A Bereaved Parent’s Plea: ‘I Wish You’d Say …’
By Suzanne Leigh
Published on Mothering
• “You must be thinking of Natasha a lot today,” instead of, “Happy Halloween,” “Happy Birthday” (or “Happy” anything).
• “It’s so unfair that Natasha passed away,” rather than, “Are you getting over it yet” (or the more tactful version: “Are you feeling better yet”).
• “Tell me about your favorite Natasha memory,” after you’ve updated me on your child’s latest milestone. (I might hesitate and stumble; I might not come up with a very revelatory memory. I might even cry, but I will so appreciate you acknowledging my child’s life.)
• “It’s hard for me to see you suffer,” instead of changing the subject when my social mask slips and the tears fall.
• “It’s good to see you,” instead of, “How are you.”
• “You must miss Natasha a lot,” instead of complaining (again) about your own children.
• “Remember that time when Natasha …” My daughter loved many people. She may have loved you or your child. Share your memories with me, please. You are validating her life for me, not reminding me that I had a child that died.
• Instead of saying, “I hope you’re well,” in a letter or e-mail, I wish you’d say, “I was thinking of Natasha today.” (Yes, I am well, if “well” discounts the fact that I’m unable to sleep without meds, unable to lose myself in a book, to truly laugh or experience real joy, or to be in any place closely associated with Natasha without feeling crushing grief. And her name is Natasha. Say it for me, please. It’s a beautiful name.)
• Nothing at all when I start crying. I do it every day. It’s my normal and if you give me a minute or two, I’ll probably be able to put on my social mask again.
• Some kind words to accompany those pictures of a new family member that you’re sharing with me. To bereaved parents, seeing a newborn can be a cruel shove back to the time when our world was safe, when our late child was an infant, like the one in the pictures you’re showing me, destined for a future full of love and full of light. An infant that blossomed into a gorgeous girl. A girl that left this world about 70 years too early.
Thank you to the friend who sent me this e-mail after the birth of her child: “I am sending you pictures of [Baby X]. He has Natasha’s big eyes. I know Natasha would love to play with him and I wish that she was still here with us to enjoy him.”
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THE MOURNING AFTER NATASHA 
Thank you so much for these instructions. We all benefit from your honesty. It must be awful to survive without Natasha and yet here you are being generous with us.
I wouldn’t say I’m being generous, Roxanne — just honest. And hopefully I’m not hurting anyone’s feelings.
Thank you for saying Natasha’s name!
Thank you for your insight. In my mind’s eye, the name “Natasha” is a lovely image . . . exotic, alluring, with a wicked sense of humor, and beautiful eyes . . . and I was right when I see her picture . . .
I do have a question . . . what do you say to someone who has experienced a recent loss, like you, acknowledging each’s loss?
I will certainly remember your introduction of Natasha to me . . .
I was in the Corps for many years and have had the privledge and responsibility to meet with family of those who served with me. Sometimes it was to provide the most intimate of courtesy, to tell them of their loved one’s passing. It was a sense of loss for me as well as their commanding officer, but then I wanted to give them something of an insight to the mystery of circumstance, also pride, and respect for their loss.
I read your comments and see that the simplest is the best, the most sincere and heartfelt. The ‘good stuff’, the sense of humor, their pride in their servce and the unconditional affection they had. Simply put, its a salve . . . I agree with you
Thank you for saying Natasha is an alluring name, Malibu. I’m sorry that you’ve been in the position of having to relay tragic news yourself. I would agree with the way you’ve done it; especially the part about it being a loss for you as well (take note, please docs and nurses!). And absolutely, “respect for their loss,” that is so important, too. (Please don’t be fulfilling your own needs in “comforting” the bereaved.) And keeping it “simple, sincere and heartfelt,” to use your own words, rather than resorting to platitudes, will make it more meaningful.
I couldn’t have said it better even if I wanted to. You write so honestly. Having lostmy beautiful zoey to Brain cancer last November every word in your blog rings true to me.
Thinking of you Suman and your Zoey. Wishing you strength for the upcoming anniversary.
I have to admit, sometimes when I read your writing I feel like I can’t do anything right with a mourning parent. WAIT. I’m glad you are crazy honest though, because, while I know that what applies to you doesn’t apply to all parents (my friend Vickie who lost her blessed Erin to Neuroblastoma has given me some some thoughts that contradict some of your words), what I get from your words is to be more sensitive to those who are grieving. Also, some of what you say applies directly to someone like me- I lost my father to prostate cancer (yeah, who dies of prostate cancer?? Wait, my father did. :P). So, thank you for your honesty and for making me feel uncomfortable at times. From what you write about your dear Natasha it sounds as though you are honoring her in a way she would have appreciated. I hope you get signs from her that she does.
Well, it’s a blog not a how-to guide, so I’m not claiming to speak for others (at least not on this post). There are commonalities in the way bereaved parents mourn, but there are differences, too.
