I’ve come to the conclusion that there are worse things in life than death. The fact that life must go on despite death is even crueler than death itself. I know that sounds cynical, but it’s a fact I’ve come to terms with. Life goes on, whether you want it to or not.
I wanted to die right there with Ethan, but couldn’t. I had two small children who needed me, and I had to keep myself together for their sake. Losing my baby made me equally weak and strong. His death made me realize just how vulnerable my heart really was, but it also helped me discover my inner strength. Life is never the same when you lose someone you love. People try their best to console you, but eventually you grieve alone. The funeral ends, flowers die, condolence cards stop coming in the mail, the phone calls cease and, eventually, life goes on for seemingly everyone but you. It’s up to you to keep your sanity in check.
Life threw me a huge lemon, and somehow I had to figure out how to make lemonade. Ethan’s death was the first “real loss” I had ever experienced, making it all the more traumatizing. Parents aren’t supposed to outlive their children. A lot of days I had to force myself to get out of bed. My body was still producing milk, and I nearly burst into tears every time I felt the sensation of let-down. I no longer had a baby to nourish, and it broke my heart. I tried my best to hide my tears from my boys, but they knew. They would cry too sometimes, though I don’t think they quite understood why they were so sad.
Trying to Move On
I knew our family couldn’t go on like that. We couldn’t be sad forever. I tried to move on with my life, but not in a way that most would think. Moving on, to me, meant I would no longer allow myself to dwell on the horror of losing my baby. My son died—how could a mother possibly survive such a thing? Yet, I knew there was no other option. I had to survive. So, I forced myself to forget—not forget my son, but forget what it felt like to watch him die. I wanted to forget the physical reaction my body had to the grief and helplessness. I wanted to forget how much it hurt to not have Ethan in my arms. And I desperately wanted to forget every moment that was never meant to be for him: a first birthday, a first smile, a first love, a thousand other firsts.
I’ve always tried to be an optimist, but it was so difficult to see the philosophical “glass of life” as half full after Ethan passed away. Life loses its luster when you watch your child die. And it’s hard to see anything as full when you feel so empty inside. My heart continues to ache for my baby—two and a half years later, I still ache—but I don’t have to force myself to move on as much as I did when he first passed. I realized a long time ago that Ethan would have wanted me to be happy even though his passing has done nothing but fill me with sorrow.
With time, I learned how to make lemonade out of my lemon. I don’t know how I did it, but somehow I made it happen. My body started to heal; I went back to work. My sons were starting preschool, and I discovered I was pregnant with Niki. And eventually, I learned how to enjoy lemonade again, too. My “glass” even slowly started feeling fuller. If my heart can survive losing my baby, then I felt like I could overcome any hurdle life tossed my way.
The Pain Lessens
I suppose the best remedy for pain and sorrow is time and patience. I can honestly admit it hurts less now, but at the same time, it hurts even more. Sometimes I think I’m OK, and then something will catch me off guard and throw me off kilter. Sometimes I can write about Ethan without shedding a tear, and then there are times I can barely see the computer screen because my vision is so blurred from my tears.
I’ve cried oceans of tears, and just when I thought I couldn’t possibly shed another tear for Ethan, grief sweeps over me like a tidal wave. A few weeks ago I was watching a television special about a troop of monkeys. Seemingly harmless, right? Well, in one scene, a baby monkey unexpectedly dies. The mother held and groomed her baby’s body for three days because she just couldn’t accept her baby’s death. I couldn’t help but cry as I watched that scene. The trauma of losing a child is so primitive, the reaction is so visceral, that I now firmly believe grief lays dormant within you for the rest of your life. It will resurface when you least expect it.
Each year that passes and every picture that I take without Ethan in it reminds me how our family will never be whole. Ethan Nikolas de Leon, my son, I miss him so much, but life goes on.
Read more about Tiffany's life at The Art of Lion Taming.