Children identify us. When we are with a group of adults who
know we have children, and have yet to meet them, the question
is raised: "How many children do you have?" It is answered
with a number. "Two." "Five." Then if the person asking is
curious or polite enough he will ask, "And how old are they?"
We give the ages and with it, most likely the names of our
children. "Tim's six and Angela's four and Luke will be three
months old in a week." It doesn't matter if we are a single
parent or married, a working out of the home mom or dad or an
in the home mom or dad, we are identified by our children. We
swap birth stories, first day of kindergarten tales and
frustrations over the teen-ager who is determined to pierce
some body part.
We're parents and our love and compassion for our children is
so great that we ache when they have had a bad day or are not
invited to the party.
When a child dies, suddenly, against our will, life is changed
forever. We are thrown into a dark pit, unsure we will ever
see the light of day again (and do we even care if we don't?),
we crumple against the wall, fall into a heap as our hearts
throb with a pain unlike we have ever known. We were to
protect and nurture our child, where did we go wrong? How come
we couldn't keep him from the car accident or the cancer? Why
couldn't we stop her from taking her own life or getting that
disease?
When a child dies, we are certain we have failed as a parent.
Are we worthy to think we were ever any good at it or to
continue on nurturing our surviving children? If we had been
the 'good' parent we aimed to be, wouldn't our child still be
with us today?
Unfortunately, the majority of society doesn't know what to do
with us as we sit in the dark pit repeating over and
over, "WHY?" through quivering lips. We are now bereaved
parents, members of a group we never imagined we'd have to
join. Parental Bereavement happens to others, not to me, we
find ourselves stammering.
The dark, hopeless days continue, each as colorless as the
previous. But, unexpectedly, one day we notice something yet
to be seen on the walls of the dark pit. It is a filtering of
the sun's rays, casting a tone of gold. For the first time we
are able to smile as we recall a memory. We see his little
body dressed only in a purple swimsuit, kissing the neighbor's
dog. We see her in the starched chef's hat preparing breakfast
for the family.
We need to remember and we want others to remember our child.
When people fail to think of our child and share a memory or
acknowledge her life, it is as if our child has not been
invited to the party. We still have the number of children we
had before our child's death, it's just that one child (or in
some cases, more) is not physically present now but she will
always be alive in our hearts.
This book is filled with memories because our children lived
and loved, laughed and ate. Just like any other child. These
children are no longer visible to the eyes now, but that does
not mean they did not live. Nor does in mean they do not
continue to live. In our hearts, in our memories, in Heaven.
The memories give us tender smiles as well as tears. They are
slices of sunlight in an often dreary day.
Invite your child's memory to the party. Recall with us what
he liked to eat. In doing so, he is here, with us, smiling.
copyright@2000 Alice J. Wisler
About the Author
From the cookbook of memories, 
Slices Of Sunlight: A Cookbook of Memories
by Alice J. Wisler. (2000) Available from Barnes and Noble and on
sale at bookstores. Proceeds to the National Childhood Cancer
Foundation. Visit Alice at
her website.
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