Not a week goes by that I don't think about Riley. Though now, the long-sobbing has mostly been replaced by short times of teary-eyed staring into space. I believe I will never understand "Why?" There is no answer to "why?" And I appreciate every varied expression of sympathy anyone ever said to me, no matter how awkward. Any words, or touch, or facial expression which makes any effort to share my pain, helps me bear this burden. What doesn't help is ... silence. Here's what I recall thinking and feeling from that horrible season of grief.
What doesn't help, what even hurts, is when a "friend" just thinks "well, this is uncomfortable. I'll just ignore your pain. I'll stop calling you. I'll avoid you, because your pain makes me uncomfortable." It is true that nothing you say will make me feel better. But, ANY effort you make to show that my hurt causes you to hurt too, is exactly the thing I need from my friend right now.
Don't try to be original, or wise, or my counselor. It's not helpful to hear vain wisdom like "He's in a better place" or "God must've needed another angel."
But don't be silent. Say something, or do something. What's that you say? You are "sorry for my loss?" Thank you, my friend. "There are no words?" Yeah, I feel that way too, thanks. "I don't know what to say?" You and me both, brother. I really appreciate your call. Or maybe you don't speak, but you step close to me, put your hand on my shoulder, or a hug, and look into my eyes with sadness. Yes, I can see that you are hurting for me. I can read your heart through your silent touch, and your eye-contact. God bless you. Thanks for being here for me. That means a lot!
A phone call, or a card in the mail, or send me some photos you took of my son; these are all welcome, appreciated, precious to me.
I respect that you are just as mute and clueless as I am.
I think we humans simply feel awkward and baffled on how to say anything. One of the ways that healed that for me was to have my husband’s mom die in our home from her advanced lung cancer while under our daily care. I will say it was an honor to be part of her last months. But nothing can compare to the immediacy and raw brutality of sudden death. And most particularly that of a child.
There was an horrific car crash locally where six girls aged 14 and 16 smashed into a tree. I believe four died. The community mourns, but the edges are jagged. There really isn’t a ‘why’ that makes a lick of sense.
I’m sorry you have to feel this endless grief. Know your fellow humans also experience grief, and in that soft sense of silence, we share it with you.
One of the men who came to the party where we celebrated Riley’s life (after his viewing at the funeral home) was a pastor.
He and I spoke for a few minutes privately. I don't want to be rude or cynical to pastors, but I was nervous that he would say something stupid and terrible like: “It’s all part of God’s plan” or something else totally unhelpful and insulting.
Instead, he shocked me by saying: “It isn't supposed to be this way. Children shouldn't die before their parents.”
I really appreciated that. I was surprised to hear someone who is “supposed to have the answers” simply come out and say the truth and not try to be “right” or have the answers, anything like that. He just sat with me in pain. I will never forget that.
The death of a child is a tragedy. Always.
We don't need to be brave or rough or stoic or anything. He just mourned with me.
I haven’t experienced the death of a parent yet, but what you say makes sense. (Also, I’m sorry for your loss.)
>>>I even feel like what I’m writing here is unhelpful or inconclusive. I don’t have any way to wrap it up nicely with a bow. There’s no big lesson to share or nugget of wisdom for anyone reading to take away.<<<
I spent much of the winter going through a cancer scare. For a week, I was unsure if I would be alive to see 2026. After certain diagnoses were ruled out, I spent another two months unsure if I'd live to see 2030. Now, my prognosis is much improved, and it's likely my life will be mostly unaffected.
The ending of my story is much happier than yours but I still relate to what you said here. I too feel that I should have gained some wisdom or perspective from my experience, and that my apparent lack thereof is another small tragedy in itself. Like a story without an ending.
This was in my feed and I wanted to reach out as a fellow member of a club nobody wants to be a part of.
It doesn’t get easier or better but it gets different
Keep telling stories about Riley and keeping his name alive.
Sending you lots of love, peace and positive memories.
My sister (Mary Anne) died almost 12 years ago after a ferocious battle with anorexia. She was artistic and creative and one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.
Thank you for sharing. I’ve always believed that most people possess a cognoscente sense of fairness. Beyond a shadow of any doubt, what you and your family have experienced in the loss of your brother Riley is the most unfair. The most backward. The most wrong. A suffering that no one in their right mind would wish upon their worst enemy. I can only imagine that you often sit with the emptiness, the anger, and the never ending onslaught of questions that will never be answered. I would never purport to give instruction in such a scenario. The only thing I could possibly hazard is to share what has helped me. I’ve been no stranger to attempting to fill profound voids with things more destructive than the emptiness itself. Life is a precious, delicate, finite, fleeting gift. The loss of someone we love unconditionally is the cruelest of ways the universe could possibly choose to reinforce that upon us. So we hurtle ourselves over and over into the fray; oftentimes a feeble, flailing attempt at resuming something akin to normalcy. We honor the fond memories with a smile when we’re able… and with tears of lament when we can’t. Whatever you feel, whenever you feel it, there can never be shame in having loved so hard.
You’ll never be okay with it. Of course not! A loss that profound, that unexpected, that sudden, well, it’s like a body blow that staggers you off track for maybe forever. I’m sorry you lost your brother Riley. I hope the memory of that remarkable cherubic smile stays with you. And you hug Austin extra special tight.
