for my Mom, being a steady presence for his chidren (myself and two sisters) and then grandchildren. He continues at age 84, living an active life. I don’t have any words of wisdom to add = just some simple words of perspective from a girl/woman whose younger brother had just 15 years, no more. I see amazing courage in Living.. Dad and deeply soulful wisdom in your words, Sugar. Living… Dad — I see that you have signs of the strength that is in my Dad. May you develop that strength within you more every day as you maintain your love for your son in your conciousness each day, hour, and minute. You are courageous.
It took me three days to read this letter. I could only read bits at a time without becoming overwhelmed. I hope that puts some perspective on how emotionally courageous it was to write the letter, Dad.
I have so much respect for you.
To paraphrase something Sugar said, your son would be so proud of you.
Thank you — all of you — so much for this post and these letters. This is so clearly a community of caring people!
Friends of mine who have lost a child have found some help and support from The Compassionate Friends, an organization for families that have lost a child (of any age, from any cause). Maybe it will be useful to someone here. The main website for the organization is http://thecompassionatefriendsfw.com/
I hope and pray healing for all of us.
Dear Living Dead Dad,
Many years ago, during a discussion on death and loss, our consulting psychiatrist advised us (counselors, social workers, and psychologists), to “claim your own grief.” Sage advice. Grief is the path to healing.
I can’t add much to all that Sugar has given us, but I can suggest, to you and anyone who has suffered loss, to give expression to your sadness and let the tears flow.
When I lost my mother, I was overwhelmed with grief. Grief colored everything I saw and everything I experienced. Being a man and a former Marine, it was difficult for me to cry, but I gathered up my courage and I wept. I wept regularly. I would feel the sadness building and know it was time to cry – time to claim my own grief! I would sit with a picture of my mother and play music from my childhood (usually old hymns) and let the sadness flow. It was very helpful! My tears were an expression love for my mother. It was something she would want me to do.
Living Dead Dad, thank you for writing to Sugar and to all of us. You’re courage has reminded us to love one another and to be fully human.
Dear Sugar,
Thank you for publishing this letter and your response. Last Tuesday my partner of 16 years died. She was 59 years, 7 months and 3 days old. I held her hand while she slipped away to the place I could not follow. It was from complications of renal cancer. Her death was not quick or unexpected as Living Dead Dad had to deal with; I had time to say good-bye, to tell her how much I loved her, how important she was to me and yet still she died. Wailing, I understand, I do it every morning while I take a shower.
Again, thank you for publishing this. I’m going to print it out, so I can see it whenever I need it.
Wow. Both of you. I lost my precious mother at 15 and have spent so many years in torment. I work with people facing life- threatening illness and many die. I heal by giving them comfort. Several rounds of therapy and Stephen Levine’s Unattended Loss helped me find my passion again even though part of me will always be broken. Sending you both so much love.
My mother died on May 7th. I was supposed to call her on the 6th after they admitted her to the hospital. I never did. The last time I saw my mom was April 22nd. The last time I talked to her was May 2nd. I miss her every day. I wish I could say that reading this makes me feel better, but nothing does.
This column was breathtaking on every level. The letter was annihilating. Sugar’s response was extraordinary, maybe her very finest response yet. I have read it over and over and over and I’m still reeling.
Dearest Living far from dead Dad: I believe that you are enduring the most excruciating loss that can befall a human being. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that your precious son was taken from you.
For whatever it’s worth, you are a very fine writer as well. Your letter was inexpressibly compelling, heart-mangling and powerful.
Years ago, I worked at a shelter for homeless and runaway teens. A lot of those young men were gay — indeed, that was often the reason they were homeless or runaways; many of them had been kicked out of their homes for being gay, or driven out by a profound lack of acceptance on the part of their families.
I wonder whether you might ever look into volunteering in a place like this, in some capacity, whether as a “big brother” or mentor or some other role where you could offer young men in this situation your attention and support. It’s just a thought, just one way that occurred to me that you might find comfort in honoring your son.
Dear Dad.
“Embrace all of the changes and remember to love yourself through them.”
These words have helped to carry me through many days when I thought I could not make it. I have not lost a living child but I lost my best friend, a beautiful soul with whom I was sure I would spend the rest of my life. And in the two years since, I’ve lost two unborn children. One on the anniversary of my friends death. I does not seem like enough to say I am so sorry for your loss. That being said, I am just so sorry.
37. There is no 37. I still find it hard to believe that there will be no 40, no 62, no 85. I cannot believe that we will not grow old together, turn into blue-hairs and sit in our rocking chairs on our porch. I hold my grief fast and deep like a talisman I am afraid of losing. As if it the only way that I can keep her close, in a way that memories and photos cannot. I still think of her everyday and often cry. This grief is so great that the only way I can see through it is to live my life in honor of hers. And so I do. And it gives me strength. And it makes me a better person. And I know that she is smiling down upon me. And that she is proud of the continuously evolving person that I am becoming. And that makes me feel safe and secure knowing that she will never really be “gone”. She will live on through me as long as I live. I am a better person having known her.
