A Parent’s Heartbreak: Facing the Impossible and Learning to Carry Love Beyond Loss.1984
She had another counselling session today.
She loved the lady she met with, as she always helped bring things into perspective and guided her to process thoughts from a different angle.
Today, she had been in tears.
Tears for her boy’s final moments, for the things she wished she had done differently in those last twelve hours.
She relived it over and over again with her husband.
Together, they had regrets, things they both would have done differently, yet nothing could change what had happened.
The counsellor reminded them gently.
They had been thrown into this without a manual.
They had never done this before.
There was absolutely no palliative or hospice care to guide them at home during his final hours.
And yet, they had still believed that Caiden would bounce back.
He always had.
The counsellor said they placed so much pressure on themselves because they were good parents.
Parents who loved and cared for their children wholeheartedly.
That was why they had wanted everything to be perfect for their son’s final moments on earth.
It was torturous.
It was cruel.
It was something no child or parent should ever have to endure.
Watching a child die helplessly was unbearable.
Having to try and make the best decisions for a child who could not speak for themselves was a weight beyond measure.
They would forever wonder if their choices had been the right ones.
Forever question their actions.
Forever live with the echoes of those last hours.
A message from a supporter on Caiden’s page resonated deeply with her that day.
The comment read with compassion and understanding:
“I’m so deeply sorry for everything you’ve been through and for losing such an incredibly amazing child.
I cannot imagine the heartbreak and grief.
It’s important to understand that what you’ve experienced is not only grief.
Grief is the natural emotional response to loss, the deep sadness, longing, and sense of emptiness when someone you love dies.
Healing from grief usually involves gradually coming to terms with the loss, finding ways to honour and integrate the memory of your child, and slowly reclaiming a sense of meaning in life.
These are things you're actively doing.”
The message continued, explaining trauma.
“Trauma, on the other hand, is the lasting impact of extremely stressful events on both the body and mind.
Caring for a child with cancer is deeply traumatic.
Years of uncertainty, fear, medical emergencies, and constant vigilance put caregivers into prolonged fight or flight mode.
This hyper-alert state can affect sleep, mood, memory, and even immunity, sometimes manifesting physically.
Healing from trauma often requires targeted approaches like somatic therapy, mindfulness, or trauma-focused counselling, which help the body and mind safely process these overwhelming experiences.”
She read these words slowly, absorbing each one.
Recovery from grief and trauma was possible, they said.
It did not mean erasing the grief entirely.
It meant adapting to the loss.
Integrating it into life.
Reclaiming a sense of meaning, despite the pain.
The supporter continued:
“My heart truly goes out to you and your family.
Sending big hugs.
I truly wish you never had to experience this trauma.
Statistically, parents of children with cancer are much more likely to develop PTSD, and I really hope you are getting the support you need to work through everything.
People often admire your resilience, and it is absolutely deserved.
But resilience can come with its own repercussions.
Staying strong through unimaginable pain can take a toll on your emotions, your health, and your relationships.
Sometimes grief and trauma can resurface even after years.
My hope is that alongside all the strength you have shown, you are also given the space, care, and understanding to process and heal from the trauma at your own pace.”
She closed the comment and took a deep breath.
Tears fell again.
But this time, they were mixed with a glimmer of hope.
She realized that while nothing could undo the pain, healing was still possible.
It was a long, winding road, filled with detours and dark days, but it existed.
She thought of the last twelve hours with her son.
Every sound, every breath, every whisper of love was etched into her memory.
She remembered how he had smiled weakly, how he had squeezed her hand, and how she had tried to stay strong for him even when her own heart was breaking.
She remembered her husband by her side, their shared fear and desperation, their silent prayers.
She thought about the regret that haunted her.
The things she wished she had done differently — the decisions made in panic and fear, the moments lost to indecision, the things unsaid.
She knew, intellectually, that no parent could have done everything perfectly.
Yet the heart held onto guilt stubbornly.
It was relentless.
The counsellor’s words echoed in her mind.
No manual existed for this.
No one could prepare them for watching their child die.
They had done the best they could with what they had.
And that had to count for something.
The supporter’s message reminded her that grief was not the whole story.
The trauma of prolonged stress, fear, and helplessness had left its mark on body and mind.
