Forget Holland. I’ve been re-routed to Mars
A few weeks ago, when it looked as if my teenage son Henry was going to survive the brain injury he had sustained following a physical assault and a drug overdose – albeit with some serious disabilities as a result – I blogged here at Babble about how coming to terms with the reality of parenting a physically and mentally challenged child was like realizing that my plane to Italy had been re-routed to Mars.
On Monday evening, May 31, my beloved baby boy, Henry Louis Granju died as his father and I held him in our arms.
My child is gone.Gone from this earth, Gone from me. Gone from his father and stepparents, younger siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles and a gaggle of adoring younger cousins. He will never meet the baby sister who will join our family in just a few weeks. I will never again hear his voice or cook him a meal. I will never again wrap his Christmas gifts or fuss at him to stop leaving his dirty socks all over the house. I will not see him graduate college or marry or cradle his own newborn child – my grandchild – in his arms.
What do you call a mother who has lost her child? If my husband had died, I would be a widow, but what am I now? I was the mother of two sons and two daughters – with another little girl on the way. That’s how I define myself. Now what am I? Without Henry, to whom I have been “mama” as long as I’ve been an adult myself – who am I? Who will I be in the future when the unholy, unbearable pain that now rips and tears at me every waking minute fades into a more chronic, dull, lifetime ache?
I know that I will be different – forever. Just…different. I can tell you already that losing my child is an experience so profoundly disorienting that I suddenly feel like a Martian among humans.
Yes, I have been re-routed to Mars. And there doesn’t appear to be quite enough air up here.
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READ MORE OF KATIE’S BABBLE BLOGGING
VISIT KATIE’S PERSONAL BLOG
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Our family is starting what we hope will become a permanent,
endowed fund that will provide scholarships for families who cannot
afford to pay for needed drug and alcohol treatment programs for their
children. We ask that you remember our boy and his struggles – as well
as all of your own community’s children being lost to the scourge of
addiction – by considering a donation to:
The Henry Louis Granju Memorial Scholarship Fund
c/o Administrator: James Anderson
Morgan Stanley Smith Barney
2000 Meridian Blvd.
Suite 290
Franklin, TN 37067
I do not know your loss, but I mourn for it.
Just love. Sending love.
Katie, I’ve been following your tragedy for weeks, first here, and then at your personal blog, and I cannot put into words how distressed I feel for your family. I weep everytime I read something, I find myself thinking about Henry all through my day. I have forwarded your story to countless friends as both a cautionary tale and because I think that introducing people to your beautiful son is a fitting way to remember him.
I hope that this terrible trial passes from you soon, although I am sure the pain will remain in some form forever. I hope that you might find some solace in knowing that you will always be Henry’s mother, even though he is not here, your influence on him extends to influence hundreds of us.
My thoughts are with you and your family. May you and your children find some peace in knowing that thousands of us out here in cyber land are behind you.
There should be a term for it – I know some women, among whom some good friends, refer to themselves as ‘baby lost.’
My sister faces this; her son will be in his early teens (if we’re lucky) when we lose him. She’s said to me that she imagines she will feel like a reverse-orphan, child-lost.
No matter what you call it, though, there’s no changing how profoundly, soul-searingly disorienting, strange-making, life-and-earth-and-horizon-shifting it must feel.
My heart goes out to you. So insufficient, I know, but still.
You are still a mama, that’s what you are. I would bet the farm that that beautiful baby girl inside of you will have Henry’s beauty inside of her. She will be what gets you up every morning. She will be what makes you understand life now. Focus on her and your other beautiful children. HUGS to you.
You are “bereft” or “bereaved.” Not sure if those words are strong enough though.
You are Henry’s mama. And you always will be.
What you are is heartbroken. His physical presence was a part of your heart that has been removed, so your your heart is now broken. But his sprititual presence will never be gone from you. If you can; concentrate on that Dear Katie…
Much love and peace to you…
I am so very sorry about the tragic loss of your beautiful boy. I found your heartfelt website/blog when searching for moms with children suffering the disease of addiction and was so hopeful that Henry would survive his injuries. I can’t fathom this insurmountable pain of his passing and this new “normal” for you and your family. May your memories of Henry and the birth of Henry’s sister sustain you in the days and months ahead.