So I continue, each day, to embrace all of the changes and I remember to love myself through them. It’s the way that Elizabeth would have wanted it. I send her a smile every day to let her know that she is in my heart and I feel that smile returned in many mysterious ways. I hope that you feel your sons love shine upon you each and every day. This is my wish for you. You are a wonderful father and he is lucky to have you. Xoxoxo
Dear Obliterated Dad:
Your letter broke my heart as yours is broken. So glad you’re in therapy – please also find a grief group where you can safely talk this out as much as you need to. You may also find Elizabeth Kubler Ross’s book “On Death and Dying” helpful. One day at at a time, my friend. Spend time sitting alone watching the sky, walk alone in beautiful places, listen to beautiful music, let your friends and family help as much as possible. Avoid drugs and alcohol. The more you process the grief and rage, the more you will be able to feel the love and compassion that surrounds you. You will always be a fine man and a good father. And your son knew that. Best always…
Ps. I thought I’d share this wonderful 19th century poem by Robert Browning Hamilton:
Along the Road
I walked a mile with Pleasure;
She chatted all the way;
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.
I walked a mile with Sorrow
And ne’er a word said she;
But, oh! The things I learned from her,
When Sorrow walked with me.
My problem: There is no 64.
My father lived 63 years and a few months. His life was 63 years long. I have to accept that there is no 64. Like another poster up above’s mother, he always said “It’s hell growing old.” I guess he found a way not to grow older.
I don’t know how to accept that yet, but maybe this post will help me. I hope it will.
Just wanted to share a song, Light, from the musical Next to Normal. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pp_IFg-mjyM
“Day after day,
Wishing all our cares away.
Trying to fight the things we feel,
But some hurts never heal.
Some ghost are never gone,
But we go on,
We still go on.”
“And when the night has finally gone.
And when we see the new day dawn.
We’ll wonder how we wandered for so long, so blind.
The wasted world we thought we knew,
The light will make it look brand new.”
The father in you is not dead. Sugar is no less a daughter in this world, even though her mother has gone from it. In the same way, you are a father because you have lived it, and continue to live it. By sharing your story here, your son’s spirit now lives in all of us. We know he was, his life has value and meaning, we now see that life…in you, through you, the father.
I Am Crying From Thirst
(Alonzo Lopez, poet )
I am crying from thirst.
I am singing for rain.
I am dancing for rain.
The sky begins to weep,
for it sees me
singing and dancing
on the dry, cracked
earth.
( Pima ) Wind Song
Far on the desert ridges
stands the cactus;
Lo! The blossoms swaying
to and fro, the blossoms swaying, swaying.
There is still the Spirit of Life and Grace within the arid desert of your grief.
I hope that this comment makes it to the Dad. I’m so sorry for your loss, though I’m unable to relate (having no children of my own and being estranged from my father).
I’m glad you’re in therapy and would highly recommend that you look into Craniosacral Therapy, specifically Biodynamic Craniosacral Therapy. It’s a gentle, hands-on approach to that can have amazing results in how things/emotions are stored in our bodies. It can help make things more… bearable.
I admit that the work is a bit “woo woo”. Some of my own clients state that they don’t understand what I do, but that it works for them in that they feel more calm and at ease.
Were we in the same city (Seattle), I’d be happy to share my work with you for free to help you through these times.
Warm Regards,
Jason
supergalactic @ gmail(dot)com
Dear Living Dead Dad,
Thank you for sharing your heartbreaking story with us. I, too, am so very sorry for your loss. And, Sugar, thank you for your deeply beautiful response. You both touched my heart.
I read this post when it came out, as I read every Dear Sugar post, and it was the first that ever brought me tears. I’m only 20 years old, so I’ve never experienced what it is like to be anything remotely close to a parent, but last night I lost one of my best friends, a 21-year-old incredible man, in a similar tragic accident.
It’s so strange that this post touched me so when only a few days later, it’s proven to truly pertain to my own feelings of grief. I feel as if Sugar was meant to be a cushion to this horrible blow. My friend Gus lit up the room when he walked in, and to have lost such a unique and present soul will forever change me.
Thank you again Sugar, and Living Dead Dad, in offering support and the knowledge that there are others out there who share similar grief, yet know of a way to eventually reach acceptance.
Yours,
Becca
I can’t imagine that grief. I fear it. The love of your child is the ultimate love. I don’t fear my own death, I fear the death of what brings me the most joy- watching my boys become men- they are young still (12 and 18). My spirituality helps me cope with death. Somehow, I’ve been given glimmers of what seems to be proof that there is something so far beyond this life, this plane of existence. There is a beautiful book written by a man who has become THE authority on reincarnation and past life regressions, Brian Weiss http://www.brianweiss.com/ Only Love is Real, Messages from the Masters are great books to read – He is a psychologist who came upon past lives as he was bringing a patient back to her childhood in a hypnosis session – he’s not a nut, he’s got real evidence and proof that there is something about our energy and our connections that are forever. You’ll see your boy again. He’s with you now. He’s waiting for you and this is just a moment in time when you will have complete understanding that we are here to love and be loved – and that love never dies. Wishing you peace and comfort.
Oh, I want to hug you, Living dead Dad and never ever let go. I am so very sorry for your loss. No one can take your pain away, but I hope this might help you in a big way. But then again you my not believe. Any way. I never got along with my Mother and it was very hard when she died. My Mom died at the age of 49 from lung cancer. It was not some thing fast like what happened to your son. My sister and I took care of her at home. I was holding her hand when she went. And I really felt her soul leave her body. I feel really stupid for writing this but I really hope this will help you. I cried so much I thought I would dry up. And then one day you daughter came to me and gave me a rose that was growing in the back yard. She was 13. She said Grandma wants me to give this to you so you will smile. Then she told me, come look Mom. I didn’t feel like getting up and told her no not now. She told in an angry voice, FINE, BUT you need to close you eye and listen to what Grandma would be saying to you right now.For some reason I did, and I imagened what she would be saying. I could hear her voice, she was angry with me, she said Get your ass off that bed and knock this shit off. No more DO YOU HEAR ME. I got up.