I hate to make you feel you “can’t do anything right,” Brooke. My guess is that if you went to the trouble of reading this, you probably are doing quite a bit right, when it comes to being sensitive to the bereaved.
I am sorry you lost your dad.
Thank you 🙂 I hope my comment didn’t offend you. I was trying to be honest and yet appreciative. I really am grateful for what you post. When my dad was sick it was through reading parents’ blogs about their childrens’ treatment that I found the most helpful. He was treated at MSKCC in NYC and, while he wouldn’t talk about the experience there, a parent was writing about their experience there. I was incredibly grateful to read about a perspective on treatment there. My friend Vickie has been a huge support in my grief, and she lost her daughter. So, I’m grateful.
Also, you didn’t make me feel anything. I felt that way, it’s my reaction and I own it.
Thank you again for writing about your story and for telling us about Natasha – before and after she got sick. She sounds like yet another one of those kids I regret not getting to meet. 🙂
P/S To you last message, Brooke. You didn’t offend me at all. I am very grateful that you took the trouble to read my post.
Thank you for sharing your writing and your grief with all of us. I cry every time I read your new posts, and I’m thankful for the tears.
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Exactly how I would comfort a parent even before I became one. And as I have also said to friends who have the ‘Oh, no! I am sorry!’ expressions, I would always smile and reply, ‘Don’t feel sorry for me. You just gave me a chance to talk about my daughter and I am thankful for the chance to share my love for her with you.’
So, talk and acknowledge Natasha as much as it brings joy or tears as you want for Natasha was, is and will forever be beautiful! I would always keep Natasha in the present tense.
Josse, Interesting point about using the present tense. I do this from time to time (inadvertently). I think it takes people aback a bit. (I agree with you, though, good to acknowledge my child.) Thanks for your message!
Tense will always be difficult for me, but I choose to use the present tense. Maybe it’s different when talking about lost parents though, but my dear father will always be my father, and that will never change. My father’s impact on my life continues after his death. I learn new things related to things I experienced with him or that he taught me every day. Maybe it’s the same with lost children? I don’t know, but it sounds like dear Natasha will always be your daughter 🙂 – past, present and future.
Thank you Josse!!! I always say something like ” it’s fine” when someone says I’m sorry. That reply always makes me feel guilty because it most definitely is NOT fine that my daughter died.
Thank you for this! We had a baby prematurely at 6 1/2 months as I had pre-eclampsia..she lived for 6 days. It upsets me that people don’t acknowledge her because she wasn’t with us very long. To me she was very much my daughter and will always be my child. To uninclude her in my family makes me feel terrible. I had SIX children..not just 5 that are living. We go through this with our 3 yr old son as well as he has Leukemia..he is in long term maintenence right now, so he looks good, hair has grown back..and people just assume that all is well and don’t acknowledge he is still sick. I appreciate and understand your comments. I’m sure that your Natasha was a beautiful precious girl..and no one should forget her, and should continue to talk about her as she is still alive in your heart. God bless you!
Thank you, Jenn! I am so sorry you lost your daughter and that you are fighting the beast with your 3-year-old. My Natasha was never on maintenance chemo, but I get what you say about people assuming all is well when your child looks well. We had a long period of Natasha being apparently cancer-free. The stress (“scanxiety”) was overwhelming even during those golden days. I knew that we were always just one MRI away from “terminal.”
Wishing your family well. Thanks for writing.
Thank you so much for sharing Natasha with us. She is a beautiful girl. I also lost my son, 24yrs old, diagnosed with AML and passed away in just 5 days. So sudden, so unexpected and unexplained. I will never understand and yes, my life will never be the same. I am heart broken, there is NO PAIN like the pain from burying your child. Nothing makes sense and I feel like I’m in a frozen state! Yes, people do say the strangest things to me. Scott is my son, and I try to talk present about him. So bright, yet unable to complete his college. Taken away from his mom and brothers, we are devastated. NO, you don’t just ‘get over it’. NO, we haven’t ‘
cried enough tears’. Maybe I will never cry enough tears.
I think there will always be tears to be shed for our children who died before us, Judy. Always. It’s an enormous part of our lives that will never make any sense to us.
So sorry to hear about your Scott. I’ve never heard of anyone dying so soon after an AML dx. Sending you hugs.
I almost lost my son in a horrible car accident three years ago with his father. I’m thankful that I didn’t have to bury him, but the first week carried no guarantee. It hurts for me to look at him and remember what his face used to look like before the accident, but I’m blessed to be able to see him.
I try to keep things in my mind that I would like to say, but I find I literally can’t speak. I am so empathetic to other people’s pain that I become overwhelmed with emotion and all I can do is cry; then I feel I’m only making it worse. 😦
Natasha sounds like a lovely girl with a wonderful mother. I’m sure she likes the fact that you are sharing your grief in an effort to heal and to help heal others.
