My friend, Richard, buried his son this week. My heart is aching for the loss of his barely an adult son. His son who was loved beyond measure. His son, who probably had more of his dad’s best qualities than I could know, died too soon.

As a friend, my heart is breaking for Richard. If I could describe Richard, I’d say he’s a gentle giant of a person. Large in stature, more importantly though, large in heart. He may well be one of the most caring, compassionate, and gentle souls I have met. I know this because we were much closer years ago, and we were in the same place when we both learned of the plane crash that impacted our community, our company and us as individuals. I know how deeply that experience impacted him. How helpless he felt. How much sorrow he felt for those who lost loved ones. And now loss has touched him more personally. As a friend, my heart breaks.

As a parent, my soul cries for his loss. Richard’s love for his children is as you can imagine, but probably more than that. I always recall him putting his kids first, when family challenges arose. When he speaks of his son and his daughter, only love and pride are in his voice. The loss of his son is indescribable. As a parent, we are not supposed to have to bury our children. It goes against the natural order of how we expect our lives to go. It’s a complication to grief that can only deepen the pain and add to the despair. As a parent, it’s the greatest loss one can experience.

As a traumatic grief and loss therapist, I know too well the difficult road again for Richard and his family. The image of a storm at sea comes to my mind, where every day, the simplest efforts feel as though you are preparing for the worst possible storm that just might defeat you. Your thoughts are both racing and yet feel like slow motion. You only want to be alone, yet being alone hurts more because thoughts of what happened and the emotions of loss, bewilderment, and anxiety are all you have. Uncontrollable, it feels.

It impacts you physically. You feel ill, every part of your physical being is a mess. Everything hurts. Your heart races constantly. Sometimes it feels like you can’t breathe and you feel like you are choking. Most of all, your heart is breaking. Your physically feel your heart breaking. Richard has lost of piece of his heart this week, a precious part of his life.

Emotionally, the worst of the storm might be yet to come. Once the initial stages of shock and numbness ease, then the pain becomes more real. And it doesn’t stop for a second. Wave after wave of unimaginable grief, despair, and darkness. Imagine holding on to whatever you can to just keep afloat and to keep breathing. It’s hard to see beyond each moment of holding on. The future is hard to see, hard to imagine, and often something you don’t want to imagine because your life is forever changed.

As the constant and enormous waves of grief begin to ever so slightly subside, one is easily tossed right back into the midst of the storm, again and again. But soon, you start to try to make sense of the senseless loss. You question so many things. Mostly, you want to know why. Why didn’t I…? Why didn’t he…? Why did God allow…? And memories come in floods that wash over you again and again. But soon, these giant waves of grief, come just a small bit less often, with a bit of time to catch your breath in between them.

For some it gets worse as painful or scary images won’t subside and they can invade ones thoughts so often that it’s difficult to function easily. Try as you might, you just can’t make it stop on your own. Sometimes you can’t sleep, or sometimes sleep is the only peace that you can find. When this happens, it’s important to turn to your support. It truly helps to have support.

With the support of family, friends, sometimes a doctor or a therapist, you learn about or figure out the tools that help you keep afloat a bit easier. These are the people who work with you to help you stay afloat when you can’t on your own, or when you feel like you want to stop trying. It might be kind words, cards, hugs, or friends or family just being with you when you don’t need to say anything. It might be a friend who has been through the type of loss as you are experiencing. It might be a therapist who is familiar with your particular experience. Sometimes it simply helps to know that you aren’t alone in this experience. Ideally, you learn tools to help ease panic, anxiety, or depression. Sometimes it helps to spend time purposely recalling the more positive memories. It’s comforting to know that Richard has a great deal of support.

Through my eyes as friend, as parent, and a therapist, I recognize the storm he is navigating. And I know that Richard is resilient and loved by many as was his son. I wish for him to know that the worst of the storm of pain and grief will gradually ease and subside over time. I know my friend, Richard, buried his son this week, and I know that Richard and his family will prevail. Richard, your sweet son will live on in you and with your family.

My West Seattle Therapist Blog

My friend buried his son this week.