It was natural, it was expected, and it could be healed — slowly, with care.
She let herself imagine a future where the weight was lighter.
Where she could remember her son with love instead of relentless pain.
Where his memory brought comfort, not just heartbreak.
She thought of the ways she had fought to protect him, to make his life full and beautiful even as it ended too soon.
She remembered his laughter, his curiosity, the sparkle in his eyes.
She remembered holding him close, whispering promises, and feeling the warmth of his tiny hand.
Even in death, his presence lingered in every memory, in every heartbeat, in every tear shed for him.
The pain did not lessen, but understanding began to creep in.
Grief and trauma were companions now, but they did not have to be tyrants.
There could be moments of peace, however fleeting.
There could be joy, however small.
There could be connection with others who understood, who loved, who remembered.
She sat quietly, thinking of the future.
Thinking of healing, of acceptance, of love that endured beyond loss.
She knew she would continue to feel the pangs of regret.
She knew she would relive the final twelve hours many more times.
But she also knew that slowly, step by step, she could integrate this pain into a life that still held meaning.
Her heart ached, but she felt a fragile spark of hope.
Her son’s memory would guide her, not break her.
She would carry him with her always, in the way a parent carries love, grief, and hope intertwined.
And one day, the trauma would no longer feel like a weight, but a testament to a love that had been fierce, unwavering, and eternal.
Every Excuse Ends the Same Way: In a Black Bag.746
The hallway was silent, but the silence was heavy—like grief itself. Black plastic bags lined the floor, each one hiding a life that had once wagged a tail, pressed a wet nose against a hand, or curled up beside someone in trust. To most who walked by, they were just bags. But inside each one was a story—a dog whose only mistake was being unwanted.
And always, behind those stories, there were excuses.
“All they have are pitbulls.”
“I’m moving.”
“We’re having a baby.”
“It’s been a week, and he’s not adjusting.”
“Just an oops litter.”
“She’s started having accidents, and it’s too much of a hassle.”
“He needs training. I’m not paying for that.”
“I wanted a husky/shepherd/dachshund instead, so I went to a breeder.”
Every excuse wrapped in selfishness. Every reason spoken with indifference. And every one of them ended here—in this hallway, in these bags, in the stillness that followed a final injection.
In the United States alone, half a million dogs are euthanized every single year. Not because they were monsters. Not because they were unlovable. But because they were abandoned, discarded like things instead of beings.
Each bag in that hallway once held joy. A puppy once carried home with excitement, a dog once trusted to be part of the family. Some of them licked tears off a child’s cheek. Some of them guarded the door at night. Some of them were simply guilty of growing up, of becoming less “cute” than they were at eight weeks old.
They weren’t broken. They weren’t bad. They were betrayed.
Prissy, the little tabby saved by a firefighter, lived because someone chose compassion. But here, hundreds of thousands do not get that chance.
Shelter workers cry behind closed doors. They are the ones who hold the dogs in their final moments, whispering comfort as the light fades from their eyes. They are the last voices the dogs hear, the last hands they feel. And when it’s over, they place those small, still bodies into bags like these, and line the halls with the weight of human failure.
This is not what they want. No shelter worker signs up to kill. They sign up to save, to help, to give second chances. But the flood of excuses never stops, and the cages always fill faster than homes open.
Imagine if the excuses were reversed:
“I’m moving, but of course my dog is coming with me.”
“We’re having a baby, and I want my child to grow up knowing love and loyalty.”
“He’s not adjusting yet, but he deserves time, just like any of us.”
“She’s having accidents, so I’ll take her to the vet. Maybe she’s scared, maybe she’s sick—but I won’t give up on her.”
“He needs training. That’s my responsibility. I owe him that.”
Imagine if compassion was chosen instead of convenience. Imagine if loyalty was returned instead of betrayed.
Half a million dogs could live. Half a million tails could wag. Half a million pairs of eyes could light up at the sound of a familiar voice.
The truth is painful, but it is also powerful. Change begins with one choice: to adopt, to spay and neuter, to commit fully to the lives we bring into our homes. To see them not as disposable, but as family.
The dogs in those bags will never get another chance. But those still waiting in shelters do. And whether they live or die depends not on them—but on us.
