Dead Kids Club

 Dead Kids Club. 

That's what we call it. For advertisement purposes it's called Bereaved Parents Support Group, but for those of us who are in it, that's too soft. The word "bereavement" is too pretty. It's too gentle. It can't do justice to the visceral, guttural anguish we experience over and over again as parents whose children never age. 

It's been a heavy week. It could be the weird moon. It could be because it gets dark too early and we're all gearing up for our collective seasonal depression. But the truth is, when you're in this club, you don't really need a reason for things to be heavy. No special anniversary has to be on the horizon for it to be harder to breathe. You don't have to be "reminded" in order to feel that white hot surge of pain deep in your chest. It just comes. And eventually it's as natural to our existence as walking. 

As a nurse, especially in my current role, I have lots of opportunities to meet patients in some of the most trying times of their lives. As a grieving parent, I often find myself among new "club" members far too often. This was a week where all parts of me seemed to have been highlighting the heaviness of grief. It's odd as a grieving person when you're able to take on difficult conversations and do so with such clarity and purpose because sometimes random, ordinary days will come along and a slight breeze will push me to my knees. I'm often surprised by the body's response to grief and the way it holds it, almost as if to "keep it safe" until later. 

I wasn't sure what I needed tonight. Did I need to talk through the week's experiences in detail? No, that didn't feel right. Anytime I tried, I felt like the energy required to open my mouth and speak was more than I could handle. Did I need to cry? Not necessarily, although sometimes that's helpful. So what was it that I needed? I needed my people. I needed that group of hearts that were just as shattered as mine is. I needed to say "out there", unhinged, heinous shit and watch them not blink an eye, but instead nod along in silence. There is such a strange gratitude for your fellow grieving parents. While you'd give literally anything not to know this pain and wish they didn't know it either, there is this deep, lasting comfort in being held in the gaze of another broken parent. 

I don't know why any of us had to belong to this bullshit club. I'm not sure our paths would have crossed otherwise, and while we cherish our connections, not one of us would give up the opportunity to go back, change the past, and NOT be one of the people sitting in those chairs tonight. Because that isn't possible, we'll continue to cling to one another. We'll continue to fully understand when one of us talks about how life is too long and that if tomorrow never comes we'd be ok with that. There are no concerned looks. No embarrassed faces. None of them avoid my eyes and try to pretend like I don't exist in an "uncomfortable" moment. It's them that I needed. I needed my people. I needed...

The Dead Kids Club.