I can’t say for sure if its real but we get along better now than we ever did. And even though she is gone, and dead at the age of 49, To Me she turned 50 and 51. She gets a Happy Birthday Mom ever year, I get one on my Birthday too. I still cry. I still hurts like hell because of the pain we could not over come when she was here with us. And I miss her so very much. When I cry I hear her say, I know Baby, I know.
Your son loves you so much and would want you to be happy for the years you had with him. He wants you to hear him. He would be hurting inside because he cant stop your pain. Right now he would love to say, Come on Dad smile, give ME a smile.
When you feel so over whelmed with pain and sadness, just try closing your eyes and think about what he would say to you.
I do not write very well but I hope you can try this. It helps me when I can’t go on, and I can’t go on a lot. Its been 20 years now sence my Mom left and I still hurt and I still cry mainly because I can’t SEE her. I know in my heart your son would not want you in this much pain, give it up for him. Don’t stop crying, that he knows comes because you can not see him, he understands.
I need to stop know or I can go on and on. Rejoice his life. Talk to him and I am sure you can hear him. Even if its just in your mind.
Some people tell me that my Mom really is talking to me. After all these year I really thinks maybe. Just maybe.
So many wise words here for which I offer my thanks and many tears. My experience is this: My first two darling daughters died, one after another a year and a half apart. The devastation was complete–there are not words for it. The grief, like yours, was so deep and black I did not know if I would survive; I might not have. But life called me, over and over, and as many have said love was under the grief and love is LIFE. One day there were colors in my world again. I hadn’t even really known I was living in a black and white world until the colors came back–what a surprise. Here a bird song caught my attention, there a spring flower reminded me of renewal. And the absolute knowledge that those girls had changed me in ways that I would choose it all again–it being the pain of the loss–in order to know them and the love we had. In fact the price of that pain was a bargain for what I got in return. I wish you color in your world again and offer you a slice of the rainbow that is my life now.
Dear Living Dead Dad and Sugar,
Thank you for sharing so honestly and nakedly your loss. Through this column your outreach is helping countless others … fathers & mothers, brothers & sisters, friends & companions & lovers & soulmates.
Music is a powerful healing medium. Indie Folk Rock band Cloud Cult’s leader Craig Minowa lost his beloved two year old son to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. To grieve he retreated to a cabin in Northern Minnesota and wrote hundreds of songs. The band released several albums which have helped many release and move through grief from the loss of loved ones. It helped me with the loss of a dear friend to AIDS as well as loss of a relationship. If you’d like to sample the music I would suggest They Live on tbe Sun,Aurora Borealis, The Meaning of Eight which all address the loss of his son. The more recent Light Chasers is a concept album covering an epic journey searching for the light, a metaphor and actual way of seeing the grief process. Cloud Cult is touring this summer if you want to catch them live. http://cloudcult.com
Thanks again to Living Dead Dad and Sugar for expressing the hardest of emotions with compassion, courage and humility. We are all more human for being part of this discussion and experience.
Dear Dad,
I DO understand where you’re coming from. My very young daughter was addicted to heroin. While my child didn’t die, she came so close a number of times and was missing so many times, that in my mind every time the phone rang she died over and over again. This went on for years. There wasn’t a day when she didn’t cross my mind…when I ate I wondered if she had food…when I pulled the blankets up I wondered if she was cold. When I saw the homeless, I wondered if she was on the streets.
I wanted to die many times over. In fact, i think I did. I didn’t know anyone else who was going through this. None of my friends or family could completely understand my grief. They said things like “she’ll be alright, she’s a survivor.” Or, “You have to let this go and get on with your life.” But that was my baby, not theirs and I couldn’t. I cried. I cried in my car, in the shower, behind sunglasses when I saw a happy little girl with her mom or dad holding their hand or picking out a christmas tree. Holidays and birthdays were meaningless.
I realize that there are some things in life we cannot heal and all we can do is learn how to live with them. How to keep them in the balance so that we can function. I learned how to go to work and perform in school with a broken heart. I learned how to put off engaging my grief…but I carried it in my heart. For nearly 6 years this went on. During this time, I truly had no room in my life to let anyone in.
My daughter is now in recovery. I suppose I am too.
I wish I could help in some way.
xo
This weblog entry is being featured on Five Star Friday: http://www.schmutzie.com/fivestarfriday/2011/7/8/five-star-fridays-156th-edition-is-brought-to-you-by-charlot.html.
27. My boy was 27. I had never known anyone who had lost a child. I didn’t, couldn’t cry. I went back to work and, after a few months, felt faintly surprised that I was doing well. I directed events, produced things, met with people, and didn’t remember any of it until one day I met with a woman who, for some reason, closed the door of her office and told me about the death of her beautiful son just a few years prior. I started shaking and crying and she held my hands while it all tumbled out. I had thought the very least a mother could possibly do was to keep her child alive and I had failed. I began to grieve then and every year on the dates of various milestones, I went into a decline that I couldn’t understand until I remembered, “Oh, this is the time of year he first went into the hospital. . .” or his birthday or some other date of significance. This loss is the worst thing that has ever happened to me in my 77 years. I was 52 and realized a long time ago that you don’t get over it. You just have to focus on the loving and let the layers of loving build up around it bit by bit.
You come to understand that Aeschylus was not writing a curse but describing a pearl when he wrote:
Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart,
until, in our own despair,
against our will,
comes wisdom
through the awful grace of God.
You are not alone, Loving Dad.
You are beautiful. Look in the mirror, Dad. He’s looking right back at you.
