As I near the two-year mark since my son’s passing, the weight of that loss feels heavier than ever. Alex lost his battle with cancer just 13 days after turning five, leaving behind me, my husband, Mark, and his younger brother, Noah, who is now five himself. I’m managing as best as I can—like many who walk this painful road, I’ve channeled my grief into starting a nonprofit aimed at honoring Alex’s memory. For so long, my existence revolved around caring for my sick child, a purpose that vanished with his death, leaving me in a numbing silence. That deafening quiet is intertwined with grief—an absence that I try to fill by immersing myself in the world of childhood cancer once again, clinging to it as a way to feel connected to my lost son.
I would give anything to hear the familiar sounds of hospital life again, to feel the urgency of caring for him in those fraught moments. I was everything to that perfect little boy, and he was my world.
Some days, I feel fine; other days, I am engulfed by sorrow, or sometimes even a fleeting happiness that catches me off guard. Grief is a constant presence, sometimes whispering softly, other times roaring loudly, tearing at my insides. It’s invisible to everyone else, but it’s as real as my heartbeat.
Each morning, I wake to a moment of blissful forgetfulness before the reality of my grief crashes in like a lead blanket pressing down on me. As I rise, I carry that weight into each day. Walking past Alex’s pictures on the dresser, I may smile and say “good morning,” or I might feel the sting of tears as I remember the joy that once filled our home.
I must prepare Noah for the day ahead, but every step reminds me of what’s missing. As I make a cup of coffee, I think of Alex, who used to help me add “love” to my morning brew. I recall our morning rituals, how he would help stir in the sugar and cream, even during his illness. I refused to let cancer take that away from us.
Noah is a source of joy in my life. I hold him a little tighter, kiss him a little more often, and cater to his whims a bit more, all while I remember Alex sitting in his spot on the couch, watching cartoons. The memories are bittersweet, as I navigate my new reality.
In the evenings, I take Noah for a swim, cherishing these last days of summer. I feel genuine happiness as I watch him try to conquer his fear of the water. It makes me ache for Alex, who would have been the daring one, splashing and laughing. In my mind’s eye, I picture him as a seven-year-old, joyfully leading Noah into the pool. These visions bring a mix of warmth and sorrow. I carry Alex with me in every moment of joy, picturing him by my side during family outings or fun activities.
In the two years since Alex’s death, time has moved on, but it feels like I’m stuck in a moment, frozen in grief. Gavin is now older than Alex ever was, and soon he’ll be starting kindergarten—an experience Alex never got to have. I can’t help but feel a wave of sorrow wash over me, knowing that every milestone for Noah is a painful reminder of what Alex missed.
The back-to-school season is especially hard. As I scroll through social media, I see happy families celebrating achievements that I desperately wish Alex could share in. The pain is sharp, a constant reminder of my loss, and I struggle with guilt over how my grief colors every moment of Noah’s life.
When people casually ask how many children I have, I often find myself hesitating. I sometimes avoid the question to sidestep the discomfort that comes with discussing Alex. I know they won’t know how to respond, and I’m often left feeling like I should be more open, yet it’s just too painful.
At night, I brush my teeth with Alex’s toothbrush still sitting next to mine. Some nights, it doesn’t bother me, but other nights, the urge to connect with that small remnant of him is overwhelming. My husband and I find solace in each other, though we both know there’s no fixing this. We share the nights with a doll made in Alex’s likeness, often waking to one another’s silent tears. We cherish our moments as a family, especially when we all cuddle together, saying prayers and drifting off to sleep with Noah nestled between us.
There will never be a “perfect day” for a grieving parent. This is a truth that remains unchanging, no matter how much time passes. We learn to cope, to find fleeting happiness in the little things that those who haven’t faced such loss may never understand, but the ache will always remain.
I miss my son.
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Summary
This piece reflects on the profound grief of a bereaved parent as they navigate life after the loss of their child. The author shares their daily experiences, the bittersweet reminders of their late son, and the struggle to balance joy with sorrow in raising their surviving child. Grief is depicted as an ever-present companion, shaping daily life and interactions while underscoring the complexities of parenting after loss.
Keyphrase: A Day in the Life of a Grieving Parent
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