"The Myth of Getting Over It"

by Steven Kalas

When our first child is born, a loud voice says,
"Runners, take your marks!" We hear the
starting gun and the race begins. It's a race we
must win at all cost. We have to win. The competition
is called "I'll race you to the grave." I'm
currently racing three sons. I really want to
win.

Not everyone wins.

I'm soon going on stage to speak before a
crowd of parents and loved ones impacted by
the death of a child. My address is titled, "The
Myth of Getting Over it." It's my attempt to answer
the driving questions of grieving parents:
When will I get over this? How do I get over
this?

You don't get over it. Getting over it is
an inappropriate goal. An unreasonable hope.
The loss of a child changes you. It changes
your marriage. It changes the way birds sing.
It changes the way the sun rises and sets. You
are forever different.

You don't want to get over it. Don't act
surprised. As awful a burden as grief is,
you know intuitively that it matters, that it
is profoundly important to be grieving.
Your grief plays a crucial part in staying
connected to your child's life. To give up
your grief would mean losing your child yet
again. If I had the power to take your grief
away, you'd fight me to keep it. Your grief
is awful, but it is also holy. And somewhere
inside you, you know that.

The goal is not to get over it. The goal is to get on with it.

Profound grief is like being in a stage play
wherein suddenly the stagehands push a
huge grand piano into the middle of the
set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates
the stage. No matter where you
move, it impedes your sight lines, your
blocking, your ability to interact with the
other players. You keep banging into it,
surprised each time that it's still there. It
takes all your concentration to work
around it, this at a time when you have little
ability or desire to concentrate on anything.

The piano changes everything. The entire
play must be rewritten around it.

But over time the piano is pushed to stage left.
Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright,
And slowly, surely, you begin to find
the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting
to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage
it. Instead of writing every scene
around the piano, you begin to write the
piano into each scene, into the story.

You learn to play that piano. You're surprised
to find that you want to play, that it's meaningful,
even peaceful to play it.

This was written by a counselor that hadn't experienced the death of a child. Some people 'get it', some people don't. Even someone that has experienced the death of a child may not understand your grief, as each child and each loss is unique. Some people project the image of their experience onto you, and if it doesn't fit, then they let you know that you're not doing it right. There is no good way for a child to die, no good age for a child to die. Be with people that affirm you and sustain you. Talk about your child with the people that love you. Talk to your child and include her in your family.