I have never lost a child, but thank you for this look into the soul of someone who has. Sending out a big virtual hug to Living Dead Dad and also to Sugar for offering us all a lesson in compassion. I think we don’t say things to people who need to hear our compassion because we don’t know what to say. We don’t want to offer pity or judgment or to pretend we know how it feels, because none of that helps, so thanks to Sugar for showing us how. May God hold you in the palm of his hand and I hope you’ll grasp the strength of that hand and all that is inside of you to keep going.
Thank you for speaking the truth about your life to us. Even anonymously, there is something powerful about speaking the truth– not only for us readers, but for you. The tightness in the throat eases a little. You find you are not as alone as you thought. You are upheld by invisible hands.
You sound like a writer. I want to tell you that there is something you can do that can be particularly helpful for writers; I know this from my own experience. It’s this: every day, write a letter to your son.
Try it for a month, maybe, just to see. Your daily letters might turn into something else at times– who knows what– and you can let that happen, paper is safe. But start out with the love and the letter to your boy.
And please know that love is never wasted.
Dear Dad,
Keep writing.
Life is Calling
Beth Hart, singer / Songwriter
Sunday morning,
the world’s still sleeping and the
rain keeps falling,
like angels weeping and I,
I feel the tears on my skin,
they’re trying to tell me something,
I listen.
Blues and yellows
tap on my window and I
let the nightbow
with all my shadows and I,
I feel the sun on my skin,
it’s trying to tell me something,
I listen.
Life is calling,
Life is calling,
Life is calling out my name.
Make it matter, say it louder,
stay alive another day.
Life is calling out my name.
Perfect houses,
with good intentions, with the
happy familys,
had their broken dishes, and I,
I hear the scars on my skin,
their trying to tell me something,
so I listen.
Life is calling,
Life is calling,
Life is calling out my name.
make it matter, say it louder,
stay alive another day.
Life is calling out my name.
It’s a window of the ocean,
it’s a secret in the sand,
it stop trying to tell me something,
so I’m listening.
Life is calling,
Life is calling,
Life is calling out my name.
make it matter, say it louder,
stay alive another day.
Life is calling,
Life is calling,
Life is calling out my name.
Every time I open a new column I say, “Just don’t cry, just don’t cry.” And then I cry. What a heartfelt, emotional and thoughtful response, Sugar. So much power in your words. Thank you.
Sugar, I only found you today. I believe it was angel intervention. I lost my only child, my son, 9 months ago. He was 24. I have been a single mother since the very beginning. Living Dead Dad ~ oh the name alone shakes me to the very core. YOU are a true DAD. Your love shines through with each word you write. Your son knew you loved him, and he knows now. That kind of love never dies. Cherish all that you shared for 22 years. Sugar, I simply do not have the words to tell you how you have touched my very soul. As I read and re-read this beautiful post and reply, #4, 7, 12-14, 16 & 17 stand out, again and again. As a freshly bereaved parent, struggling to just breathe, each and every day; i have not even found that kind of compassion from my own family. I can only say thank you, to my beautiful son, for somehow finding a way to bring me to you. They are with us, and continue to show us. We need only to listen….. Thank you, Sugar, for being such an amazing voice.
My husband died two years ago. Sometimes I struggle so hard to accept that the future I envisioned with him will not and did not ever exist. Reading these words actually made me moan in pain and recognition. A shock to the system, to truly understand that I am now creating a new life in this “obliterated place.” Thank you, thanks to you both.
Dearest sweet thang,
I am not a crier. I. Am. NOT! A crier. Thank you for proving me wrong. I’ve cried more in the past few days reading your words than I have in the past few years.
Sugar, how do you integrate all of this hurt & despair from the people who write to you without breaking into a million bits?
I want this (column) to go on forever but I also want you to come out so I can read every other thing you’ve written. Are both things possible, or is the role of Sugar dependent on anonymity?
Like everyone else who reads or knows you, I love you! And thank you.
This made me cry. I defy anyone to comment saying you have no right to write on this as he feared, because it does not take the loss of a child to feel compassion and empathy, and your words have magic in them.
Weeping along…
I was sent this by my late son’s love. She knows well how our hearts are terminally broken, and her gesture is appreciated, as it matters that we know that she, of all people, feels and knows the depth of our pain and “grief”. All of these things are at best difficult to convey to someone who has not lost a daughter or son; we know what “a million pieces” really feels like. The rest of you are “civilians” to us. However, there are those who have experienced severe depression and other similar pain that can be easily related to the hell that we live with any given day…and there have been many kind friends who have “listened” or just allowed me to speak at times of our loss or our pain…, and it matters. For those who get to go through life without having to ever experience the searing pain of losing someone as dear as our “best of all of us” son, we certainly hope you never do, and thank you all for the small moments of grace we have been given to share our feelings. We can only build one brick at a time, and feel better one moment at a time. Which is all any of us ever really has.
