As my husband and I sat on the living room sofa, we were at a loss.
All we could do was stare at each other helplessly. Our child (they/them) was in their bedroom, screaming, wailing, sobbing, and crying out to the Universe for recompense.
When either one of us tried to intervene, we were met with refusal. They didn’t want to be comforted.
We were grieving the loss of our beloved canine family member of 13 years, Bella. It is always difficult to lose a pet, but we had just gone through this grief only two months before when our other dog, Tucker passed away.
There was barely time to catch our breath before we were collectively swept away in another tidal wave of sadness.
Our child was taking it very hard. Bella was still with us, but she was letting us know that it wouldn’t be long before she was gone. She was lethargic and shaking.
She wanted to be near us, but she refused to eat or drink anything. She was saying goodbye to us as we were beginning the mourning process.
In awe, we watched our child experience an incredible gamut of emotions. They rapidly cycled through rage, sadness, frustration, confusion, and love within the space of a few minutes.
Then the cycle would begin again.
They said that they wanted to destroy something. Recognizing that we wanted to allow our child a healthy space to express these feelings, we allowed them to throw some eggs into a cardboard box in the garage. Then they decided that they wanted to rip up the box. They wanted to be alone while they let off their steam.
When they came back inside, they seemed to feel better.
They cuddled Bella and murmured sweet words of comfort in an innocent way that is only available to children.
Then they cycled back through the most intense emotions and went into their room, throwing pillows and screaming into the mattress. Any parent can relate to the sense of discord that comes with a child’s emotional outburst. It is difficult to control your reaction to their intensity.
In this case, my husband and I were experiencing the intensity of grief alongside our child.
We listened helplessly as they asked “why, why why” over and over. We had an unspoken pact to stand vigil as they worked through this in their way. There was nothing else to be done.
Then, as if by magic, the commotion in the other room stopped.
They were ready to be comforted. I laid with them in their bed and held them. We all cried together. This created enough space for a brief reprieve into normalcy as we went through the motions of our typical night routine.
They were exhausted.
We all were.
We weren’t sure Bella would make it through the night, but she did. We made the difficult decision to take her to the vet and end her suffering.
It was incredible to witness the change in our child the next morning. Even as they said goodbye in earnest, it was with peace and clarity of intention. There were no more tears.
In the weeks since Bella’s passing,
I have been ambushed by bouts of grief. It has jump-scared me at inconvenient times. I feel spontaneous waves of sadness and near despair.
My child, however, has brought up their sadness and expressed how much they miss Bella, but I have not seen them overcome by grief in the same way.
My husband observed this too, and we both marveled at how our child allowed themselves to feel the flood of emotion on Bella’s last night. They did not try to suppress anything. They did not try to stifle the good, the bad, or the ugly. In the aftermath, they were handling their grief with an incredible amount of poise and ease.
There were times that I thought my heart would explode as I was listening to the soundtrack of their agony. I desperately wanted to intervene, to make everything better. I realize now that putting a stop to their process, although done with the best of intentions, would have taken away their instinctive self-management.
It would have made me feel better and more in control of this situation, but it would not have been beneficial to them.
My child is deeply sensitive. They are empathic and tender-hearted. I am torn between wishing that they would develop some calluses around their heart to protect them from the harsh world and doing everything I can to preserve their sweet sensitivity.
It got me thinking about all of the emotions that I have not allowed myself to feel. All of the times I held back my tears, tried not to appear too excited, or held back my joy so as not to make a scene.
I started to wonder what would be different about my life if I were a little more trusting of the natural ebb and flow of my energy and emotions. I am fearful of my grief. I am worried that it will drown me if I let go and feel it.
How different would life be if we allowed ourselves to be human and feel our damn feelings?
Parenting is a tough road. I am constantly second-guessing myself and losing sleep about the best way to usher these little souls into adulthood. I’m so focused on teaching, guiding, and supporting them that it often takes me by surprise when they teach me something.
The moral of the story is this: There is no shortcut to getting through grief. The only way out is through.
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