As I near the second anniversary of my son’s passing, I reflect on the journey that has unfolded since then. My son, Alex, succumbed to cancer just 13 days after his fifth birthday after an arduous battle. He left behind me, my partner, Mike, and his younger brother, Leo, who is now five himself.
I’ve been coping as best as one can in such a heartbreaking situation. Like many in similar circumstances, I established a nonprofit organization to connect with Alex’s memory and to channel my newfound life priorities. For years, my life revolved around cancer; caring for my ill child was my every moment. When he passed, I was stripped of my purpose, left with a deafening silence where once there was a cacophony of daily anxieties, hopes, and the fierce determination to help him. That abrupt and painful stillness is saturated with grief, emptiness, and a longing to regain my role as his caregiver. I seek to fill that void by immersing myself in the world of cancer once more, an effort to combat the feeling of failure I carry for not being able to save him.
I would give anything to experience the noise of hospital life again, to rest in those hard chairs while holding his hand and reassuring him that everything would be alright. I was his anchor, just as he was mine.
On the days when I’m not enveloped in numbness, I oscillate between sadness and moments of unexpected happiness. Grief ebbs and flows, a constant presence that never truly leaves me. It creeps in quietly, whispering in my ear, or surges violently from deep within, tearing at my insides. This invisible companion is always there, unseen by others but undeniably real to me.
Each morning, I awaken for a fleeting moment where I forget my grief. But as I rise, the weight of my loss settles on me like a heavy blanket. I drag myself through the morning routine, often pausing at Alex’s photo on my dresser beside his urn. Some mornings, I greet him with a soft “good morning,” while others bring tears that threaten to spill before I can gather myself. Occasionally, I’m overwhelmed by sorrow before the day has even begun.
I have to prepare Leo for the day, pushing through the pain that accompanies me. As I pass by Alex’s closed bedroom door, I’m reminded he’s no longer here. Making my coffee, I remember how Alex used to help me with it when he was younger, excited to add “wub” (love) to it. I would bring the cup to him when he was too weak to join me, determined not to allow cancer to steal that little ritual from us.
Leo brings me immense joy. I hold on to our morning hugs a bit longer than necessary, tousle his hair, and shower him with affection. I indulge his breakfast requests, remembering how Alex used to sit in the same spot on the couch. As I pour juice, a shark-shaped water bottle tumbles out, and I can hear Alex’s voice say, “I wub my shark cup,” and it floods me with memories of the day he chose it.
Even two years later, I stumble upon remnants of Alex. Hidden beneath papers, I find drawings he made, and I tuck them away to revisit later. I come across notes with instructions for his medications and phone numbers of specialists who were part of our desperate fight to save him. Leo plays with toys that were once Alex’s, a bittersweet reminder of what was lost.
After work, I take Leo swimming, hoping to create joyful memories before school starts. We laugh and play, and I feel genuine pride in him. Yet, I can’t help but compare him to Alex, remembering how fearless he used to be. I envision Alex swimming and splashing beside Leo, a beautiful picture that comforts and pains me simultaneously. I carry these memories with me, picturing Alex in every joyful moment.
Recently, I’ve come to terms with how much time has passed since Alex’s death. Each day slips away, marked only by Leo growing taller in clothes that once belonged to his brother. Leo is now older than Alex ever was, yet I still see Alex as the big brother. As Leo prepares for his first day of Kindergarten, I am reminded of the milestones Alex never got to experience, and yes, we all wish he were here.
The back-to-school season is more challenging than the holidays. As I scroll through social media, I see images of children embarking on new adventures, each snapshot a painful reminder of what’s missing. I can’t enjoy Leo’s first day in the same way other parents do, weighed down by the knowledge that every achievement is shadowed by the absence of his brother.
When asked how many children I have, I navigate my response carefully, sometimes opting not to mention Alex to avoid discomfort. There’s no easy answer; a simple “I’m sorry” often feels insufficient in the face of such profound loss.
Casual conversations about parenting feel alien to me now. I listen while my mind wanders through memories of hospital visits and the harsh realities of illness. I reserve my deeper thoughts for Mike or other parents who understand this path.
At night, I still keep Alex’s toothbrush beside mine. I can’t bring myself to put it away, and occasionally, I pick it up, yearning for a connection to him. Mike and I attempt to comfort each other, aware that nothing can truly mend this wound. Each night, he kisses Alex’s ashes and we sleep with a “Ty doll” between us, a comfort that helps us cope with our loss.
There will never be a perfect day as a bereaved parent. That fact remains constant, regardless of how much we learn to cope or find joy in small things. The pain will never vanish; it will simply become a part of who we are. I miss my son every single day.
Summary
The journey of a grieving parent is a daily balancing act of joy and sorrow. As the two-year mark of her son Alex’s passing approaches, the author reflects on the profound impact of loss on her life and family. With her younger son Leo growing up, she navigates memories, rituals, and the bittersweet nature of parenting after loss. Each day brings challenges, with reminders of Alex present in the simplest of moments, underscoring the complexities of grief.