I have only just found your Dear Sugar column; and I can’t bear to read the comments here. Usually I wait a good while to learn a community before saying anything. But Living Dead Dad, I wish I could be your child, too. I long to help you with this pain. I watched my parents go through this, and I think a child would want to do anything to relieve the pain you are feeling. My brother was killed at 21, when I was 23, by a drunk driver. The shock splintered all our lives. It’s been 16 years this September. And there are days it is still terrible. I watched my parents just crumble. I don’t think there’s anything else you can do inside. I think wailing in your bed after just four years is entirely normal. I think, in fact, that wailing and making lists trying to articulate the unspeakable are signs that you are gaining traction and will figure out how to speak it, and speak it, and need, over time, less to speak it. It’s as though you are a tree, and must grow around a dreadful wound, one slow ring at a time. The wound will always be there and carried with you, but as Sugar is saying about the strength her love for her mom has given her, it will become part of your strength and not something that perpetually devastates you. There’s a part, I think, in many of us that feels that to ever let go of the devastation is a betrayal; that it might, in some way, show we didn’t really care that much. That’s a feeling to resist, or to let pass if it can’t be resisted. I don’t think grief can be sustained at the same pitch forever without severely damaging us. It is normal for that grief to be transmuted – by *love* – into something we can hold tight to us without bleeding too dreadfully. There will always be spikes of pain, of course. My father had a friend, an older woman, who had, in a year’s time, lost her husband, her son, and her livelihood. She told him that decades later there were still times all she could do was to howl into the wind. And there is so much emotional change to work through. My father wrote a letter after my brother died in which he said that you expect parents to die, and when your brother dies, you learn you too can die, but that when you lose a child, your dreams die. I think being able to allow a new dream, a way to honor your son, any growth in the blasted center of your life, hurts just unbearably, but is one way you find yourself able to take your son with you — in your heart, and who you are, and the choices that you make, the ways you honor him, as you have in the list you’ve written right here. I can tell your son was a man worth loving. I know – truly, I do know, as I’m a parent myself – that there’s a vast difference between losing a brother and losing a son; between watching a parent lose a child and losing a child myself. But I hope to make you wonder, by hearing of other parents who have survived without leaving behind their sense of their child or their love for their child or the ways that child affects them, whether it might not be possible to have, once more, a life that is livable. And I truly, deeply believe that facing love and grief as you are is the very crux of humanity. Far from needing to learn how to be human, you are steeped in the gorgeous, vomitous, impossible, unbearable truth of being a person who is not shut off from the world. It is horrible, the feelings you have to feel right now, but if you are a person who loves, they are NORMAL. Don’t let the world or stupid grief books or anyone or anything tell you that pain like yours at this point means there’s something wrong – other than the obvious, horrific wrongness you are living with every second. It takes so much time to rework your mind and heart to accept something like this. Everyone in my family still has dreams that it was all a mistake somehow. Even my brother’s friends and girlfriend sometimes have crying fits. Still. At 16 years. And my brother wasn’t their SON. The thinking about him constantly that you’re doing…you’re telling his story to yourself, and I can’t think of much more important than that. The wailing and list-making are you trying to pull YOUR story together, and releasing some of the pain of doing that, of moving along in the outside world, while still trying to fit his story with yours. This is terrible, hard work and it is yours, and as far as I can tell from your words in the night, you are doing everything right. Or, to put it maybe a more hopeful way – I think the normal course of grief is going to deposit you on the other shore, whether you feel like you are doing anything, making any progress, ever at all. I think it’s like a child growing. It seems at first as though they never will, but it accelerates. You don’t have to *make* them grow, and you don’t have to *make* you heal. By facing it the way you are… you will heal. And that’s not wrong. That’s probably the best gift you can possibly give to the son who loves you impossibly, and wants his death not to have been yours, too.
Dear Living Dead Dad,
I’m so sorry for your loss. Do you scream inside, the scream that never stops? I know that scream. I feel I know something of this as I lost a child who was never born. Existed, but never born. The female body never forgets.
So now you have this love inside you, this love that calls a name that doesn’t answer, and what does it mean? What the fuck, where is this God you talk of, what, I want every moment I had that child back to do over, what does it mean? And if I’m shown the answer, will I fight it, because it’s still fuck you it’s not my child?
For me, this has been a long journey, but I’m reminded I have been given the answer when I read Sugar’s #74. There are people out there right now, like the boy pacing the hall, that need and want all that extra special expert at being imperfect parent love some of us have stored in our hearts. The love that longs to seep like garlic through our pores, that makes us jump like a new mother’s breasts at a babies’ cry.
You and I are WWII ace flyer decorated bastards survivors at love. There’s still missions to be flown. Picture your love once again being the transformative force your son knew. Ah, sweet release. (I love you.)
(Also I really like the movie, “The Accidental Tourist” it’s for rent/buy on iTunes)
You are not alone. Many others have suffered the terrible loss that you have, including me. My beautiful son Joseph was murdered at 22 years old. I have worked so hard to survive. I am fairly ok now….18 years later. He lives in me and I live in him. Your son wants you to be happy…so do it. You will do for him the last thing that you can do for him if you do.
I wish you health and joy. Email me if you like at syre@localnet.com
Evelyn
There is no 18. There is no 68.
Their deaths were a year and a half apart – my niece and my father. My brother’s only child was killed by a drunk driver. I have no children and long thought of her as my own, my future, my reason for working and living. She was the one I would leave it all to when it was my time to go.
When she died, my life, my future lost all meaning on top of the grief of her death. That it was sudden, that I learned of it over the phone, leaves me with a bad feeling every time the phone rings. Who has died now – is the first thought that comes to mind, and has for the past seven years.
At first, I didn’t want to live. I had no reason to live. Then I started putting one foot in front of the other. It was all I could do for awhile. Sleep happened every other night. Crying happened every other minute. Then the time between the crying got longer and finally one day, I laughed.
We found out Dad was dying about four months later. We had put aside our differences and come together as a family because of her death. I had not spoken to my father for eight years at one time and here was my year long opportunity to say everything I wanted to say and hear what he wanted to say. I was at peace with his death. Not happy, but with no regrets.
My life needed new meaning and I am still working to find what that looks and feels like. Each day I gain a piece of this new life. Each time I consider what I want to do with my life, I think about what was important to her. I think about my priorities and making every day count because we don’t know how many days we will get to make a difference.
