“Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?” ―Terry Pratchett
Wednesday, Oct. 2 marked six years since the coroner came to my office to notify me that my oldest son was dead. For those who don’t know or remember, Ethan was 26, and he died in a single-vehicle accident at the top of Iron Mountain in Glenwood Springs.
That day felt like a new team of writers took over my life script and they came directly from a Lifetime TV movie studio.
So why do I continue to bring it up? Because those who grieve need permission to speak, and hearing someone else can be the permission we need.
Our culture is woefully bad at dealing with death, even though it slaps us all upside the head regularly. I can’t count the number of people I’ve encountered in the last six years who start apologizing when their grief tumbles out unbidden. And I’m personally acquainted with too many who failed to “let it out” and the grief became toxic and destroyed them from the inside out in some shape or form.
A year after Ethan died I was at a retreat with newspaper colleagues when one of them mentioned his name. She promptly apologized, visibly concerned she’d touched a raw nerve. It was the first time I realized what a comfort it was to have his existence on this planet acknowledged by someone who never even met him.
For all the other grievers out there, here’s your permission slip in case anyone has ever made you feel awkward or uncomfortable or weird for talking about your loss, or who has tried to shut you up with silly platitudes so they can feel more comfortable.
Talk all you want. You’ve earned it.
And by the way, please wear your seatbelt.
Miss you, E, today and always.