When Grief Becomes Invisible
It's natural for people to enter and exit our lives at different times. As Brian A. Chalker wrote, each person serves a purpose, whether it be for a brief moment, a short period, or a lifetime. I’ve always considered myself fortunate to have a handful of close friends whom I could count on when life got me down, but it wasn't until I faced a tragic loss that I realized my inner circle was smaller than I had believed. This left me wondering: are people inherently selfish, or can they only empathize with circumstances they have encountered firsthand?
In 2017, my son passed away from an opioid overdose after a ten year battle with drug addiction. Some may argue that I should have been somewhat prepared for that day, but I wasn't. Unlike other families dealing with addiction who lived in constant fear of receiving that dreaded call, I never did. It wasn't because I refused to accept the reality of my situation, but simply because it seemed unimaginable to me that my son would die.
Throughout those ten years I existed in a state of detachment from the world around me. To outsiders, it may have seemed like my life mirrored that of my friends, but it was far from it. I felt isolated and unable to relate to the routine of their lives. While they attended their sons' basketball games and cheered them on, I spent my days monitoring my son's activities and researching treatment centers. This relentless activity took a toll on me emotionally and I’d often daydream about what it would be like to have just one day of a "normal" life. I longed to share stories about my son’s achievements rather than dodge questions when asked what he was doing and where he was applying to college. Despite the turbulence that encumbered my life I had always held on to the belief that one day my son would turn a corner and those dark days would be behind us. But sadly that day never came and at the age of twenty eight his life was cut short.
I suppose it was a mix of shock and refusal to accept the reality of my son’s death, but what stands out in my memory the night my son passed is sweeping my living room floor. It’s strange to think about now, but perhaps in some odd way I was trying to make sense out of something which was completely out of my control. I suppose I was trying to impose a sense of order amidst the chaos.
A week after my son’s funeral I left my NYC apartment to go for a walk. As I stepped outside I remember feeling as though I was punched in the gut as if I were a spectator watching from above, unable to recognize that it was me putting one foot in front of the other. Overnight the city that I loved felt strange and unfamiliar. I no longer belonged there. Even the air felt different. I turned around and went home and for the next three years I drifted aimlessly. Thoughts or tasks could only hold my attention for five minutes before I’d lose interest. I spent my days replaying conversations in my head, reading my son’s text messages and listening to his voice mails. How could he be gone when he felt so present?
Although I had experienced depression many times in my life, this was different. It was the one time in my life I couldn’t give myself a pep talk and tell myself things would get better. I was now faced with the impossible task of finding a new identity. For far too long my life had been consumed by son’s addiction leaving little room for anything else. But now, as I grieved the loss of my child and accepted that happiness might never be within reach again, I had to confront the daunting question: Who am I now? I turned to my friends for support, but their conversations only made me feel even more distant and alone. They couldn't understand the intense emotions I was facing. Their usual words of comfort now seemed shallow and unhelpful, leaving me with a sense of emptiness.
Then in the midst of my grief the pandemic struck. Overnight my feelings of loneliness and despair were suddenly shared by the entire world. Surprisingly, as the death toll rose and society crumbled, I felt a sense of relief. I no longer had to justify my absence from society and no longer did I feel obligated to attend social functions or holiday dinners. Finally I could breathe a bit easier. The pressure had been lifted and I could melt into my solitude without appearing as though I had escaped voluntarily.
During that period, I came to a harsh realization about how people handle grief. I used to believe that those closest to me would always be there for support, but after my son's death, they slowly drifted away. Unlike other forms of loss that we encounter in life, such as losing grandparents, parents, or friends, the death of someone’s child defies all understanding. It disrupts the natural course of life and leaves others struggling to understand and relate to.
The truth is people simply navigate towards happiness and anything that challenges their comfort zone is often pushed aside. The death of a child is a heartbreaking tragedy that most people prefer not to think about. It forces them to confront the possibility that it could happen to them or someone they love. The loss of my son was a devastating event that taught me the difficulty of giving sincere support during times of immense grief. It's only through facing our own tragedies that we can truly understand how to help others in their darkest moments. That's why it's important to keep in mind that when those closest to us distance themselves during our time of need, it is not a personal attack and in time we may even find it in our hearts to forgive them for their absence.