The Unspoken Pain of Losing a Child
When news reaches us of a child or young adult's passing, it shakes our very foundations. Such events defy the natural order, leaving us adrift in a sea of uncertainty. For parents, this reality hits home with a chilling clarity: if tragedy can strike one family, it could touch any. Life, once filled with the joy of parenthood, becomes a landscape where safety is an illusion.
When Silence Speaks Louder Than Words
After my daughter Alex succumbed to cancer at the age of 40, I encountered a spectrum of reactions. Some retreated into silence, as if grief were a contagion to be avoided. Others, with good intentions, faltered, offering platitudes like "There are no words" or "Your loss is unimaginable." Why is it that we effortlessly find language for celebrations—births, graduations, weddings—yet stumble when faced with the task of comforting the bereaved? Death humbles us, exposing the vast, empty spaces in our vocabulary where words fail to capture profound sorrow.
I understand this struggle intimately. Alex's death left me speechless, grappling with an incomprehensible loss. Grief is not a singular emotion but a tsunami—a relentless wave of sadness, anger, shock, pain, helplessness, and deep yearning. Perhaps the phrase "There are no words" serves as a shorthand for a deeper truth: no language can ever fully encapsulate such immense sadness.
Discovering Vilomah: A Name for the Unnameable
In the aftermath of Alex's passing, I navigated these linguistic voids, particularly the absence of a term for a parent who has lost a child. We have words like orphan for a child without parents or widow for a woman who loses her partner, but what of the parent left behind? Recently, I discovered vilomah, a Sanskrit word meaning "against the natural order." This term embraces the primal injustice of outliving one's child, an inversion of generational expectations that creates an upside-down world. To be a vilomah is to become an unwanted messenger from a distant, painful realm of human existence.
Bereaved parents—vilomahs—are not surprised to learn that bereavement derives from Old English, meaning to deprive or rob. Our children are deprived of their futures, their hopes and dreams, and we, in turn, are robbed of the future we envisioned with them.
The Power of Specific Words and Stories
However, placeholders like "There are no words" can inadvertently shut down conversations when they are most needed, forcing grieving parents to comfort others instead. What we truly need are safekeepers—friends and family who use specific, loving words to describe our children, ensuring their memories live on. I craved stories that brought Alex back to life: tales of her light and love, her kindness and courage. Hearing her name—Alex—and being surrounded by words of love became a lifeline.
Here is my message to everyone: Be brave. There are no perfect words to comfort the bereaved, no comfortable phrases for such discomfort. You cannot fix my loss, but you can hold in your hearts everything that made Alex uniquely human. Remember her love for birthdays and balloons, pandas and popsicles, dresses with pockets, Japanese art and fashion design, running marathons and ultramarathons with effortless grace. Joyfully reminisce about photos of Alex at the finish line of her 100-mile runs, beaming with a thumbs-up, or how she celebrated life's small pleasures and included family in every celebration. Recall her beautiful curls, her welcoming smile that felt like a hug, her big-hearted gifts—she was a spectacular gift-giver. Cherish her love for s'mores and ice cream cake, sushi and dumplings, for growing dahlias and daisies, and for the multitudes she contained.
These specific, loving words capture the light Alex carried and the vividness with which she lived. When someone says, "There are no words," I hear "That's all there is to say," and when they say, "Your loss is unimaginable," I hear "I will not try to imagine your loss." Such expressions allow speakers to retreat, leaving bereaved parents isolated and deprived of genuine connection. In contrast, when friends and family share an Alex story or ask for one, they open those uncomfortable linguistic spaces, allowing my daughter to live on through words.
Living with Grief and Honoring Memory
Bereaved parents become intimately familiar with the geography of their grief—its peaks and valleys, its enduring edges. Grief does not vanish; its tail is long. There is no rush; you need not bring a casserole or cannoli immediately. There is ample time to offer comfort and honor a child's memory. I am deeply grateful to the many friends who continue to lift up Alex's name and share in my grief. Like the neighbor who cooked Alex's favorite dumplings each month for a year, leaving them on our porch with a note simply saying "love." Or the friends who plant dahlias in her honor, wear dresses with pockets in her memory, and serve as listening presences, lingering in the backyard to talk about Alex. I am always thankful to those who mark April 2, Alex's birthday, and July 15, the day she died, on their calendars, acknowledging these as both difficult and important days to honor her memory.
A Jewish proverb reminds us why we must strive to fill these empty spaces in language: "One dies twice—the first time when a body stops breathing; the second time when a name is no longer spoken." To a bereaved parent, silence feels like forgetting. Whenever someone speaks my beloved child's name and asks about her, her life story is kept alive.
If you know a bereaved parent, reach out with loving words and gestures. Show up, help carry their grief, and do so repeatedly. Become safekeepers of memory—tell a story, ask for a story. Help them find the spaces where their beloved child continues to live. There are always words.