I am so, so sorry for your loss. No parent should have to experience this pain. My thoughts and prayers are with you.
You will always be Henry’s mama. Just because he won’t grow older or be here in this world, he has not ceased to exist. Your unborn daughter won’t mend your heart or fill the Henry sized hole in your soul and life but she will keep you busy and bring new joy to all of you.
There really is no word for those of us who have lost a child. One thing that helps in the thick of the grief though is to stay in the moment, the past is so painful and the future can seem terrifying. Right here & now & staying present in the moment is all we have. I agree with Jane, you will always be his mama.
Awwwwww . . . it’s all about mourning and grieving Sweet Henry and tending to the needs of your other children in an all inclusive universe. It’s both/and . . . not either/or . . .
So unfair. Just so unfair that such a beloved child had to die so senselessly.
My heart aches for you mama.
Katie: my heart aches honey. Just aches for your senseless loss.
You are an example to those of us whose children might be Henry. It is not something you would ever want to be but I can’t express how much reading about Henry and your journey has changed my life and my mothering.
Katie, your Henry will be with you every moment of every day until you meet again. He is no longer burdened by addiction, he is safe and well. When it feels scary, and you lose your breath, remember he is with you, in your heart, your soul, encompassing your whole being. And when you lose your way, write, write, write. We (your readers) are your net. We will not let you fall or stray, we will hold you up and keep you close.
Much Much Love
You’re still Mama.
Sending lots of thoughts and prayers to you and your family. It’s a pain I can not imagine. May God be with you and everyone that loved Henry and may you find peace.
You’ll always be his amazing mother. And he your amazing babe. Loving you so hard right now.
I don’t know what you call a mother who has lost her child. I’ve been trying to figure it out for the nearly 20 years that have passed since I buried my gorgeous 2 year old, Josh. I know that you are now my sister in grief, and that sucks as much as everything else you are going through right now.
Remember to breath, Katie…the air is thin, but take in what you can and when you can’t stand up any longer, then don’t. You let yourself fall and let yourself feel every single thing you are feeling…it’s OK to fall;those around you will catch you.
The tears are streaming as I write this. I embrace you, my sister, in thought, prayer and love as you tread upon the ground that no mother should ever have to pass across.
I hope Josh and Henry have met up somewhere up there. Josh can show him the ropes when it comes to using those brand new wings. I hear that the first few days can be a little tricky. I’m just so sorry that you’re walking it now, too.
Much love,
Audrey
And Henry? He’s with you Katie. He always will be. You’ll feel his nearness at the most unusual times or at the most ordinary moments.
I feel pretty impotent, as a mother who has walked this road, that I can’t find words that will act as a soothing balm for your broken and bleeding heart.
We almost lost a child once (well, twice, actually); we just got lucky. And let me tell you, in the aftermath, just trying to imagine how we would have gone on if the worst had happened….well, I wasn’t able to do that. I couldn’t picture it at all. It would have been like losing a limb, only constantly and forever painful.
There was a woman on the Diane Ream show the other day who lost her daughter to a sudden illness. She said the grief never goes away, but it softens and changes. You just have to hang in there.
After I lost my baby (my second child) a friend said something to me that I will never forget: “When you gave birth to your first child, you became a mother, and you became part of club of mothers. Now you are part of a new club — a club of mothers who have lost children.” Its not a club anyone wants to be a part of, but its a club none the less. You are not alone.
The feeling you are describing … the feeling of being a Martian among humans? That is grief. Grief is isolating — it isolates you from other people, and it isolates you from your self. I know you’ve probably heard from a lot of people that “it gets easier” or “it gets better,” and they are correct in a way. But it is not the kind of “better” like recovering from an illness. You are never going to go back to who you were before you lost Henry. Your old self WILL return little by little, but it will be reshaped in a powerful way by your pain and how you relate to it in the coming months/years. You are so new in your grief. Please be gentle with yourself, and surround yourself with love (I know you have a lot of it around you).
This is kind of a tangent…I thought of it when you wrote about xmas presents…another blogger I read who lost her son, (crazyforkids.blogspot.com) has a special tradition. The first xmas after he died, Santa and her son got together and brought his younger siblings a special present. It became a very special part of their xmas celebration. Every year their older bro in heaven sends something he would have enjoyed teaching them how to do, or just play with them. Maybe H will continue to bless the lives of his younger siblings and/or cousins in a similar way?
