One mother's journey through the ultimate tragedy, the loss of a child
Author: Maggie Norton
I started this blog to help me express the intense grief that I am feeling after the loss of my eldest daughter, Courtney.
Courtney died instantly in a single-car accident on April 24, 2020, just 15 days after her 28th birthday.
The last few posts that were made didn’t show up on Facebook…and I don’t know what went wrong. Hopefully this fixes it.
Anyway, the dread of Christmas hit me today. It’s been creeping in over the last week or so, but it really hit me today. I wish it was already over. Another Christmas without you. That makes two. Is this how it’s going to be forever? Are the holidays just going to feel like something to get over with?
Yes, I am looking forward to PJ opening gifts, but oh, how I wish you could be there to cheer him on. I know you would have over-bought gifts for him this year….being his first Christmas that he really can participate in. I wish you could see him now…he reminds me of you kids so much…when y’all were small.
Damnit, I miss you. Oh how I have prayed for a do-over or a rewind. I wish you would just walk in the door on Christmas and say, just kidding! Oh how happy that would make me.
I missed you today but that’s nothing new, I missed you a million times yesterday too. I picked up my phone to tell you the news, then realised, again, I can’t text it to you.
I saw your bright smile, at least twenty times, and then I remember, it’s all in my mind. I drive without presence, the world feels surreal, And on comes your song and this doesn’t seem real.
I missed you today but I miss you a lot, It’s helpful to miss you, it’s all that I’ve got. I wish I could pull you down here for a while I’m frightened to lose the shape of your smile.
I miss you today and I’ll miss you tomorrow, There seems to be no coming end to this sorrow. I try to go on as I know that you care, I know that you’re willing me on from up there.
I miss you today but I’m trying to find, A way to move on but not leave you behind. A way to forge on with the love that we had, A way to recall you and simply feel…glad.
Grief feels like you are moving through a bad dream you can’t wake up from.
Grief is constantly asking “Why?” and knowing even if you had the answers they would never be good enough.
Grief is feeling lost in the places you have been before and being homesick for the past.
Grief feels like a deep ache that you can’t seem to pinpoint where it hurts…but the pain is there.
Grief is feeling a part of you went away with them on the day they died.
Grief is people saying lots of unhelpful things because they want you to feel better. Little do they know that when they say “They would want you to happy/strong” makes us feel that we are disappointing the ones we lost for feeling like we do.
Grief is just going through the motions of your day in a steady haze.
Grief is the constant tug of war of holding on tightly to what was and letting go of what might have been.
Grief is walking through a thick brain fog with your loss always on your mind but your daily tasks far from it.
Grief is Googling if how you are feeling is normal and desperately looking for a timelines for when you might be better. Being rushed by others to move on makes this even harder to heal on your own time.
Grief is having the overwhelming feeling of guilt for moving on without them or for things that were said or went unsaid.
Grief is comparing yourself to how others are grieving and wondering if you are doing it right.
Grief is losing that feeling of “being home”.
Grief is the feeling of being alone when you are with a group of people.
Grief shakes you to your core, spins you around and drops you off in the middle of wreckage exposing your vulnerability.
Grief is judging yourself for not being further than you are in your healing. Talk to yourself like you are consoling your best friend if they were going through the same thing.
Grief can make you feel anger and question your faith.
Grief can feel different from day to day even hour by hour. There are emotional ups and downs, drop offs, exhausting climbs and switch backs.
Grief is the tossing and turning of sleepless nights and just wanting some respite from your own thoughts.
Grief cant be outrun. It catches up with you. Feeling it (even the sharpest edges) is the only way through.
Grief can sometimes feel like looking at the world through a dark filter with the colors you used to love muted in comparison.
Grief is whispering “I miss you” and looking everywhere for a sign from them.
Grief is worrying that you will never feel normal and comfortable in your own life again.
Grief feels like just wanting a hug or a simple “I’m here for you” instead of people trying to rationalize your loss or try to fix how you are feeling.
Grief is the rude awakening that when your whole world world has stopped, the rest of the world keeps moving unscathed.
Grief feels like choosing to be alone because small talk is exhausting and being with people who can’t relate feels even more isolating.
Grief feels like suffocating on the reality that there will be no new memories so you hold on so tightly to the past.
Grief feels like backing out of plans because you aren’t sure how you will feel on that particular day.
Grief feels like fear. We have seen that life is fragile and that can bring out anxiety and panic attacks.
Grief is waking up in the morning and losing them all over again.
Grief is going about your everyday tasks and being hit with a wave of sadness and disbelief at the realization that they are gone.
Grief feels like being deep in dispair and for some time, it may feel like you don’t have a place in this world.
Grief feels like being back to the first day you lost them after hearing a particular song or driving past a place you enjoyed together.
