Let My Children Bury Me
A Mother’s Prayer
The worst kind of loss
My grandparents buried a son in the early 1970s. He was in his early twenties and died of a drug overdose. They found him in the bathroom with a needle in his arm.
My father, who was barely twenty at the time, shouldered much of the burden of what this tragedy did to my family. He has never really spoken of it other than to tell me that his brother died and how.
Dad always kept his feelings about the loss to himself. The pain of my uncle’s absence was always clear to me, despite my never having known him.
About fifteen years ago, friends of mine lost their four-month-old baby to SIDS. Going to the funeral home to pay my respects was among the worst experiences of my life.
A tiny white casket adorned with pink roses lay closed at the front of the funeral parlor. My friend sobbed uncontrollably as I hugged her. I could feel the fullness of her breasts, unable to nurse her lost infant while grieving an unspeakable tragedy.
It remains one of the most profound and sobering moments I’ve ever shared with another human.
A mother’s biggest fear
Though it’s uncommon for parents to bury their children in my corner of the world, it…
