When Mourning Comes

Sundays were always the hardest day.

Sunday was the day we used to spend with my parents, lazing around their big house on the water, reading the New York Times and eating the fresh-baked treats my mom always had waiting for us. Or we’d run errands with them, making fun of them and lobbying to be taken out for lunch.

My mom and I would make dinner, my dad outside manning the grill. My husband would supervise us all, hovering over us as we prepared the meal.

They were good days, really good days.

Later, after, Sunday became the worst day. The hardest day of the week, the day when the three of us remaining looked at each other blankly, seeing only the face that was missing.

Yesterday was, of course, Sunday, and all four of us were out of sorts. The kids have colds, noses leaking snot. Both were slightly feverish—just enough to be miserable and not enough to treat. We stayed in our pajamas too late and Mr. C took an ill-advised trip to an art show with The Poo, who managed to stray from his watchful eye, ending up at a house next door to the gallery with some strangers.

It was a bad day.

It called to mind other bad Sundays, days I don’t think about often anymore. But yesterday, the first day of a busy week also called to mind two parents whose every day is their worst nightmare.

I can’t help thinking of Heather and Mike, and how empty—and long—their hours must be. The worst days are the days after, when the machinery of death grinds to a halt and you’re left with nothing but the knowledge that the rest of your days will be filled with a longing that cannot ever be assuaged.

I do not presume to know the depth of their grief. I lost a parent; I lost him before I was ready to, but it was the natural order of things.

To lose a child … to even try to imagine it is agony. Only in my darkest dreams can I begin to fathom the edge of their pain.

I’m writing this because I want Heather and Mike to know that even though the last visitor has left, we’re still thinking about Maddie. Because the idea that no one will ever think about your lost loved one is wretchedly sad.

I’m thinking of them, all three of them, and of all the Sundays ahead.

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It’s not too late to donate to Maddie’s March of Dimes fund. If you haven’t, might you consider donating?