Grief is feeling a little jealous of seeing others with their loved ones and envious of seeing people in their mundane lives.
Grief feels like dreading holidays and special events instead of how you used to look forward to them.
Grief is trying to pretend you are ok on the outside while feeling torn apart on the inside.
Grief is wanting others to mention their loved one and wishing people knew that it helps to hear their name and stories about them. They are never far from our minds anyways.
Grief is learning that these feelings are ever changing and it will be with us in some degree for the rest of our lives.
Grief is a measure of how much love you gave them while they were here so the pain is of losing them fills that empty space. In time, we learn how to live with that heaviness. The heartache begins to soften. Tears and smiles can coexist.
Grief is learning how to keep them close to us in other ways. The best memories can never die. And because of that, we will carry it with us until we see them again.
-I miss you every minute of every day. -I miss the smell of your skin, your goofy laugh and your joker’s smile. -I miss the little ways you made me feel like I was looking in a mirror and seeing a mini-me. -I miss your sometimes-crazy sense of style. -I miss your tattoos, your wild hairstyles, your piercings and the way you could command attention by just walking in the room. -I miss your hugs, your kisses and the way you would crawl in my lap, even at 28 years old, just like you did when you were little. -I miss your meddling through my things and asking if you could have something of mine you found that you liked. -I miss stroking the back of your hair when I hugged you goodbye. -I miss hearing “I love you, mom” and hearing you call me “mommy” or “madre”. -I miss you calling me to tell me about your day, to ask me adulting questions or to cry about a boy. -I miss you raiding my pantry and fridge. -I miss nagging you to take care of yourself or reminding you to do things that I knew you’d forget. -I miss hearing you say, “I know mom!” when I exasperated you. -I miss a hundred thousand other things.
I just miss YOU.
-I wish you didn’t have to leave me so soon! -I wish we still had time. -I wish I could go back to March 2020, knowing what I know now. -I wish I would have called you that day, but I didn’t want to bug you. -I wish you would have made it to the guardrail. -I wish you would’ve just gone home that night. -I wish I would’ve been with you. -I wish you were here.
I just wish for YOU.
-It hurts my heart to know that I will never watch you get married or see you turn 30…or give birth to my grandchild, and what a beautiful child that would have been! -It hurts my heart that I won’t get to see you buy a house, pay off a car, settle into a career or get a gray hair. -It hurts my heart to know that these thoughts will haunt me for the rest of my life.
My heart just hurts for YOU.
But I want to say thank you.
-Thank you for the 28 years I got to spend with you. -Thank you for making me become a mom. -Thank you for showing me how to be a mom you could be proud of. -Thank you for showing me how to be strong, so that maybe I can make it through this life without you. -Thank you for teaching me that though parenting isn’t always easy, it’s always worth it.
Things are starting to move in a positive direction, whether I want them to or not.
I completed a Calculus III course and somehow managed to make a B in the class, work is getting better every day, we’re slowly getting things fixed around the house, your baby nephew is walking now, Jill is about to spread her wings, your brother got a new job, Ashley is killin’ it at the mom thing.
All these parts of life, my life, your family’s life, all these parts are in motion.
Without you. Why did you have to go?
I know if you were here, everything would be better, every milestone a bit sweeter, ever accomplishment would mean just a little bit more. But instead, for me at least, you not being here to share in these moments just puts a damper on them all.
And what makes matters worse….
Everyone has moved on.
Everyone has forgotten.
I put on a vigil for you on the 24th and no one came, but your blood siblings, your pa-pa and two of Ashley’s best friends. No one else. None of the over a 100 people who came to your funeral during the height of Covid….no one. Those who were out of state or can’t drive at night anymore get a pass, but come on.
You deserve so much more, baby, and I’m sorry.
Just know you were MY world every day you were on this earth and I love you and think about you every day. I can hide my grief almost perfectly now, but it’s still there every minute. You meant everything to me and I’ll never let you go…or forget.
I wish it would have been me instead of you. You deserved a beautiful life and I know you would have gotten it.
It’s been awhile since I posted on here, life has just gotten in the way. I have created so many distractions to try to avoid feeling the pain of missing you, that I can barely keep up with them all. And you know what? It doesn’t work.
Today, a lot of those feelings came pouring out and my eyes are so sore from all the tears I’ve shed for you today. I can’t believe you would have been 29 years old today. I can’t believe you’re not here for it. I can’t believe all this isn’t just a nightmare.
It’s been almost a year since you’ve been gone, but I still can’t imagine living the rest of my life without you in it. I hope it goes quick. I’m about ready to get it over with. I’m tired of faking it. I’m tired of the distractions. If a beautiful life can be cut short so suddenly, then what’s the point? Ok, enough about that.
