by Robert Kawaguchi

Created on: May 12, 2008

On August 28, 2004, my world ended. No, that's a clich. My world didn't end but it did change forever. I wish my world had ended but although it came crashing down around me, the world did continue to spin and go on. Somehow, even though my thirteen-year-old daughter Debra had just died by suicide, the rest of the world just continued at its normal pace.

I think that's the worst part of living after the death of a child. The world continues on. People grow up. People change jobs. People move. Holidays come and go. Bills pile up and have to be paid. But, don't they understand, Debbie is dead? Shouldn't everything just come to a screeching halt? How can things just continue like she nothing happened?

That's what a grieving parent has to overcome. We have to overcome the urge to run out into the streets screaming at motorists to stop driving and people to stop walking. We have to fight the temptation to tell our friends and co-workers and bosses to drop what they're doing and just fall apart like we want to. We have to stop trying to get the world to stop rotating because we want to stop moving.

How do we do it? I don't know! I wish I did. I just know that there are some days when I can get out of bed, go to work, do what I need to do and only think good thoughts about my time with Debra. There are other days when I have to stay home and cry and blame myself and hate everyone who's still alive.

When some really good friends have asked how I survive, I, of course, talk about having to keep going for my wife and son and how I do what Debbie would have wanted me to do. But that's really bull! I survive because I don't want to put anyone else through the pain that Debbie put me through.

The thing that really good friends don't say is "I don't know how you do it. If I lost little Johnny, I would never be able to go on." Well, you know what? That's insults me. I interpret that statement to mean "I love my kid so much more than you must have loved yours. I couldn't continue because I loved my kid so much than you loved yours."

Please don't say that to a friend.

But what should you say to a close friend who has lost a child? It depends on just how close the relationship is and what kind of friend have you been but I think the only appropriate thing to say is "I'm your friend and I just want to let you know that anytime you want to talk to me about anything, I'm here."

So, how do I cope? I'm not afraid of anti-depressants, I have good friends who will listen and I sometimes, not often, self-medicate with drugs and alcohol.

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