A Broken Heart Still Beats

Years ago I purchased a book. I am not sure what drew me to this book. I guess I was hoping to gain insight into what the parents of my patients were experiencing when they lost their precious child. Well, hey, now I know first hand what it feels like. And it really sucks! The title of the book always hits me hard and now as if fate proclaimed it, I can live it as well. The title of the book is "A Broken Heart Still Beats." Truer words were never spoken. This book is a compilation of stories and poetry written by parents who have experienced the loss of a child. They are quite heart wrenching, but, they surely speak to me now. So when the spirit moves me, I am going to post some excerpts from this book, because it says what I am feeling better than I can say it. It helps me know that everything I am going through has been experienced by other unfortunate souls who have had to lose a child to join this "broken hearts" club. The words below came from the book and were written by Gordon Livingston, a psychiatrist, who lost two of his sons - one to suicide, the other to leukemia. The following is taken from the journal he began keeping when the family was given six-year old Lucas's cancer diagnosis.

"May 29, 1992 (ten days after Lucas's death):
...the pictures in my mind of Lucas dying will give me no rest. How can I erase, or at least soften, these images and remember him as he was in health, his sweet face, happy smile? How could they have put him and us through those changes? I never felt warned about those possibilities in the dry words of the "informed consents." What is the process now other than waiting for time to pass? Should I try to get back to work next week Would it help to travel far away or will I just miss him in as different place? I need some faith in God, but where was He when we needed him, when so many were praying on our behalf? I feel old, as if I have lived too long, seen too much, suffered beyond any hope of redemption. I am empty, barely capable of loving those who need me...and the world goes on as if nothing has happened. I don't want to be a part of it...."

There is so much more from this same fellow. His words shoot straight to the heart of the matter.

"June 17, 1992
The loss of my son has brought me to the edge of an abyss. I stare into it and see only darkness. I told Clare tonight that "I think about him all the time, don't you?" The answer, of course, was yes, and we both began to cry. I said something about being sure he was all right. She said, "I hope so...I just want him back." I start to tell her how sorry I am, but she knows that and I can't even think the words without remembering Emily (Lucas's sister) at his bedside when he died: "I'm so sorry, Luke. I'm so sorry." I don't see how I'm going to get past this."

"February 10, 1993
...Sometimes at night I think about driving to the airport, getting into the airplane, and flying west at one thousand feet n the darkness, until I meet the mountains. I could not, of course, inflict that upon my family, but the idea that I might thereby join Lucas fills me with anticipation. I have had patients who have lost children and told me of a wish to follow them. Now I understand."

And finally, almost fifteen months after his son's death, Mr. Livingston writes:

"August 23, 1993
...Memory burdens me like an anchor I cannot raise. It was not always so. My few earthly attachments allowed me to move through the present without fear on the way to a future that held, I imagined, some perfect combination of peace and excitement. That is gone now. I am weighted by the past and advance only haltingly and with great effort toward whatever time is left-full of obligation, but without promise of the joy I so freely savored."

I have no doubt I will feel the same no matter what measure of time has elapsed. I only hope I am able to find a way to make it hurt less. I love you Nickolas, you will always be my best boy in the whole wide world. I love you more than a wagon full of puppies. Mom