My son died at home and my family still lives there. I never had negative emotions about the house.

• Colleen Clary's son David, 29, died in her home earlier this year.
• She discovered David dead in his bed.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Colleen Clary. It has been edited for length and clarity.

My family has a long history of serious heart conditions. My father had a heart attack at 42, and his father had one at 40. But I never imagined that a heart attack would kill my son, David, when he was only 29 years old.

In April 2023, David had a heart attack and went to the hospital for four days. On the Saturday morning after he returned I was cleaning the house. Like most moms, I'm on a perpetual life journey to declutter.

As I was tidying in the bathroom, I noticed that David hadn't taken his morning medications. It was almost noon. I went to his bedroom and knocked on the door. When he didn't answer, I walked in and saw him in bed, curled up with his head on his arm and his headphones still playing.

I yelled, "David, you need to take your medicine," but he didn't move. When I touched him, he was cold. That's when I realized what had happened. I screamed his name, thinking I could pull him back from wherever he had gone, but it didn't work.

The police left David's body at the house

I yelled for my other son and daughter who live with me, then found my phone and called 911. The police were the first to respond. I realized that they needed to make sure that David's death wasn't suspicious — they wanted to be sure I hadn't killed my son.

It quickly became clear this was a natural death. We'd later learn, after a private autopsy, that David had another heart attack. Satisfied that there was no foul play, the police started getting back in their cruisers. I was shocked — my son was still dead in his bed.

The officers explained that I needed to call a funeral home. While we waited for the funeral home to arrive, my other children had time to say goodbye to David. Then, I found myself tidying his room so the funeral home workers would have easier access to remove his body. It was the strangest thing, cleaning while my dead son was in his bed, feet away.

I found David around noon, and it wasn't until 6 p.m. that his body was taken away.

My daughter moved into the room where David died

My family lives in a small condo. Before David died, he and my daughter each had a bedroom, while their younger brother slept on a Murphy bed in the dining room. With David gone, we were pragmatic: an empty bedroom simply didn't make sense.

Within three months of David's death, we boxed up his belongings. My daughter Kyra, who was older than David, moved into his room. Marcos, my youngest son, moved into Kyra's room. None of us had negative feelings about David's room, but I think Kyra wanted to protect her little brother, just in case. That's why she moved into the room where David died. Now, I think of that space as David and Kyra's room.

I never considered moving

Before David died, I remember thinking, in passing, that it would be strange to live in a home where someone died. David's death was a trauma for me. And yet, I never considered moving. All of our family memories for the past decade are in this home. He died in his bed peacefully, so I never had negative emotions about his room or avoided the space.

I've learned that unless you've been through a loss, there's a lot you don't know — just like I didn't know about continuing to live in a space where someone died. I started sharing my thoughts about grief on threads, calling them Grief Notes. I figure if one person doesn't know these things, there are others who don't either.

I want to normalize conversations and experiences around grief. I want people to know it's OK to say David's name. Having a conversation about him or walking by the room where he died isn't going to remind me about my loss: that's something I live with every second or every day.