As for the drunk driver, I have very mixed feelings. He’s almost my age and I could’ve been him except I was led to find sobriety early in my life. As far as I know, I have not killed anyone in a drunk driving accident. As far as I know, but there were many nights I drove drunk and I have no memories of it. I hate that man who killed my niece and spent so little time in jail for it. And yet, I know him in my heart of hearts as I could easily have been him.
thank you
LivingdeadDad.
I to have lost my son to a drunk driver. I am going into my third year without him. I am truely sorry that you are walking the same path that has been cut for us, infortunatley it has not been cut and tended to as to help us reach the end. I guess there is no end till we join our sons at the end of our life.
My boy was only 26,my best friend, my reason for getting up each morning.I have been a robot since he has been gone. Three years and I still can not get bills paid on time, remember other events, function. Its not that I can not afford the bills or that the events are unimportant, Maybe its because deep inside my calender has stopped on that dreadful day, and doing anything beside waking up , eating and faking it thru the day takes all my energy.
Everyone handles grief diffrently. the grief for a parents death is very diffrent from the grief of a spouse, diffrent from the grief of a child.
I believe you and I are handeling it, since we are both still here after 3 and 4 years, we must be doing something right.
We raised two sons, great sons who made an impact on others, we loved them, cared for them and will grieve for them for ever. I do not think I could ever forgive the drunk driver as other suggest. He is still in jail and has not made any try at contacting me or apologizing. I would probably tear the letter apart as well.
I am not overly relegious, but I feel my son is in a good place now, he just arrived way to early.
I hope as time goes by our sons will help us heal, and find enjoyment in the simple things again. Keep getting up each day, keep thinking of him, say his name when ever you want ( I miss Hearing his name very much). Cry , crying is healing so they say.
Life is going on, its not the life we wanted but somehow someway there is a reason we are still here and walking this aweful path.
I am truelly sorry for your lost, sorry for the pain, the loneliness (even when in a crowd), the emptiness that you are suffering and feeling. You are asking for help and understanding. There is no understanding for the event that changed our life, but there seems to be many people who would like to help,but the help we want is impossible. We want our sons back !!!!!
Stay strong, and thank you for posting this not sure how I found this site was not even trying to look for anything remotely connected to this subject. But as much as I hate you are going thru this its still a small relief that I am not the only one feeling the same feelings.
Dear Living Dead Dad,
My heart is shattered reading your letter. I am so horribly sorry you have lost your son. It is the worst possible thing that could ever happen to a parent, and I know because my 21-year-old son died a little over 3 years ago. My life is changed forever. Like you, I wouldn’t take my own life, but I wanted to die desperately, so I could go wherever my son went. I think of my son constantly, every minute of every day. My heart hurts so badly, and I, too wail like you. Usually it’s while I’m driving. Thank you for your courage and honesty in writing this. (One of my son’s friends sent me the link, bless her). I too have good things in my life. I have a loving husband and good friends. I have a career I love and a lovely home, etc., etc. I am blessed to have a daughter, and maybe she is why I am still here. I love Sugar’s response, and she comes closest than anyone who hasn’t lost a child in giving you the compassion and tenderness you deserve and need. Don’t let anyone tell you to “move on”. Very bad advice. One of my son’s closest friends says “Keep Going”. I prefer that. What I try to do is bring as much of my son (who was gay, like your son) into this life on earth. This journey is so, so long and painful and has no end. But Sugar is right about one thing, Your Love for Your Son is bigger and stronger than any of it. You will carry him, and your love for him everywhere for the rest of your life, and no one or no thing can ever take that away from you. (someone earlier suggested you “keep writing”, and I very much agree. Your words have touched others’ hearts so powerfully.)
Dear Living Dead Dad,
It has been many months since this letter was published online and I read it. Still I can’t forget it. I know you have received an outpouring of love after this publication, but as someone who as lost someone dear to them, I know that the initial outpouring isn’t always enough. I just want you to know that your letter touched me deeply as one of the most honest, humble, loving, raw things I have ever read, and I feel so much more heartened by the possibility of love at such depths to exist in this world, which often seems like nothing more than hard truths. Nothing Sugar could have said could have touched me as much as this letter did. I hope that my response to this so many months later shows you how much what you shared meant to me. I truly wish you the best, and that the tide of grief may soon ebb on your shore. Thank you for your openness and your tender heart. I hoped it has healed, some.
Sugar, you are both an incredibly empathic person, capable of deep sensitivity and insight, and ALSO an extraordinary writer.
“23. There is no 23.”
That was not a mistake. It is not a conceit, and doesn’t draw attention to itself on first glance. But it’s just one more mark of a gifted artist. You, dear Sugar, write with a God-given voice and perspective.
Living Dead Dad, I hope you find peace and purpose.
Sugar, don’t ever stop.
Dear Living Dead Dad,
You don’t know me and I don’t know you. But I am deeply touched by your life, and by your loss, deeply touched. I am fortunate, we still have our gay son with us. Your letter has taught me to cling onto every precious moment we have with him. To never take him for granted, and to always always make sure he knows he is loved. I know this doesn’t help you, and I am sorry for that, but it helps me.