I echo the others–you will always be Henry’s mama, Katie. I wish I could offer you some comfort. And that you didn’t have to go through this at all.
From: http://blog.hospicefoundation.org/2009/05/name-for-parent-whose-child-has-died.html
“I have heard that there is a Chinese saying that the grey haired should not bury the black haired. Of course. It is an offense to the order of things.
This idea of orderliness and the disorder of a child’s death eventually brought me back to the Sanskrit word “widow.” And as creative as I thought I might be with language, as liberal as I was willing to be in borrowing a word from another language — maybe from Swahili or Greek, French or Thai — or even creating one myself from a collection of letters that I might shape into the meaning I needed, I returned to the language that had already given us one word. I considered that Sanskrit might locate another. And I found “vilomah.”
Vilomah means “against a natural order.” As in, the grey haired should not bury those with black hair. As in our children should not precede us in death. If they do, we are vilomahed.”
I know you feel orphaned by this loss, but you still are his mother, and he loved you. You created that love, and now you are the keeper of it. Keep it tender and close, and cherish it everyday.
We will always be Henry’s family and you always will be his mama who loves him. I don’t know, Kate, but I know he’s always our precious baby boy – always. You have three girls (after Georgia arrives) and two boys and you will have all of them in your heart forever and love all of them as only a mama can.
I am so very sorry for such a loss. I have followed your trials and successes throughout, usually silent, but I the impact of what happened, I just want you to know that you are so strong, to post, to keep posting through all these emotions.
I hope that those who are responsible for this are brought to justice, and that Justice is served.
I know that nothing anyone says can help take away pain, but I hope that you find some sleep tonight, or a month or a year from now.
Kelley
I was told, albeit when I was very young and I had a very difficult time understanding my great aunt’s English, that the German word for a mother who has lost her child translates to “mother of a star”. I refuse to look into it to see if it’s true, or if it’s just what she called herself after the loss of her son, or if it was lost in translation on me, because I think it’s such a beautiful way to refer to a mother who has lost her child, and to honor her continuing role in her child’s legacy.
You will ALWAYS be Henry’s mama. Katie. You are still you, and you will be more as a result of this loss, not less. Think about it this way–when Georgia is born, you will be the mother of a new baby, and that will change you too, but you will still be you.
It’s just not a natural thing for a child to die before their parents. That’s why there is no “name” for it, it’s unspeakable and unbearable. Know that you are not alone. You will wonder how the world continues without your Henry and you will never look at people the same. How they can walk by you and never know that you are about to cry from the pain. They can’t see it, and having a name for it won’t make it any easier. Peace to you and your beautiful family, most of all, to Henry.
I wish I had words to help. I am so, deeply sorry.
I’m so sorry that you are feeling the pain of losing a child. I understand that feeling. We lost our son Jan 2008 to stillbirth. I remember wanting to shout out how I was a mother who lost my child everytime I was out.
I’m sorry your grieving, I’ve been following your blog and have cried with you
I understand your feelings. My beautiful brother died at 19 and there are many similarities it seems in their personalities and situations. I never, ever know how to answer new acquaintances when they inevitably ask how many brothers and sister I have. It trips me up every time. I fumble my words and fight back tears. Sigh…. It has been 5 years now since he died and I hold it together on a day to day basis, but that question gets me every.single.time.
My hugs and thoughts are with you. And what a blessing this new baby will be to your family. When my daughter was born, she brought a gorgeous, almost drought-ending feeling of joy to our family. After all the long, sad and stressful YEARS of his struggle, the simple joy of a new baby to celebrate was so, so healing. The ache never ends, but there is joy out there, too.
A writer once said “If either one of those things DID happen to me, [Death of a child] I think I might just crumble, as so many parents do when tragedy of this magnitude befalls their families. But Elizabeth Edwards didn’t crumble; instead she did what motherhood calls us to do every day, which is get back up and put our own problems and hurts and disappointments to the side, and show our children what we’re made of, and thus, what they are capable of. Elizabeth Edwards did this, only she did it on a scale and with an energy that a lot of American women could only sit back and observe in awe. We didn’t admire Elizabeth Edwards because she was some kind of pity case; we admired her because she was a case study in personal and maternal strength.”
