Thelife- My daughter Alice died while napping when she was 2-years-old.
- Her death was classified as Sudden Unexplained Death in Childhood.
I walked through my living room, full of people staring at me, yet I could barely speak. Although I was grateful for their presence, it was clear to me by their expression I had become the living, breathing poster child of their worst nightmare: I had suddenly become a bereaved parent.
Less than a day prior, as I finished a call with one of my acupuncture patients, I opened the door to my 2-year-old daughter Alice's room. She'd napped a little longer than usual, and I needed to wake her to retrieve my 4-year-old daughter Grace from her Los Angeles preschool.
As I leaned over to wake Alice, I found her stiff and blue. My heart stopped, yet my hands moved. One hand grabbed her to start CPR while the other tried calling 911.
People wanted to help but they didn't know how to
An autopsy and months of testing found absolutely nothing wrong with Alice; therefore, her death was classified as Sudden Unexplained Death in Childhood (SUDC), which claims approximately 400 kids a year. Although rare, it remains the fifth leading classification of death in toddlers. We will likely never know why Alice died.
In a state of medical and psychological shock, I alternated between catatonia and telling stories about Alice to the crowd. I was desperate to memorialize Alice, but talking even for a few minutes left me out of breath. I could tell people wanted to help, but no one knew what to do or say and were afraid to ask. I did not blame them. I didn't know.
No one had words.
The only thing I needed was Alice alive, yet I was aware that was impossible. I was incapable of identifying any needs beyond that.
In his piece in The Atlantic, bereaved father Colin Campbell makes a case for never saying, "There are no words" to a bereaved parent because it is a conversation killer which ends any chance of meaningful conversation. Death and grieving expert David Kessler has said, "Grief must be witnessed to be healed," and this requires listening.
While that phrase did not bother me in the early days after Alice died, Campbell is correct. But what do we do when both the bereaved and supporters are tongue-tied?
I couldn't speak because of my trauma
Fortunately, I was surrounded by family and friends who knew my inability to speak indicated a trauma response and knew what to do. My dear friend Michael — a former EMT — could tell I glazed over if anyone talked to me for more than two minutes. Everyone sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher — especially the funeral director. Brilliantly, Michael became my ears and then translated everything into bullet points for me, which became my new language for several weeks.
Other loved ones committed to simply being there. My neighbor Kristen noticed we didn't have enough paper products for the masses and brought supplies. The Williams saw my daughter Grace was the only child in a room full of emotionally walloped adults, so took her on an epic sleepover with their daughter, where they made crafts, performed magic shows, and had ice cream. After days of hundreds of visitors, my friend Deanna saw we had more trash than trashcans and took a load to the city dump. When words failed, these folks showed up, then took action.
Mostly, I was fortunate to have many advocates who sat with me while I stared at a wall and cried until I could verbally express an emotion or a need. And then they listened, which was the most healing thing of all.
Nothing can prepare you for losing a child or the drastic, sudden way the world perceives you following such a tragedy. And there are indeed no magic words anyone can utter to ease the pain of a bereaved parent. What we can do is be willing to sit there with someone in their worst pain, listen without judgment, and take necessary action when helpful.