I'm Sorry is Fine

"How do you go on?"

"You're so strong!"

"I could never live through that. I don't know how you do it!"

"I can imagine how you must feel."

"Everything happens for a reason."

"He's in a better place now."

Read those statements again, and promise me something. Promise me that you will never say anything remotely like that to a grieving parent.

It was a day that I will never forget. On March 6, 2015, my entire world was destroyed. It was a day like any other at first. We had only one car, so my husband (my fiancée at the time) had to take me to work.

Our fourteen month old son lay sleeping in his bed. We couldn't afford a crib, so he slept in a playpen. Our two month old daughter was wide awake. She had been wide awake most of the night. If you have kids, you know how that is!

We had a three bedroom mobile home. Our oldest son had a room, but he usually preferred to sleep on the couch in the living room. His two sisters shared a room, and the babies slept in our room with us. That meant that a fussy night for the youngest was a sleepless night for her big brother.

That fateful morning, I said something that I will regret for the rest of my life. "Let him sleep." I thought I was doing what was best for our baby boy - letting him sleep instead of dressing him and taking him with us to drop me at work. Our oldest son was seventeen and more than capable of keeping an eye on a sleeping toddler.

We bundled up the baby, put her in the car, and drove me to work. It took about an hour, give or take, to drive me to work and drive back home. Within that small window of time, our lives were changed forever.

I got the call not more than a few minutes after settling into my chair in front of my computer. Something was wrong, and I needed to get home. Our neighbor wouldn't tell me on the phone what was wrong, but I heard sirens in the background.

I called my husband and told him to hurry home. He figured it was something like one of the boys being sick or a problem in the neighborhood. He was a little short with me.

A little while later, he called me. Our home was on fire, and our baby boy was inside! Our oldest had tried to get him out but couldn't. I threw the phone. I screamed. I threw up. I don't know what else. I remember that my coworker called my dad to come pick me up. Other coworkers came in and tried to comfort me and prayed for me.

Another call from my husband. He was crying.

"What's going on?! Is he dead? Is my little boy dead?!"

One word... "Yes."

I don't remember much after that. Somehow, I wound up riding back "home" in my dad's truck. There were firetrucks, police cars, and the blood thirsty local reporters gathered around our neighborhood.

I wanted my baby. Where was my baby? They wouldn't let me run to him. He was in that room, still in his bed. They wouldn't let me go to him. They said he was gone.

I've been told what happened after that. Apparently, I collapsed. The aforementioned blood thirsty reporters tried to get footage of my world ending there on the driveway pavement. Someone pushed them aside and didn't allow it.

At some point, we found ourselves all together - my husband, our four remaining children, and me - in a hospital. I have vague memories of that. Then, we somehow were in a motel. I don't know how.

It was soon after that when the "I'm so sorry" comments started. Those, I can deal with just fine. I feel like those are well meant and that people really are sorry to know what happened to us.

It's the other comments that make me want to scream and, honestly, become a bit violent. It's been years since this all happened, but the moronic comments continue.

How do I go on? What does that even mean? I didn't realize I had much choice in the matter. I go on because I wake up and continue to breathe. I have children who depend on me. I go on because I have to!

I am not "so strong." I am weak. I am a mess. I grieve daily for my little boy. To say that I am so strong is to say that my feelings aren't raw and my heart isn't permanently shattered. Believe me, it is! I am not strong.

You could never "live" through that? You don't know how I do it? Are you implying that you love your children more than I love mine? To me, that's how it sounds. Don't ever tell a grieving parent that you don't know how they do it like living in grief is some sort of magic trick. We don't have a choice but to live through it.

No - you can't imagine how I feel. It would take a pretty twisted mind to imagine such horror. Stephen King himself couldn't come up with a more terrifying and sickening predicament. I lost my child! Unless you've been there, you have no idea how I feel!

Everything happens for a reason? I'm here to tell you that it absolutely does not. Sometimes, bad things happen. What "reason" could ever possibly justify the death of my perfect little boy? There is none.

It seems inconceivable to think that someone would tell me that my son's in a better place only moments after losing him, doesn't it? Yet, there they were. Smiling "reassuringly" and telling me he's better now. What better place for MY son to be but in MY arms? I believe in God. I know that Jesus holds my little boy. With that being said, don't tell me my son is in a better place. It took me years of grasping onto the shreds of my faith to regain that confidence and trust in the Almighty again.

My story is long and tragic. I've given you only a brief look into the life of a grieving mom. If you've lost a child, you are not alone. We are a club that shouldn't exist, and it - if I may say so- SUCKS! If you haven't lost a child but encounter someone who has, please, in the name of all that is Holy, do not utter any of those asinine phrases to them!

If you want to comfort a grieving parent, just be present. Acknowledge us, our child, and our grief. It's fine to say you're sorry for what we're going through. Leave it at that.