A woman whose husband dies is a widow. A man whose wife dies is a widower. A child whose parents die is an orphan. There is no word for the parent that loses a child. It is unnatural for parents to bury their children.

First a numbness settles in, where everyone seems to speak in slow motion. Moments slip away as you realize that your answer was only audible in your own head.

All too soon the numbness is eroded by laundry, changing diapers, fixing dinners, helping with homework, washing dishes. That is when the tears come.

Celebrating great grades, birthdays, Christmas. In the quiet time before sleep, the revelation of all the birthdays, firsts, scraped knees, graduations that will never be. That is when the tears come.

No matter how many times I ask the questions, in my heart of hearts I pray I never get the answers. I want to believe that no other parent has ever had to feel this pain.

It feels like there is an abyss in my heart into which all goodness and light is to be hereafter vacuumed. My other children have their own places to fill. My husband has a heart hole of his own with which to cope. My mother knows the pain of wondering what would have been, her cross to bear. My resources have been tapped.

Yet still, will I ever learn to be satisfied? Or am I doomed to taint all of the triumphs in my life with the visions of what might have been?

Learn more about this author, Ann Marie Dwyer.
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