Not a week goes by that I don't think about Riley. Though now, the long-sobbing has mostly been replaced by short times of teary-eyed staring into space. I believe I will never understand "Why?" There is no answer to "why?" And I appreciate every varied expression of sympathy anyone ever said to me, no matter how awkward. Any words, or touch, or facial expression which makes any effort to share my pain, helps me bear this burden. What doesn't help is ... silence. Here's what I recall thinking and feeling from that horrible season of grief.
What doesn't help, what even hurts, is when a "friend" just thinks "well, this is uncomfortable. I'll just ignore your pain. I'll stop calling you. I'll avoid you, because your pain makes me uncomfortable." It is true that nothing you say will make me feel better. But, ANY effort you make to show that my hurt causes you to hurt too, is exactly the thing I need from my friend right now.
Don't try to be original, or wise, or my counselor. It's not helpful to hear vain wisdom like "He's in a better place" or "God must've needed another angel."
But don't be silent. Say something, or do something. What's that you say? You are "sorry for my loss?" Thank you, my friend. "There are no words?" Yeah, I feel that way too, thanks. "I don't know what to say?" You and me both, brother. I really appreciate your call. Or maybe you don't speak, but you step close to me, put your hand on my shoulder, or a hug, and look into my eyes with sadness. Yes, I can see that you are hurting for me. I can read your heart through your silent touch, and your eye-contact. God bless you. Thanks for being here for me. That means a lot!
A phone call, or a card in the mail, or send me some photos you took of my son; these are all welcome, appreciated, precious to me.
I respect that you are just as mute and clueless as I am.
I think we humans simply feel awkward and baffled on how to say anything. One of the ways that healed that for me was to have my husband’s mom die in our home from her advanced lung cancer while under our daily care. I will say it was an honor to be part of her last months. But nothing can compare to the immediacy and raw brutality of sudden death. And most particularly that of a child.
There was an horrific car crash locally where six girls aged 14 and 16 smashed into a tree. I believe four died. The community mourns, but the edges are jagged. There really isn’t a ‘why’ that makes a lick of sense.
I’m sorry you have to feel this endless grief. Know your fellow humans also experience grief, and in that soft sense of silence, we share it with you.
One of the men who came to the party where we celebrated Riley’s life (after his viewing at the funeral home) was a pastor.
He and I spoke for a few minutes privately. I don't want to be rude or cynical to pastors, but I was nervous that he would say something stupid and terrible like: “It’s all part of God’s plan” or something else totally unhelpful and insulting.
Instead, he shocked me by saying: “It isn't supposed to be this way. Children shouldn't die before their parents.”
I really appreciated that. I was surprised to hear someone who is “supposed to have the answers” simply come out and say the truth and not try to be “right” or have the answers, anything like that. He just sat with me in pain. I will never forget that.
The death of a child is a tragedy. Always.
We don't need to be brave or rough or stoic or anything. He just mourned with me.
I haven’t experienced the death of a parent yet, but what you say makes sense. (Also, I’m sorry for your loss.)
"And I still can’t believe he’s really gone.
And my life has changed forever.
And I’m still not okay with it.
And I’m still heartbroken.
And I’m still not over it."
Same, here. Same. Love you 💕
>>>I even feel like what I’m writing here is unhelpful or inconclusive. I don’t have any way to wrap it up nicely with a bow. There’s no big lesson to share or nugget of wisdom for anyone reading to take away.<<<
I spent much of the winter going through a cancer scare. For a week, I was unsure if I would be alive to see 2026. After certain diagnoses were ruled out, I spent another two months unsure if I'd live to see 2030. Now, my prognosis is much improved, and it's likely my life will be mostly unaffected.
The ending of my story is much happier than yours but I still relate to what you said here. I too feel that I should have gained some wisdom or perspective from my experience, and that my apparent lack thereof is another small tragedy in itself. Like a story without an ending.
I am sorry for your loss, thanks for sharing.
This was in my feed and I wanted to reach out as a fellow member of a club nobody wants to be a part of.
It doesn’t get easier or better but it gets different
Keep telling stories about Riley and keeping his name alive.
Sending you lots of love, peace and positive memories.
My sister (Mary Anne) died almost 12 years ago after a ferocious battle with anorexia. She was artistic and creative and one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.
Thank you for sharing. I’ve always believed that most people possess a cognoscente sense of fairness. Beyond a shadow of any doubt, what you and your family have experienced in the loss of your brother Riley is the most unfair. The most backward. The most wrong. A suffering that no one in their right mind would wish upon their worst enemy. I can only imagine that you often sit with the emptiness, the anger, and the never ending onslaught of questions that will never be answered. I would never purport to give instruction in such a scenario. The only thing I could possibly hazard is to share what has helped me. I’ve been no stranger to attempting to fill profound voids with things more destructive than the emptiness itself. Life is a precious, delicate, finite, fleeting gift. The loss of someone we love unconditionally is the cruelest of ways the universe could possibly choose to reinforce that upon us. So we hurtle ourselves over and over into the fray; oftentimes a feeble, flailing attempt at resuming something akin to normalcy. We honor the fond memories with a smile when we’re able… and with tears of lament when we can’t. Whatever you feel, whenever you feel it, there can never be shame in having loved so hard.
You’ll never be okay with it. Of course not! A loss that profound, that unexpected, that sudden, well, it’s like a body blow that staggers you off track for maybe forever. I’m sorry you lost your brother Riley. I hope the memory of that remarkable cherubic smile stays with you. And you hug Austin extra special tight.
Thank you. 😭❤️
I think your right about nothing anyone says will make it better. I'm sorry.