I just miss you so much. I think about you constantly, trying to make sense of it all….but there’s no sense to it. It’s not fair that you’re gone. And it’s not fair you have to miss out on so much.
Just know this…I love you more than you could ever know…and I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from the world. And most of all, I’m just sorry you’re not here…with me.
The best way I can describe grieving over a child as time goes by is to say it’s similar to carrying a stone in your pocket.
When you walk, the stone brushes against your skin. You feel it. You always feel it. But depending on the way you stand or the way your body moves, the smooth edges might barely graze your body.
Sometimes you lean the wrong way or you turn too quickly and a sharp edge pokes you. Your eyes water and you rub your wound but you have to keep going because not everyone knows about your stone or if they do, they don’t realize it can still bring this much pain.
There are days you are simply happy now, smiling comes easy and you laugh without thinking. You slap your leg during that laughter and you feel your stone and aren’t sure whether you should be laughing still. The stone still hurts.
Once in a while you can’t take your hand off that stone. You run it over your fingers and roll it in your palm and are so preoccupied by it’s weight, you forget things like your car keys and home address. You try to leave it alone but you just can’t. You want to take a nap but it’s been so long since you’ve called in “sad” you’re not sure anyone would understand anymore or if they ever did.
But most days you can take your hand in and out of your pocket, feel your stone and even smile at its unwavering presence. You’ve accepted this stone as your own, crossing your hands over it, saying “mine” as children do.
You rest more peacefully than you once did, you’ve learned to move forward the best you can. Some days you want to show the world what a beautiful memory you’re holding. But most days you twirl it through your fingers, smile and look to the sky. You squeeze your hands together and hope you are living in a way that honors the missing piece you carry, until your arms are full again.
I stare at your face in the pictures of you that I have all around…and it’s like I get the physical feeling of a hand, with razor sharp nails, ripping my heart out of my chest in one swift motion.
How can you really be gone?!
Are you really NEVER coming back?!
How is that right?
I put so much into you. Everything I had, really. Hell, you needed everything I had, so I tried to give you the world. All of that couldn’t have been for nothing, could it?
Jesus, kid. I’m hurting here and I can’t make it stop. I need it to stop. Please. Make. It. Stop.
It’s Christmas Day, 1:00am. I can’t sleep, as usual. I just want today to be over. It doesn’t feel right, without her here, but I have to go through the motions.
I know it won’t be super sad, because PJ will be there, but still. Seeing him unwrap his gifts (or try to) will be bittersweet. I wonder what Courtney would have got for him? I k ow she would have spent too much and hogged him the whole day. I know she’d want to be the one to “help” him tear the paper. I know she’d be spending the whole day on the floor with him.
It felt so weird not including her in the Christmas shopping this year. I missed trying to come up with the perfect gift for her that would have put that look on her face like “Man, my mom gets me and I am loved.” I missed nagging her for spending too much. I missed her begging me to tell her what I got everyone else. I have just missed HER and today, it will be magnified.
Michael and I went out the scene of the accident last night and took her a new marker, roses and a sad looking little tree. We rearranged everything and it looks nice. When lights hit her cross it shows her name in shadows on the wall. I know she would think that was cool. At least I felt like I got her something this year, even though it’s the worst feeling to give THAT to your child. Ugh.
For today, I’m going to try to suck it up and try to curb the tears until after everyone leaves. Maybe I’ll just crawl in bed once the do, so I can sleep the rest of the day away. I know she wouldn’t want that, but it’s all I can do.
If only….once the knocks and doorbell rings start, as the kids start to arrive, one of them could be her! It would be the best Christmas present of all for her to just walk in the door and say, “Surprise, Mom…I’m here! Merry Christmas!” But I know that’s not going to happen…and that breaks my heart.
Eight months without her has just seemed like an eternity. I can’t imagine what living the rest of my life is going to be like….
I wonder if she knows just how shattered she left her momma. How badly she has broken me. I wonder if she knows just how much I love her. I wonder….
Unfortunately bereaved parents get judged often. By those who know us and by those who don’t. We are often criticized and pathologized for grieving (for remembering our child.) People erroneously think we are stuck, depressed, and/or clinically-something, if we still cry, ache, and miss our child; if we still remember them; if we continue speaking their name and grieving for them– especially if the grieving has been going on “too long.” Too long could mean 3 months, 6 months, a year– a decade, or longer. It couldn’t possibly be healthy to grieve THAT long, right?
Wrong. We will grieve forever because we love forever. There is no end to our love for our child, therefore there is no end to our grief– not in our lifetime, anyway. We will grieve forever. We will never get over it.
The presumption is that since our child’s death happened some time ago– a presumably finite event– how are we not over it by now? As if child loss is something you can get over– likening it to something far less horrific that can be conquered if you only try hard enough, think positively, or pull yourself up by the bootstraps.
