One Month Later

My five year old son, Jack, died one month ago today.

My son died.

I hate saying that. I've only used that word a few times since January 12. But I do say it aloud to myself on occasion because the word's meaning and abruptness bring me back to reality. That's kind of weird isn't it? To force myself into being shocked out of normalcy and into grief. But every time I feel myself gravitating toward normal life I feel a twinge of guilt. That's probably not normal. Who knows what normal is anymore? Not me.

I never in my wildest dreams imagined I would belong to this unlucky club, the club of people who mourn a lost child. But as I've progressed through these last several weeks I've certainly come to learn that I'm not alone. There are a great many parents who have also lost children. They suffer. Now I suffer with them. How eagerly and willingly we would renounce our membership in this unwelcome fraternity if only we could.

Jack at Primary Children's Hospital May 2012

I can't really think of many times in my entire life when I have felt truly dumbfounded with no idea of what to do about a certain situation. But I most definitely felt that way on the afternoon of Monday, January 12, 2015, in the pediatric unit of Primary Children's Hospital in Salt Lake City when my loving wife, so worried about me and how I would handle the situation after rushing home from New York, carefully guided me into the room where my son's lifeless body rested. I stood there in that silent room and watched him. It was so quiet there. Stacy stood opposite me. Our son lay still and silent on the hospital bed between us--this son whom we had brought into the world together, nurtured and cared for together. It was strange to see our once very active boy lie so perfectly still. We had given him everything we could give him, but ultimately it was out of our hands. Now that he was suddenly gone, the silence was deafening. It truly felt as though time had stopped.

I specifically remember looking at Jack and then to Stacy and then around the room as if searching for something. I had no idea what to do. What a terrible feeling that was. I started to collapse onto the bed. I looked around for guidance. I said to her: "What do we do now?" I needed to know, hoping she would have the answer. Of course, she did not. "Where is the parent's manual that tells you what to do when your child dies?" I asked her (although I probably didn't use that word, not yet). "What do we do now?" We both just stood there and cried.

Earlier, my wonderful sister had picked me up at the Salt Lake airport. We had dashed out of the terminal, leaving my baggage and car behind, so that I could get to the hospital--and to my wife's side--as quickly as possible. I had asked her during that eternal car ride across the valley, "How am I supposed to tell my children their brother just died?" She didn't know. I didn't expect her to have the answer. Neither of us knew what to do. Silence and tears.

Later, when I was standing in Jack's room, begging the heavens to tell me what to do, I just felt overwhelmed by the shock of it all. I had no answers. I didn't really have any questions either, except for what should we do next.

All we could do was trust. Trust in the Lord that He would guide us through it. Trust in the family, bishop, and friends He had sent to us to hold our hands and guide us along the way. Trust in anyone who could help us forge a path. Trust in the foundation on which we had built our lives over the years. Trust, and leap into the unknown, was the only thing we could do.

I've never been very good at asking for help. But you know what? I didn't ask for any help that day or that week. The help just came. It poured down upon us. And we submitted. There was nothing else we could do but trust and submit.

That entire week is now a blur of hazy memories. I don't really know how we got from one place to the next or how we made the decisions we ended up making. I am so grateful for my brothers and sister. What pillars of strength they were for us in our time of terrible need. They were truly the Master's disciples. I feel bad they had to go through all of that, but I'm so grateful they were there. I think about my parents and Stacy's parents and how it has pained them to watch their own children, Stacy and me, go through this. It's been hard on everyone. This kind of loss sends ripples throughout the universe. Our ward and neighborhood has been profoundly impacted. We are all going through it together. As a symbol of our united pain, our neighbors tied red ribbons on all the trees in our neighborhood. That really meant a lot to us.


Just before the airplane door closed on the tarmac in New York, I had followed a prompting to send a text message to all of my siblings back home. I knew it would wake them (it was almost 5am Utah time) but felt like I should do it anyway. I didn't know the situation was about to become serious, but I felt like I should contact family closer to home so they could help if necessary while I was up in the air. I wrote, "Jack's in trouble," and told them what was happening. When they got the news, everyone dropped whatever they were doing and came to our rescue--parents, siblings, grandparents, nieces and nephews, friends and neighbors. It was truly remarkable. There really is nothing in this world as important as family. The fact that all of these siblings, parents, and friends were able to literally drop everything they were doing and rush to be with us from down the street and from seven different states (and Canada, too) in such a short amount of time was a true gift to us and a powerful affirmation of the things that really matter in life.

Meanwhile, our kids are doing extremely well, but things are quieter at our house now. Our kids are a bit more subdued than Before. We love them. We appreciate them more than we used to. For the first few days after Jack passed, we kept them so close to us they probably thought they would be smothered. Now, they get along better with each other than Before. There are times when I'm about to fall into my old ways and scold them for something and then I realize that whatever tiny thing they've done doesn't really matter and I stop and realize how much I love them. This tragedy has united our family and made us stronger. It's focused my perspective. I've come to understand why life-changing experiences are called that; they really do change your life.

Jack never missed an opportunity to have fun

Sadness is our companion, but despair and misery are not. We  love life and have great hope in the future. We take comfort in God's plan as well as in the many great memories we have of the five wonderful years we shared with Jack while he was here with us on earth.

It's going to be ok. We are going to make it.