And that is what you are going to do. Not just because you can, but because you must.
I am sorry from the bottom of my heart.
Mary
Katie, I just wanted to let you know that I think of you and Henry every day, many times a day, and I wish you strength and whatever semblance of peace is available to you right now.
Katie,
I check your blog and think about you many, many times every day. I am so sorry you and your family are going through this. I can’t even imagine the pain you are in. I am so impressed by you and your ability to continue writing and sharing your story.
I hope the authorities will properly investigate Henry’s death; he and you deserve at least that much after all you’ve been through. I’ll keep thinking about you . . . lots.
Kim
I am so sorry this happened.
I recall a few weeks ago that you wrote about whether or not to go to counseling…especially with Henry’s loss, I hope that will an option for you in the coming weeks. Not that it will ease the pain, but that it might help you navigate Mars, so to speak, and it might help you help your kids too. There are grief counselors who specialize in this. One friend of mine who lost her young husband to leukemia still goes occasionally, three years later.
As others have said, I think of you often.
I know there is nothing that I can say, but I feel the need to say something. I’m so sorry. I am praying for you, Chris, and your entire family.
My beautiful baby girl was stillborn on her due date 1 year and 5 months ago. People will start to say stupid things to you (as if they haven’t already) – he wasn’t meant to be in this world. God needed another angel. Ultimately, I found peace in my belief that it is beyond our comprehension as humans to understand why something like this happens; I hope and pray you will eventually arrive in a similar place.
Here is a poem that has given me comfort:
I am standing on the sea shore,
A ship sails in the morning breeze and starts for the ocean.
She is an object of beauty and I stand watching her
Till at last she fades on the horizon and someone at my side says:
“She is gone.”
Gone! Where?
Gone from my sight – that is all.
She is just as large in the masts, hull and spars as she was when I saw her
And just as able to bear her load of living freight to its destination.
The diminished size and total loss of sight is in me,
not in her.
And just at the moment when someone at my side says,
“She is gone”,
There are others who are watching her coming, and other voices take up a glad shout:
“There she comes”
- and that is dying. An horizon and just the limit of our sight.
Lift us up, Oh Lord, that we may see further.
So very sorry for your loss. My heart breaks for you. My mind is racing with things to say, yet none of the words are coming out. Hugs, love and prayers to you and your family.
Continuing to send so much love to your family. There are no words.
I soooooo want to send this column and its attendant comments to my sister. 29 years ago, she lost a bright 5-year-old little boy. He just dropped dead. The autopsy showed no definitive reason. She blames herself, and has been subject to recurrent bouts of black depression, perhaps due to the guilt. I’m afraid that if I do send the link, reading it will trigger another. The 30th anniversary of his death is in 2 weeks.
When I am trudging through the snow, I am that pioneer mother who has buried her child along the trail to a new life.
When I am feeding my horses, I am that mother in Ireland in a cottage who has lost many souls in childbirth.
When I garden in my memory garden- bearing stones and ashes of my children who have been here and gone before me, I see them in the flowers.
Walking through these numerous old cemeteries here in WI- some date back to the early 1800′s. You can barely see the inscriptions- you see the ones dated 1851-1853, or just the single solitary word- “Baby” . Little white stones paid for by money barely scraped together by neighbors as the mothers mourned.
You will see stories in the paper, obituaries for little ones lost, and you will feel a stab of horrid kinship, of knowing just what that family is going through.
And there’s the anger. The horrible pissed off anger at having to pick a funeral bouquet, even of arranging a scholar ship or memorial. You’re just angry that you of all people have to do this. You are grateful for the beauty and joy the memorial brings even while you hate it for having existed at all…
It becomes a part of you. That’s all I can say. You will pick yourself up and turn away like that mother on the Oregon trail. You will continue to birth other children and nurture them. Like those mothers in Ireland you will leave the tiny grave and carry the soul and the hurt in your heart until you take it with you in the other world. Because you can no longer mother his body, but you will never stop mothering his soul.