As if it’s a hurdle you can easily jump over, or a roadblock you can simply go around and then move on. As if sunshine, rainbows and unicorns will magically greet you once enough time has passed and you cross into “I’m-over-it” land. This may work for other things, but not child loss.
It’s time to bust a long-standing myth about child loss and grief. There is no getting over it. Child loss is not something you get over. Ever.. 💔
You don’t get over watching the living, breathing piece of your heart and soul, your flesh and blood, your child– die. It’s simply not. possible. to get over the death of your child. You will grieve the death of your child until your last breath.
It is said that the decision to have a child is “to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”
When your child dies your heart is obliterated, broken beyond repair. When your child dies, a huge part of you dies, too. And there is no getting that part back again. Over time you can try to put the pieces of yourself back together again, but they don’t fit the same. There are huge pieces missing, no matter what you do. No matter how long it’s been.
The pain– visible or not– is with us every breath and every step we take, every second of every day. The scars never heal. We are not defined by child loss, but we are certainly marked by it. Forever.
Normal died the day our child did. There is no guidebook for how to survive, or how to grieve. No formula. No roadmap. No start here, end there.
The truth is bereaved parents will grieve the loss of their child until their last breath. It may seem confusing why bereaved parents do the things we do; how we’ve chosen to survive and navigate life post-tragedy.
From outside of grief, it likely won’t make sense to an onlooker. The good news is, if you don’t understand, breathe a deep sigh of relief and remember one thing: you’re so fortunate (blessed/lucky/_) you don’t.
Ultimately to understand means to be bereaved. Which we wouldn’t wish on our worst enemy. We hope no one else truly understands. Ever.
We would have given our life one million times over + infinity to save our child– but, unfortunately we weren’t given that choice. And so, for the rest of our lives, we have to learn how to live with the pain. A pain that is so excruciating, so much like torture, so unimaginable, there’s not even an apt word for it in the English language.
We trip over grief just when we thought we had it contained, figured out, put away, managed. We fall into grief potholes when we least expect it.
We become adept at carrying it, stuffing it, hiding it places.
It leaks from our eyes when we least expect it. We sob in the shower, the car, on the bathroom floor. We dry our tears, put our masks back on, so we can move and be and live in the world, to the best of our ability.
Grief steals the person we used to be, and we grieve that, too. The person staring back at us in the mirror becomes almost unrecognizable. We wish we could be who we used to be, too.
We are broken, but there is no fix for our heartache.
We carry it with us, always. Grief exhausts us to the bone. There is no reprieve. No minute, hour, or day off from being a bereaved parent. Once a bereaved parent, always a bereaved parent. There is no going back.
Even during happy or joyful moments, the pain and sadness is always there. A permanent undercurrent, a pulse of pain.
We learn how to carry it all: the joy, the pain, the love, the sadness. Eventually we become an expert at carrying it all.
The moment our child died is now, yesterday, tomorrow, forever. It is the past, the present, and the future. It was not just one finite horrific moment in time that happened last whenever. It is not just the moment, the hour, the second, the millisecond our life became permanently divided into before and after.
You might say, “But she died last year!” Or 10 years ago, or five. No. No, she didn’t.
Our child dies all over again every morning we wake up.
And again every moment they are (yet again) missing. And again every moment in between. And again every breath we take.
Our child dies again every moment they are not here with us– for the rest of our lives.
The truth of this fact is almost impossible to express. How many deaths can one parent endure?
For the rest of our lives we will struggle to accept and understand this very fact: our child is dead. And in the incessant replay of our minds our child will keep dying all over again for the rest of our lives.
This is child loss. It is never over. It is always happening. Again and again and again.
We live and relive it. It is now, yesterday, tomorrow– forever.
Just like our love for our child is now, yesterday, tomorrow, forever. It spans both directions. There is no end.
Please remember this next time you hear someone tell a bereaved parent they are dwelling, stuck, depressed, not moving on; that they should just hurry up and get over it– or any other common judgment or misconception.
Our pain, our love, and our child cannot be watered down to such phrases, such shallow summations. It does not even begin to capture or express the reality of our day-to-day lives, nor the eternal ache and love in our hearts.
To understand child loss, you have to think about every second, minute, hour, day, month and year a bereaved parent has to live without their precious child– a lifetime— not just the finite moment in time their child died.
Every missed milestone, every heart beat, every breath without them, hurts. It hurts now, now and now. It will still be painful 10 and 20 years from now. It will remain an ever-present ache in our heart, soul, mind and body always– until our very last breath.
Child loss is never over. It is a loss that spans a bereaved parent’s entire life.
This is why we will never, ever, get over it. Because “it” is our precious, irreplaceable child. There is no getting over it. There is only love (and pain) to be bravely and courageously carried– for a lifetime.
Dancing in the Sky 