Reality Bites: Confronting the Finality of Loss

On a sweltering summer day many years ago, my ex-wife Caryn and I took the kids to Sesame Place, a water theme park outside of Philadelphia. I remember going on a Big Bird water slide with my younger son Zach, who was still in diapers, and we had to wait in a long, snaking line as we made our way to the top of the slide.

We were both super excited when we finally got there, and Zach was squeezing my hand tight. There were a few big kids in front of us who were jostling each other, and then all of a sudden, I didn’t feel Zach’s hand anymore. When I looked down, he was gone.

I immediately started to panic. He was nowhere in sight, and a sickening feeling enveloped me. I remember thinking—just for a split second—what if someone snatched him and I’ve lost him forever, and oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, Zach! My heart was beating wildly until I saw him sitting down, just a few feet away, behind one of the big kids.

The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than a minute, but it felt like a lifetime—specifically, Zach’s. This Big Bird trauma left its mark on me—returning, with a vengeance, the day Rob died.

I know you know that feeling. You also know that you don’t lose someone once; you lose them every day. Some mornings when you wake up, it all feels like a terrible dream. Like it never happened. That’s when it’s the worst. I remember thinking, How can Rob be dead? Like he was Andy Kaufman pulling an elaborate prank.

The whole thing is surreal, there’s no sense of time, and nothing makes sense. When you lose a child, your world is suddenly incomprehensible. You’re in an altered state, adrift in uncharted waters. You are crushed, numb, and in shock. You’re in a fog of stunned disbelief.

Then, little by little, the fog lifts, and everything becomes very clear, very sharp, very painful, and very real—your child is dead. That’s it. End of story. Reality bites.

Accepting the reality of your loss is one of grief’s greatest hits—and those hits keep coming. Of course, your head knows that your child is gone, but your heart has to endure the pain of all that hitting.

If there’s any good news to be found here, it’s this: Whenever you feel the pain and whatever triggered it is an inescapable reminder that you’re very much living in the real world and managing your grief as best you can.

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There was nothing more painfully real than seeing Rob’s death documented on paper. I was especially bummed out the day his death certificate arrived. It made the whole thing feel so permanent. It was way easier to get lost in melancholy memories and photos of Rob rather than being confronted with the stark finality of it all.

I remember thinking, “Are we supposed to hang this thing up on a wall like it’s some sort of diploma? Like we’re now graduates of the university for parents who have lost a child?” I’d hate to see that sticker on the back of a car window.

It was a very official-looking document with old-timey blue squiggles bordering the edges that was supposed to make you feel all serious: This means business, we’re not fooling around here. It contained all the relevant details—name, date of birth, date and time of death, occupation, and address.

Underneath that info is where we came in. First, there was something called “Informant,” with my name typed in all caps, followed by a comma and the word “Father.” Caryn and I were listed under “Parents.”

Then came reliving the fun part—place and cause of death. It was like playing a game of Clue: it was Colonel Mustard in the study with a revolver. Rob wouldn’t have taken kindly to being Colonel Mustard and would never be caught dead in the study, which sounds too much like being in school.

There were some other bits and pieces about the funeral establishment and where he’s buried, and on the line devoted to “Manner of Death,” an X appeared in a tiny box next to the word “Suicide.”

This may be obvious, but I’ll say it anyway: there’s not a whole lot of life in death certificates.

After reading this piece-of-crap report again and again, I was still at a loss—good phrase there— desperate to connect the dots. So many questions continued to swirl around in my head, and I tortured myself with endless theories and scenarios of who did what to whom, but I knew that it wouldn’t make a difference. Nothing could bring Rob back.