The Lost Child

There is something in the air these days that feels uncertain, I find myself primed for unexpected bad news. Recently different circles in my life have collided with each other over the loss of loved ones, mostly all were unexpected and 3 were children. Working as a speech language pathologist I work with some medically complex children who seem to live on the edge of life and death every flu season, but the ones who recently passed weren’t hovering on the brink. Watching the newly licensed SLP’s cope with their first patient loss I was reminded of my first loss.

Years ago I found myself working my dream job. As an SLP in a non-profit world there seemed to be less tape for billing, handwritten paper notes were still in fashion and parent education and participation in therapy was mandatory in our program. I loved every part of that job, mostly the specialization in early intervention with all of my kids being under the age of 5. One day I got a new client, his name was Zane and he was BUSY! I think he must have been around 18 or 20 months old when we started speech therapy and he kept me on my toes. He would dart around the therapy gym so fast I would see his toe-head blond head wiz by as he chased his older sister around the room. Getting him to sit down was a short exercise that lasted mere minutes at most. We would eventually make our way into my treatment room and out of the big gym but the door would have to stay open, if I closed it he would become focused on opening the door to exit and see what fun was happening on the other side of the door. He loved to play cars and we would take out all the little cars I had and roll them around making crashing sounds and other sound effects working up to approximations for real words like “go fast”, “Slow down” or “don’t crash!”. He loved the action and after playing he would hear a pin drop in the other room and quick as he could jump up to check it out, I would holler at him with shock in my voice and he would turn around to see what the drama could be about. Pointing to the cars I would say “oops we forgot to clean up!?” and he would smile at me, mirror my shock and come back over to the cars only to start playing with them again. His father would always say after our visits with incredulous confusion “how do you get him to stay in there for so long with the door open!?” I would simply laugh and say “I don’t know!”

Zane wasn’t the easiest kid to understand, his speech rate matched his energy and it was one fast ramble that sounded like a bumble bee in flight. As he got older and we worked together he started to slow down and if you had context you could understand what he was saying. I remember one morning his father dropped him off and told me that the family had gone out to eat at a restaurant and they were seated in a booth. Zane stood up and was looking over the seat talking to the man seated there, and to his father’s great surprise the man conversed with Zane alone and actually understood his words! When he shared that story with me he expressed his thankfulness for my work with him. Back then in my mid twenties, I didn’t know what to do with compliments and sincere thanks. I didn’t have a bucket available for receiving and I likely brushed it off as though it was just a natural progression in his development rather than direct intervention at my hand. I remember commenting often to his parents when he made me laugh that “his soul is too big for his body, it just leaks out of him that’s why he’s so busy.” His parents shared my thoughts, especially when Zane would get caught mid action, he would turn his head say “huh” and smile his mischievous smile and I swear his eye would twinkle as he thought about his next move.

I saw him Friday mornings, as he was nearing his third birthday he started to attend our little preschool transition program Friday after speech. His father would drop him off and I would walk him to school after our time ended and see him again with his friends during our push in story/language activity. When he first started the program he thought I came in to see him again and would try to sit next to me or jump out of his chair to engage with my materials, and I would have to remind him to sit in his chair like his friends. He would respond with “oh!” and run back to his seat ready to participate.

On Monday I was the first one in the clinic with an early morning session and I checked out voice messages at the front desk. As I was going through the messages Coley walked in and we said our morning greetings while I wrote down messages. I came upon the next one and recognized Zane’s father’s voice but was unable to understand his words, something about a memorial fund in Zane’s name and the rest is lost. Coley saw my face change into shock and disbelief as I grabbed my chest, she asked “what’s wrong!?” but I couldn’t form the words. Between sobs I choked out words resembling “Zane died” and she walked me to the office and set me on the couch to cry as she went to greet my 8am client. Since we were a small clinic my 8am client knew Zane as well and we didn’t have much to say during our session, avoiding eye contact to maintain composure.

Zane’s family reached out to me and his mother was horrified that I found out from the voicemail system and not the email she had sent me. They invited me to his viewing and I went thinking other therapists from our program would also be in attendance, but I was the only one. When I got there Zane’s mom greeted me with the deepest embrace I have ever been enveloped in and we stood there bawling in each others arms for what felt like hours. For the rest of my time there she wouldn’t let go of my hand and introduced me to everyone in attendance that was mostly family. It was the first time I had ever been to a viewing for someone that wasn’t over 80. And it was the first time I cried publicly, without shame, because of a broken heart and shared such deep grief in such comfort.

At his service there was standing room only. I was somewhere near the front, seated in a pew as directed by the family. I remember my foggy brain and holding back my tears, I couldn’t work my head around his loss. He was only 2 years old and couldn’t be by himself anywhere, he needed supervision and who was watching him now!? As I sat through his eulogy I was amazed how his parents were able to stand up and share their story telling us all with composure about Zane and making everyone laugh at his antics. I couldn’t talk at all, all my grief was just stuck in my throat. Aside from crying with his family and occasionally at work I was alone with my grief and out of my depth trying to process the death of a child. Life was out of order according to my experience and it didn’t sit well, you died when you were old, not 2.

I felt stuck with this grief. I wasn’t skilled enough in processing my grief to know how to ride it out and I was troubled still worrying about Zane being alone and uncared for. Weeks after the service I had a dream. I was at the beach with Zane and we were playing tag, I was running away and fell down in the sand and could hear him laughing and chattering behind me. As I rolled over he dropped down next to me and kissed me on my cheek. I immediately sat straight up in bed and woke my-then husband who asked me what was wrong. I said “I was dreaming about Zane”. He asked me if I was ok and then asked “why is your cheek wet are you crying?” I wasn’t crying. I wiped my cheeks and on the side where Zane kissed me it was wet like a two year old sloppy kiss wet. Zane told me he was ok and I was ok after that, I stopped worrying about him. But I haven’t ever stopped thinking about him.

Over the last 15 years in this profession I have worked with many kids and I can remember most of them. Not all kids weigh the same and some have dense footprints on my heart. Zane was one of the first to leave his prints behind, I remember his death because it broke me, but mostly I remember him and I still hear his voice and laugh at my memories of him. The kids are always easy to remember and some parents stick in my head or stay around as friends as their children graduate from my services, but Zane’s family left an imprints on my heart that will never fade. I couldn’t receive what they offered at the time they gave it, I was incapable of understanding my value or receiving that others could simply care for me and about me. I didn’t see myself with any importance.

10 years later I still cry when I tell Zane’s story. The lessons I learned from his parents have stayed with me. They showed me in their inclusion of my grief that I was important to them and they loved that I loved Zane. There was no comparative suffering of who hurt worse, just comfort that we could feel broken together.

Recently two of the therapists I mentor lost their first patients, both unexpectedly. We as society are not equipped to deal with grief. We feel dismissive of our feelings, compare suffering and judge our right to feel the loss. We struggle with what to say, or judge what to do and never get off the page keeping our intent buried from those we might be able to share with. If Zane’s loss taught me anything about grief it came from his parents. If you are hurting and someone else is hurting, just reach out. The words will never be enough because you can’t erase it, but the gesture goes far to those in the hole even if they are unable to respond. I reached out to Zane’s mom recently just to share a story and say I remember, I often remember him around his anniversary, when his footprints run across my heart.