Today, I'll be a guest on a podcast for the first time, speaking about my book that won’t launch for two months. I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't even listen to podcasts. 

They've told me the first question they'll ask: why I wrote my book. I'm already stumped.

My first response: I see-saw between 1. wanting to make grief and trauma less avoided topics, and 2. my son died, I'm pissed off about it, and I want to be heard. Yet 3. smack dab in the middle of this teeter-totter reflection is a fear that people will think my book is stupid. Consequently, these three concepts are challenging for me to resolve.

So tonight, I have the honor of speaking with Andrea and Brooke Herbert, who both enjoyed my book, or I suppose I wouldn't be a guest on their podcast, Ivy Unleashed. 

Yet this morning, while on my run, I thought of Nicholas at the bus stop as he'd sometimes be on his way to work as I ran by. I think of his smile and wave and me exclaiming to him, "Hi, large child!" He'd reply, "Hi, birth giver!" This particular memory arrives most mornings—a near-daily reminder of his absence.

Then, a block later, I saw a young man waiting for the summer school bus with his mother, and I remember our first summer in this house and putting all three boys on the bus for summer school. Then I remember sending them to summer school because I didn't want to disappoint them with my lack of parenting skills—that they'd be better off at school. And then I think about how I gave up time I could have spent with them, but I was chickenshit.

How many experiences with my children did I relinquish for selfish or cowardly reasons? I think about this as I prepare to speak on a podcast, as though I'm worthy. But I know I'm not.

And so it goes—grief. I'm to explore and share why I wrote my book, and the only reason I have is that I can't stop thinking about not having my son, and I want everyone to know that grief is not a sprint or hurdle. It does not get easier, evaporate, diminish, or pass. Instead, grief is a never-ending ultra fucking uphill marathon in the mountains somewhere.

Despair created my book. I'm not one to lay around wallowing in my misery (though it sometimes knocks me on my ass), so finding a project (or two or three) is a direction to point my sorrow and regrets. Perhaps my book is a channel through which I say the things society doesn't want to hear? Rather like my blogs, I suppose.

So, I continued preparing for that first question as I drove to my podcast appointment. Finally, as I neared my destination, I found what may be the unrivaled answer: writing my book ensures that Nicholas' memory will endure — second only to wanting a do-over is my wish that he's never forgotten.

We think about our deceased children whether or not you mention them, friends. And while we may cry or stumble when we talk about them, we still talk about them and want you to talk about them. So rather than attending to your potential discomfort by pretending they didn't exist, please share your memories of our dead children. Ask a parent whose child has died for their name if you don't know it and for a favorite memory. Help our deceased children continue to live through memories. It's all we have left.

Thank you, Andrea and Brooke, for allowing me to talk about Nicholas and the reality of grief to so many kind souls—reframing my opportunity to speak with you puts my mind at ease. 

If only I had processed this in its entirety before our conversation. 🙃