Your only son, your only child, taken away at only age 22, for no damned good reason, and you want him back. I understand that. But he is not coming back and you must keep going. You know Living Dead Dad I would like to think that if I was in your shoes, and I hope to hell I never am, I would find a way to honor my son to keep him alive in my actions, as well as those hours spent writhing in pain crying out in my bed. There has got to be some work you can do to honor him. I’ll offer you links to a couple articles and trust that you will think of something.
http://sdgln.com/news/2012/01/26/bullied-gay-teen-suicide-note-insight-ericjames-borges-death-19
http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/blogs/national-affairs/minnesota-school-district-ends-policy-blamed-for-anti-gay-bullying-20120209
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5eB2JH33kc&feature=player_embedded
http://glaad.org/standupforellen
http://vimeo.com/35913431
Google, then Google News, then search on just one word “gay”
You can honor your son Living Dead Dad, instead of you being “simply” proud of him, make him proud of you. In your heart you will know that he knows. He will know dad, he will know. You will privately feel good about yourself, that you have not forgotten and that you are doing this for him. It is a way to love him even though he is not here with you. Do something for him dad, do something he would be so proud of you for doing.
Go in Peace Living Dead Dad, go in Peace.
Signed,
Nobody Special
Dear LDD,
Let me explain to you where I’m coming from. I’m just about 29 (It’s right around the corner, in eight days.) When I was 15, my friend Kevin was killed in a drunk driving accident almost identical to the one you described. Kevin was 17. This death destroyed our group of friends, and some of us fell down a rabbit hole of drugs that they never found a way out of. Most of us have gone on to live, love, and marry.
I will never, ever compare the pain we have felt, as friends, to the pain you feel, as a father (so please don’t think I am). I had to run from the disintegration of Kevin’s family. It was terrifying to me, and on some level, still is. This may be cold comfort, but you’re doing way, way, way better than they are. And maybe, on some level, you should be proud of that. You should take a little bit of pride in still living, still breathing, still clutching tightly to the values you taught your son.
As a bisexual man who came out to his father at 19, whose father had a similar reaction to yours, and then grew to love and accept me for everything I am, I implore you to forgive yourself for your initial dismay and confusion. Let me tell you, if I died tomorrow, I would know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that MY FATHER LOVES ME. And I’m willing to wager that your son knew that too. And that he forgave you. And that he heard other people’s coming out stories, and thought to himself, “Thank God my dad is so cool.”
Seriously, LDD, for a lot of us, coming out is our own private Vietnam – traumatic, scarring, and we still flinch at the memory. What happened between you and your son? Nothing compared to that. While it might not count for much, this anonymous queer gives you permission to forgive yourself. You’re dealing with enough. Let that go.
Lastly, my grandmother is almost 90. She has lost her beloved husband, and two children. One via car accident (he was 24), and one via leukemia (she was 16) before there were treatments for it. She told me once that the pain never goes away, but it does lessen with time. There is no beauty in that statement – she is not a poetic woman – no one on that side of the family is – but she is alive. She lives every day with a strength that inspires me. And she loves us fiercely.
I have no idea where she found the strength, but she did. My heart goes out to you. May you find the same strength, and may your pain, with time, lessen, as hers did.
Sincerely,
Justin
Very nice comment Justin, very nice. I hope LDD takes what you offer to heart.
Dear Living Dead Dad –
1. I do not know what it is like to loose a child. I lost two children through miscarriage, but that is not the same as losing a living child. I grieve for all the times that never were. I have no times to remember, because they never were, except in my dreams and hopes.I grieve for them to this day, although it has been over twenty years.
2. Nobody’s grief is the same as anothers. No matter how similar the circumstances all grief is personal and unique. We can feel empathy but still never know exactly how another feels.
3. I lost the man I loved for more than 35 years to alcoholism. He struggled for many years to overcome it, but in the end this disease defeated him.He was a kind, talented and sweet man who never understood how much he was loved by others, how much he was loved by me. Thank God he never got in a car and killed anyone else because that is a grief I do not think I could have born.
4. When this man died I thought I would die also. Grief was a black field of quicksand in which I was drowning. Because he and I had never married and had not been in close contact at the time of his death I felt I had no right to my grief. That made it worse.
5. I sought help. The help helped a little. People helped some. Time helped more.
6. Now I am in a relationship with a wonderful man. He is capable of giving me all the love that my alcoholic friend could not. My relationship with him is everything I hoped my former relationship would be, but wasn’t. I am very happy. I still grieve.
7. Grief never goes away. But it changes with time. Grief broke me open, created room for more love, made me appreciate love more deeply…..I still grieve.
8. I can only imagine what it is like to loose a living child. I can only imagine the depths of your grief. You can only imagine the depths of mine.
9. I do not know you, but I hold you in my heart. I pray your broken heart remains open. Do not allow your pain to close you down.
10. You will grieve for the rest of your life. I hope you find a way to turn your grief into a gift – to use your grief to love more fully and completely than you ever loved before. In doing this you honor your son.
11. I pray you find peace.
Love,
A Fellow Traveler Through Life and the Living Death of Grief
Pitch black and bright white. What more can you say? That is it exactly! Unbelievely perfect. Thank you. Thank you.
I am an only child, and childless myself. When I say that my only goal in life is to outlive my mother, I’m not kidding. I have several massage clients who have lost young adult children. I am astounded at what people survive. My father died 18 months ago and my mother (who adored him) is finding a grief group very helpful.
This is very powerful! The comment section needs to remain open on this one!!
My husband died 7 months ago today. He was 43. This column has resonnated with me in a way that nothing else I’ve read about grief has in those 7 months. I come back to this column every few weeks to reread it and to digest it and to cry some more.
I hope that LDD has found some comfort and perspective in Sugar’s words and those of the many compassionate commenters. thank you.
It took several tries to get through this post and the comments
because I cried
…a lot
I lost my husband suddenly, unexpectedly a few months before this was first posted
and nothing has helped me as much as this letter, Sugar’s response and all of the comments.
