This was a post that I made elsewhere and it was recommended that I blog it, so that is what I’m doing.
This post actually started out as a comment on the other thread until it sort of didn’t stop once I started typing. Sooooo, rather than clutter up someone else’s thread, I just cut and pasted it here. Please forgive my jumping around… I’m emotional right now, not so much logical.
I, too, am a member of the club that no one asks to join. In 2012, our almost four year old son died unexpectedly in his sleep. We still have no explanation. I have an autopsy report that leaves more questions than answers. We have our suspicions but no way to prove it. Google the Indy Star article on Elias Hause if you want.
I hate the angel references as well… angel, angelversary, the day my ___ got his/her wings, etc. They make me cringe each and every time. Oddly enough, the grief support groups I found on Facebook just wound up annoying me more than anything because the vast majority of them held onto this belief that one day they would be reunited with their deceased love one. I wasn’t too sure what I believed but I didn’t think that the existence of a heaven was a guaranteed thing.
The worst, however, was my then-sil who – that same fucking day he died!! – made the comment, through tears of course, that God must have needed him more than us. I know she “meant well” but that pissed me off. I’d been on the fence for some time but that just pissed me off to no end. I decided right then and there that, fuck any so-called God that could do or would do such a thing to anyone.
Don’t even get me started on people who “mean well”. *eyeroll* Don’t compare the death of your parent or your fucking pet to the death of my son. Just. Fucking. Don’t. While those who had a sibling die come closer, unless you’re a parent who lost a child, or a grandparent who lost a grandchild, you most likely have ZERO idea what I’m going through. Hell, I don’t profess to know exactly what my husband is going through and vice versa. I just wanted to say to everyone, “Repeat these words after me: ‘I’m so very sorry for your loss’ and that’s it.” From that point on, you can offer a hug or hold me, you can offer to make supper, bring cookies, bring balloons for the kids, but just stop talking at that point because all you’ll do is put your foot in your mouth and piss me off or make me cry. Maybe both.” I never did say that to anyone, of course, but I sure wanted to.
And that whole “loss” thing? Yeah, my son’s not some goddamn car keys that I misplaced. He was my son. He died, for fuck’s sake. Just deal with it; I have to.
Granted, I was raised super religiously so you can probably imagine the tremendous guilt I feel over my own feelings and thoughts. But, again, I can’t really think of too many worse ways to be punished so….
I will say that, when I expressed this to the minister (my in-law’s pastor) that did the service, he got a bit angry. So much so that he made a point of incorporating into his sermon how this wasn’t God needing Elias more than us, that this was just a tragic happenstance that had nothing whatsoever to do with God. I hadn’t expected him to do that, but it was damned beautiful.
Anyway, I’m going to end here because I’m falling apart in my freaking office and that’s just not cool.