Katie — we are all heartbroken over here … both Alisa and I have wept reading this succession of posts. Thank you for taking the time to write so beautifully about this unbearably painful experience. All of our thoughts are with you.
Katie,
My first “blog experience” happened just days ago as I read frantically through everthing I could find about Henry, a truly beautiful boy that I had never even heard of. Soon, I would be heartbroken for a woman I didn’t know. I hope it’s possible that you feel the love surrounding you by so many of us who have spent days in agony for you and your precious Henry. I have fallen in love with who he was and who he should have been. I see my own son as I stare at pictures of his beautiful face.
You, sweet Katie, have been given a divine purpose. You have an amazing voice that has touched so many so deeply. You have given me, and so many mothers, a clearer vision of addiction. Because of Henry, I will never underestimate the power and pull that drugs can have over ANY child.
My prayer is that you will find comfort in seeing the lives that you are touching and changing. The lives that Henry has and will save. I’m devistated for your loss but grateful for your strenth in sharing your story.
We are all blessed to have been introduced to your beautiful child and the amazing love that you have for him. There is no doubt that he knew his mother loved him.
Thank you Katie. My prayers are with you!
love,
b
I am completely shattered for you. I first heard of you and Henry from your first blog about his addiction.
I have been obsessive about reading more about you all…
Addiction is the most powerful disease and painful. I lost a beautiful soul to its power – my 28 year old fiance. Like Henry, he was a gifted musician and felt things too deeply I think.
I cannot even express how much I wish you peace and comfort.
Deep blessings to you all from Canada.
And to Henry.
Bless you all.
Katie – I came across your story through a tweet by Dooce when Henry died. I read your posts from the beginning of his injury and cried with heartbreak. I hated knowing the outcome and I let myself be hopeful with his improvements in the hospital, hoping that somehow that would make Henry recover.
In the last week I’ve stayed up late reading your essays and blog posts here and on your personal blog. I hope that in “getting to know you” and sharing Henry’s story and feeling some of the heartbreak it helps you in some way.
Through your stories, I know you’re a wonderful mama with a lot of caring family members and friends holding you through this. Count me in as one of them.
I’m so sorry. I wish there were better words than that to express my grief. I wish my online hug could make it a little more bearable for you. I’m wishing you peace and love.
{{{{{{Hugs to the whole family}}}}}}}}
You’re always in my thoughts. I so wish there had been another way.
Katie, I’m so sorry. I’m so so sad for you and your family. What a tragic loss.
Katie and family:
So sorry for your loss.
My parents have buried 3 children, my siblings, and I often wonder how they have been able to go on. My older brother, who was a rock musician in the 70s and 80s allowed his lifestyle to take over his body and died at an early age. Henry reminded me of him.
When my teenage son became addicted to drugs, you can imagine how horrible I felt. I know you can, I was you. Remembering my brother (who died when my son was 8 and a fishing buddy to him) made it even more difficult. My son was Henry. I am grateful for his sobriety(5 years) after years of abuse. I could be you. He could be Henry.
My parents and we surviving siblings have learned how short life can be and that we can not control the outcome. Ironically, it has helped to make my life more meaningful and full in so many ways. My brothers and sister are around me always and I feel them helping me through all the chaos in my life. I’m sure you can count on Henry for this too.
My positive thoughts are with you.
Denise
You are in the detachment phase right now. That happened to me also when I lost my child (at 6 days). It is like you are standing on the outside looking in the window of the world going on inside. It is a very lonely disorienting feeling. I am thinking of you and your family. I was so sad to read of Henry’s death. I got a chance to read a lot about him from the beautiful obituary. I also read the note he wrote when he was trying to argue for paintball. What an incredible child. My heart goes out to you…
I’m aching for you, Katie. You are a wonderful mother, with a beautiful family, and I’m sending you all my love and thoughts during this terrible time. I hope that the pain will indeed dull and you and the rest of your family will find peace.
Dear Katie,
My heart hurts for you…daily. I decided to talk to my 4 yr old (in age appropriate terms) about Henry. Daily, my son now asks about Henry and you. While this does not change your pain, I am quite certain that you and sweet Henry have made a huge difference in the lives of many. I was a Mother that was pretty sure that I wouldn’t talk ‘drugs’ for quite some time and possibly I would have taken a non-chalant approach if my (future) teen told me he smoked pot. NO LONGER!