You’re probably being too hard on yourself, Deanne. It’s normal that other people’s grief will trigger the reminder of the near-loss of your son. I wouldn’t worry about burdening people with your tears. Thanks for your kind words about my gorgeous Natasha!
“You must miss Natasha a lot,” instead of complaining (again) about your own children.
This and others…are very very harsh. Everyone has things going on, if we all had an instruction book or manual on our lives and how to talk and be around us..no one would ever be able to communication effectively or with real and true emotion. People do the best they can without actually have walked in your shoes. People cannot truly understand your pain unless they have walked it. If they have not, they will do there best. This post on such a beautiful blog is disheartening. This seems like a how to not a blog post. Do you hand this out to everyone who makes contact with you? Remember at one point you were in everyone elses place…no one can truly understand but most people will do there best to help you and be there in the best way they can, even if it does not follow your rule book to a tee.
Thank you for the compliment (there was one in there somewhere!). It’s a wish list; not a “rule book” — big difference — and no, of course I don’t “hand it out to everyone.” I think you’re missing the main point of the post: you can talk to us about your own kids (and even complain about them) as much as you want, but please just acknowledge the lives of our late children, too, if you’re a friend or family member. Really, how difficult is it to mention: “I was thinking of your child today”? That’s seven short words that will make any bereaved parent smile.
I recieved a handwritten letter today . . . (how many handwritten “anythings” do you get anymore? I correspond with fountain pen) . . . It was from the parents of a sergeant who served under me. They spoke for the first time of those days, the events and fate. They wanted to tell me that the connection to Chase (the sgt) never faded, he was still a presence and now that link (life line) had been fruitful since they found interest to ask me questions they didn’t before. They also included the story of his little girl whom they are raising, and her pictures. They concluded that memories were energy linking them, stories were tributes and love kept a void manageable, empty but not a chasm. I thought about you and your Natasha.
What an eloquent way of explaining what eases their loss.Thank you, Malibu! And thanks for thinking of Natasha (and me!)
I have read your blog for quite sometime and truly am touched by the words you say about Natasha. She seems like a beautiful little girl who deserved a longer life. I am so sorry for your loss. However, I always wonder how you parent your other daughter. I read about the struggles you have to even get out of bed & I wonder if your other daughter feels neglected. Do you struggle with those feelings?
Thanks for reading my blog, Taryn. I’d say our surviving daughter probably has more love and attention than she needs and wants sometimes. I worry sometimes that that this excessive love and dedication will be a burden for her one day.
I try to protect the privacy of my surviving family members by not writing about them — or at least not writing very much about them.
Your precious Natasha is a beauty look at her stunning eyes. It is so unfair that your Natasha has passed. I was reading a family members post about r late Bryce my hero with wings 🙂 as a mother my heart breaks for you and I don’t think you should ever have to put a mask on .Natasha was and is and will forever be your baby. I thank you for your writing . I do cry and I get angry bc I look at my angels and I can’t imagine the hurt and longing you have and will always have. I wish I would have been one of the lucky ones to have met your baby Natasha but I will for ever be grateful for your sharing of your angel with wings. No one should ever have to go thru what you went thru then and what u r going thru now. I’m saying a prayer for you and yours and I know by them big beautiful eyes of your Natasha she’s hearing every word I’m saying and I know she walks with you hand and hand . We miss r bryce and will forever hold onto his smile eyes and loving spirit thank you again n god bless.
Thank you, Candice, for your kind words and your prayers. I hope my Natasha walks with me hand in hand, too.
Happy Holidays
. . . I’m surrounded by others who remind me to be grateful . . . certainly . . . they see the whole picture of my business continued to produce, a healthy schedule and a few posts of trips and occasions . . . even new colors added to my ensemble’ . . . the ‘tests’ were good, blood pressure intact . . . and a smile that does not betray an extra 10 years . . . and for all I’m truly thankful (to someone? . . . no, but thankful none the less . . .)
. . . Thank you to the one or two who know me so well that know what I’m looking at when I see a familar balcony (empty) as I get home, the eyes who once lit up and the voice whom welcomed me back . . . even if I was later than promised (or wanted to be) . . .
Happy Holidays (-1) . . .
Thank you, Malibu.
[…] wish. Don’t change the subject. Suzanne Leigh offers some great suggestions in her blog post: “A Bereaved Parent’s Plea: ‘I Wish You’d Say …’”, and Kate Suddess wishes people would ask her all the normal questions like “How was the […]
I’m so sorry you lost your precious Natasha. My daughter Clara was stillborn and when you write about your social mask, I totally can relate. I never know how to describe that phenomenon to my close friends but “social mask” explains it perfectly. Praying for peace and continued healing on your difficult journey.
Thank you so much, Jennifer, and as usual I’m sorry you had to lose your Clara in order to find this place. The “social mask” gets easier to maneuver in time. Take care.