Losing a child produces a complicated grief

Q: My husband and I lost our 27-year-old son about 16 months ago. We have a daughter who is 31. She has two little boys. We saw both of our children (and our grandsons) almost every day. I babysat them during the week and they stayed with us every other weekend. About 30 days before my son died, Jane's (not her real name) husband decided he didn't want us around anymore and gave Jane an ultimatum. This being her third marriage, she chose him. The boys are not his. Jane did come back for my son's funeral, told me everything would be all right and then disappeared two days later. Haven't seen or spoke with her since. Our world is blank. I am disabled enough that I cannot work. I see a therapist and take a truckload of drugs. I believe in God and know I will see my boy someday. But right now it is hell. Any ideas?

A: A son. A daughter. Two grandsons. In the space of 30 or 40 days. The weight of these multiple losses is incomprehensible. Families in wartime are not often asked to bear the burden of such losses. No one who isn't feeling these losses could possibly imagine them.

And only one of the four losses is deceased. In fact, to that loss you have managed to attach hope by way of faith: In God you remain tied to your boy, and by the grace of God you will again see him. But you write of no such hope for the other three. They are not dead but estranged, and estranged in a way rendering you helpless to respond, which is yet another loss.

I so get how your world is blank.

You say, "I see a therapist and take a truckload of drugs." Anti-depressants? Anti-anxiety? Sleep aids? These would be my guess. How often do you see your therapist? And does he/she know that, 16 months later, you are still in hell?

What has become of your marriage in these past 16 months? Grief is hard on marriages. Do you still have each other? Does your bond remain strong and nourishing? Can you count on each other?

Your daughter's husband decided he "didn't want you around anymore," and your daughter allied with his wishes because, you explain, it was her third marriage. Meaning, a third marital failure was more painful to her than a permanent estrangement from her parents?

This just strikes me as odd. Why didn't he want you around anymore? And why does it nag me that your daughter might have grievances of her own that she now disguises as "marital loyalty." Loyalty, schmoylty. A loyal wife should not be asked to choose between marital bonds and parental bonds, unless you and your husband are evil or the sort of in-laws who create relentless domestic and interpersonal chaos for their children. A husband has every right to expect to be primary, but wouldn't he have to bring a very serious indictment to his wife to convince her to sever ties with her mother and father?

There is something here unspoken, unacknowledged, unrecognized.

This is what we call in my trade an acute, complicated grief. Complicated meaning it is not merely sadness, but sadness with layer upon layer of anger and confusion and guilt and lack of clarity. And while such journeys are ghastly difficult, still, 16 months later you are still in hell. And that makes me think something about this grief is stuck. Not moving.

Have you made attempts at contact since Jane left the funeral? Do you have a land address for her? If you do, you might consider committing to written communication every one to three months. Two, no more than six sentences. Simple. Upbeat. Hopeful. Such as: "Hi, Jane: It's your birthday today, and I found myself looking at a birthday photo of you at age 2. You have chocolate cake in your hair! I think of you every day. Love, Mom."

Why? Well, while this strategy does sometimes (over time) melt the heart of our antagonists, the exercise is ultimately for us. If indeed we must go to our grave estranged from our own flesh and blood, then at least we go knowing it was not us who chose the estrangement. We die in a posture of extension and hope. And while we are surely noninnocents in the conflict, the decision to cling fiercely to impasse is your daughter's alone.

Our children can reject us, but they do not have the power to make us give up on them.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling Wellness Center in Las Vegas and the author of "Human Matters: Wise and Witty Counsel on Relationships, Parenting, Grief and Doing the Right Thing" (Stephens Press). His columns appear on Tuesdays and Sundays. Questions for the Asking Human Matters column or comments can be e-mailed to skalas@reviewjournal.com.