I printed out every single word and carried the pages with me for weeks
…waiting for just the right time.
I savored every word
and experienced so many, many emotions
all of which initiated in my heart and radiated throughout the rest of my body.
I felt the pain of every one of the posters that so generously and lovingly shared that dark and private place that is seldom witnessed by family and friends.
It was not a quick read as I stopped quite often to sob and wail and ponder the question I’ll never get an answer to….
why?
why?
why?
A million times why?
One for each of you.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to accept that he is never coming back.
I am so angry that he chose to “go to the light†instead of remaining here with me and our children.
We had an argument two days before
……which, sadly, was never resolved.
I don’t think he left this Earth with love in his heart because of where we were when we became me.
I’m left with so many regrets.
Did he die with regrets?
How does one go on, move forward, with so many unresolved questions?
I’m not sure
but I am hoping Sugar’s #18 rings true…
Such a rare and priceless gift every one of you has given me.
Thank you from the bottom of my broken heart </3
P.S. LDD, I’ve been wondering how you are doing. Please let us know~
LDD,
i’m not sure if you’re still checking these comments, but i just read your letter and it broke my heart. i know we’re strangers, but all i want to do is give you a hug. i’m so sorry for your pain, sir. i cannot stop crying – and while i can’t possibly understand your loss, i just keep thinking that you son knew what a beautiful & kind soul you were. i pray that your pain subsides every day – and i will never forget you or your letter.
I was moved by your words Sugar…but as a mother that has lost two children, I can honestly say that what Living Dead Dad is going through is a natural part of the process, you never know how strong you are, until you have to be. Living Dead Dad, please look up a Compassionate Friends Chapter in your area and go to one of their meetings, given the chance…you can share, heal and live again.
Sugar, I…
…
Thank you.
“It is impossible for you to go on as you were before, so you must go on as you never have.”
Straight to the heart. Goddamn.
Dear LDD,
About item #12: please don’t be tormented by this, really. I’m gay, and I’ve struggled for 3 years with my mom because she didn’t understand why I was gay. Nowadays, about 12 years after I told her, I don’t even remember those hard days in the beginning, especially because later she’d showed me how much she loved me as I really was, and how supportive she’s been since then.
Your son knew you loved him, you had said that; but more than that: he knew you were sorry, even if you had not told him with words. We know this kind of stuff. We feel it. That’s love.
Where are all the comments that here?
Is this column going to come back?
Sugar…I am 13 yrs with out my son. I was looking for the words I needed today about the anger. You hit everything on the head Love you so much and I could not have said it better. You have a new fan!
Dawn
Thank you Sugar, for this writing. It really moved me the first time I read it. Thank you for teaching me so much. For Living Dead Dad, I hope you’re in better condition, now. Your love for your son is so beautiful.
Living Dead Dad: I realize I’m extremely late to this post, having just heard about it today, but I wanted to express my condolences anyway. I’ve never had a child myself so I can’t say I can empathize with your tremendous loss, but I, like Sugar, lost my mother very young and miss her still, every day. I know you still miss him, but I can only hope that the chasm inside you has started to close enough to let you breathe a little more easily. You are an amazing father, and I only wish mine could have been even a fraction of the man you are. Having come out to him at 15, I was kicked out of the house, and…well. I really hope you’ve forgiven yourself for what you feel was a mistake when he came out to you. I can assure you, he knew he was loved and he loved and appreciated you, even with what you see as having been your imperfections. Parents are human and make mistakes, but your letter resonated with so much love that he had to have known.
Sugar: Your words are the kind of person I want to be, strive every day to getting a little closer to becoming. Losing my mother has given me an immense amount of love to give the world, perhaps in her place, and yours would be so incredibly proud of who you are, how many lives you’ve touched with your compassion and kindness. I know that for sure. <3
To all…
29 years ago I had a little girl, stillborn. Cord problem. For the longest time I was a mess. Death tends to leave those of us left behind in that state of mind. But each day I got up, did stuff, wailed, loved my husband and have a 28 year old girl, and 25 yr old boy. Blessed on ALL three counts. I know I was a ‘better’ parent for the loss. I didn’t always believe it at the time. I’m also a teacher and I share these things with them. Some of them, at ages 15 and 16 have lost parents, and siblings. They feel love just knowing I know about their pain. You are loved dear dead dad by many you’ll never know. And thank you Sugar.
I read this two days ago, it was written four years ago. Perhaps Living Dead Dead is better now. Perhaps he no longer living with the raw pain he wrote of that for some reason I cannot shake. But I am walking around thinking all I want to do is trek across all the lands, sail across every sea and search every mountaintop to find him and wrap my arms around him so that he can wail and cry and scream out for his lost son. I have no idea if this thread is even still open. I have no idea if Dad is still able to see these comments. I hope he can. I hope he can feel how deeply he has touched so many people and how we are carrying his story with us. And as such within each of us we are carrying his son…his love and your love for him is a part of all of us now, you incredible man.
I just found this post, and I am so devastated and uplifted by the loss and love of Living Dead Dad’s letter, and Sugar’s response, And each and every commenter. Ever since my mom died (just over a year ago, on December 22, 2015) I have gotten my strength through the wisdom and example of other grievers. We speak the same language: of loving fiercely, of hurting deeply, of expressing our feelings truly. Grief is isolating; I have often felt all alone on an island of tears and despair. It has been such a relief to me find you all on this island with me. I’m so sorry we live here, but I’m so glad that others can share this space and speak this language, in a world where grief and loss are too often silenced. Much love to all of you.
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