Joy and Sorrow Can Coexist

Laura Archie

This June marks seven years since the day my husband and I left our house full of joy and headed to the hospital with eager anticipation for the arrival of our first child. Two weeks later, we left the hospital in absolute devastation, with empty arms and shattered hearts. 

Our son, Everett, was 5 lbs 4 oz of perfection. He had my nose, his dad’s chin, and a head full of blonde curls as soft as silk. I’d had a “textbook perfect” pregnancy and we spent nine months dreaming of all the amazing and wonderful ways our lives would be forever changed after his birth. What we never could have imagined was how quickly our dreams would dissolve into every parent’s worst nightmare, upon learning that he had a heart defect that was undetectable in utero and had also suffered a stroke; and that those two conditions together meant he would never be coming home. 

Thanks to the incredible and compassionate team of doctors and nurses, we were able to have two weeks with our son before his death. Two weeks that will never be enough but were also a miraculous gift.

How do you exist after the death of a child? How do you ever face the world again?

I will never forget that last awful, silent ride home from the hospital; looking into my husband’s eyes and seeing the same unbearable pain and hopelessness I knew were mirrored in mine. This was a loss beyond comprehension. In a matter of days I went from prepping our son’s nursery to planning his memorial service. It was surreal in the worst way, and I kept waiting to wake up from a nightmare that wouldn’t end. To simply keep breathing from one moment to the next felt impossible and I did not believe there was a future worth bearing that pain.  

We had family and friends who loved us, meant well, and tried their best – but those efforts often fell short and at times even caused additional hurt due to a lack of understanding of how to support the grieving. There were others who disappeared from our lives completely because they either didn’t know what to say or couldn’t bear witness to our sorrow. My husband and I were in crisis, drowning under the weight of our loss, and we felt utterly alone. 

A turning point came when a former coworker who had been involved with The Grief & Loss Center put me in touch with the director, Laurie Taylor. When my husband and I met with her,  it was the first time we felt like there was someone who “got it” and that we wouldn’t have to walk this unimaginable path alone. She listened to our story with genuine compassion and empathy, validated our emotions, and helped us understand the differences in how we were each managing our grief and how to navigate those differences with gentleness and kindness. 

A few weeks later Laurie started an infant loss support group, where I made connections and formed friendships that became the glue that held me together during that first year. Having a space to grieve openly, to be seen and understood, to cry, rage, laugh, and speak of our children proudly – this was critical to sparking the first flicker of hope. I wasn’t even sure what to hope for at the time, as I couldn’t envision the future without our son. Still, I took comfort in knowing I had a small but mighty community of people who understood as no one else could, and who would be there to help me face whatever that unknown future held. 

In the years since, I have learned that joy and sorrow can coexist in equal measure as I wake each day immensely grateful for the privilege to raise Everett’s younger brother and sister, while mourning his absence. I try to live each day in a way that would make him proud. 

I have also found great purpose in honoring Everett’s life by offering support to others who are grieving. The support I received through the Center was a light in the darkness that helped me take one small step at a time until I could eventually stand on my own again. I am thrilled to now serve the Center’s board and play a larger role in helping fulfill its mission of offering hope, purpose, and belonging to those who have suffered loss.