“Funny how our hearts were designed to love so fiercely but break ever so gently.” ― Sanober Khan

I’ve thought often about why Dermot died, why it happened to me, why it happened to him. I’ve pondered this daily, sometimes hourly since the accident. This wasn’t something any of us deserved, this cosmic retribution. Certainly it wasn’t something Dermot deserved. Ultimately, there is no reason other than it was a cruel, horrific tragedy.

I’ve wondered if we were meant to share our experience to help others move through the extraordinary pain those who have lost a child feel. I’ve wondered if I was meant to take something about Dermot, his love of art or his kindness and create something that could help others. I’ve wondered if it was a calling to try and be a better, kinder person, more Dermot if you will.

The pain of losing a child is unimaginable to most, but so is to the difficulty in understanding how profoundly it changes you. To lose a child is to forever alter the fiber of your being. The memories, the shared times, the reminders of what will be are no more. No celebrations, no milestones to mark. There will always be that empty seat at the table or the person missing from the family photo. There will always be the unanswerable what-ifs.

A friend shared this quote from a book she was reading and said it made her think of me.

“Anything and anyone could disappear on you, and you could disappear, too, if you didn’t have people around who really knew you. Who were there solidly, meeting you exactly where you stood when life grew stormy and terrifying. Who could find you when you were lost and couldn’t find yourself, not even in the mirror”

Grief has a way of defining you if you allow it. It is a daily struggle to not let the relentless sadness determine who I am.

Grief has changed me in ways I would not have imagined. It has made me appreciate friends more. It has helped me see that the qualities that defined Dermot - kindness, thoughtfulness and selflessness are qualities I also share. At the same time, it has removed my filter, the one that kept me from responding out of politeness. I have less patience now, for pettiness and for the people who try and “help”, help by chastising me for still grieving or accuse me of not "being there” for my other children. Be careful, I bite now, you will hear exactly what I think.

It has changed how people look at me. I have a new title to add to the many others I carry, Grieving Mother. I’m put on a pedestal, walled off in a glass box. I’m left out of events and activities because I’m too delicate or it wouldn’t seem appropriate. Worse, I’m no longer privy to my friend’s own struggles out of fear it is too much for me or their experience could never compare to what I am going through.

Here’s the truth, pain is pain and loss is loss. The only comparison you ever need to make is within yourself. Until this summer, my most painful experience was losing my mom. The fact is, it was at that moment. If you are hurting, it doesn’t matter if someone else’s pain seems greater than yours, it just doesn’t. Let friends support you and you support them, that’s pretty much the fucking point of life.

The real question is not why, but how, how do I move forward now.