But for now, all I can really offer to you is virtual hugs and Love and my sincere hope that somehow, someway, in time, you find Peace and never stop believing that Henry is still with you in Spirit.
Katie, you will always have two sons and soon three daughters. I very often think of you and Henry. I know you are fighting for that pain to make sense and possibly create more human dignity and justice. Your great talent as a writer is helping in that way. I don’t have that talent so I hope what I write makes sense. I hope you succeed, and hope you find peace no matter what because it is all that counts. Henry is already a more then great human being for you.
This line from a poem keeps playing over and over in my head when I think of Henry
“If love could have saved you
you never would have died”
Your love for Henry, the love he inspired and then sent back to you, that lives on. You are his Mom. You will forever be his Mom. He is forever your babe.
“I love you forever
I like you For Always
As long as I’m Living
My baby you will be”
- Love you Forever by Robert Munch
check out the book. Its a story I was raised with and the song my aunt sang to my cousin every night until he died at 19. I now sing it o my daughter. That love lives on and on and on.
http://www.amazon.com/Love-Forever-Gift-Robert-Munsch/dp/1552091090/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1276045850&sr=8-1
I echo what all the others have said – you will always be Henry’s mama. I wish I knew what else to say. I, too, am weeping for Henry, for you, for your family, and sending love and prayers your way.
You are a left-behind mom. Henry’s sweet spirit has moved on to that incredible place where there is no more pain and no more tears; while you are left behind to finish the race.
I am part of the local recovery community, and though I never met Henry – and hadn’t followed your blog until this tragedy happened – I pray and grieve with you. Not a day goes by that you are not in my thoughts and my heart.
For what it’s worth, your and Henry’s story has renewed my resolve to stay sober, not just for me, but for my own child who is age 10 now, and soon will enter that time of peer pressure and ‘experimentation’. I will heed your advice to ask more questions, follow more closely. I have learned much from your experience, and from your willingness to talk about it.
We who are sober in AA know that to drink again means death. Thank you for reminding me that this thing we do – staying sober – is no small feat, and that losing our resolve produces no small consequence.
All my love,
Ronda Hardy
You are the Mama of one that left to soon. That is how I identify myself. Peace to you on this grieving journey. Be kind to yourself.
A friend told me about your story, the story that my parents and I have been living with for 20 years. My brother is still alive, lost out there somewhere. I track him through his arrest record as he stopped even calling over a year ago. I keep checking for an arrest as proof of life. It is such a horrific path to go down, and if you have not been there, so hard for outsiders to understand. I get it. My Mom, I am sure gets it more, every day missing her sensitive, artistic, caring and funny firstborn. She raised us well and the same, and loved us well and the same, and we came out so differently. WHich is to day, you can’t blame yourself. You did not cause this. Drugs are the enemy to fight, not yourself. I am pleased to donate to your charity to help fight the enemy that took your son and won’t let go of my brother. May you find peace.
I am so sorry for your loss
I have been following your story and just checked in for the first time in awhile this evening. I am so, so sorry for your loss. You and your family are in my thoughts.
I’m so, so sorry. My younger brother (at age 21) died nearly three years ago when he committed suicide. It was a result of drug and alcohol abuse as well. I don’t know the pain of losing my own child, but I do know the pain of losing my brother and of seeing the impact it has had on my whole family, especially my parents.
I will be praying for your family.
Hi Katie,
I just happened to fall upon your blog while reading about Attachment parenting. My brother Jeremy, age 24, died 2 days before your son Henry, of a heroin overdose. It was 1:30am on May 31st 2010 that my husband and sister called the police to break down his door and found him dead. You and I are on similar paths right now as we go through this devastating loss. Monday morning, Memorial day while the rest of the country was BBQing, as we all sat grieving on my parents front porch in the house we grew up in, I remember saying, “can you believe that somewhere in the country there are other families going through the exact same this as us right now?” I don’t know exactly why I said that, I guess as a way to comfort and feel less alone. But it must not be a coincidence that I fell upon your blog while not even looking. You are not alone in your loss. Feel free to email me, abancoff g.ma….il…
Sincerely,
Aliza