I write to today for the surviving children, to honor their grief, to acknowledge their pain and to bring recognition to their plight.

I don’t seem to have a sense of control, pinging from one emotion to the next, feeling and unfeeling all at once. It is an uneasy, disturbed sensation in the background of my emotions that makes me feel unmanageable. I’ve been trying to put my finger on it and it has eluded me. Until today.

We are working so hard to manage our emotions that our bodies suffer. The physical elements of grief are serious and sneak up on us without our knowledge because we are so mentally consumed in our heartache. It is so important that we be aware that grief can make us sick.

It’s now a year and a half since her death and I feel the anguish as real today as I did that very first horrific day. I am wailing still and imagine I always will.

We are not the people we used to be nor will we ever be again. No longer do we look at life the same. There is a shadow, a darkness that envelops all that we see.

I find myself feeling less and less like I fit in to the mainstream world. After my daughter died, my reality capsized. I now look at life through a dark set of glasses. It’s not rosy. It’s not happy. It’s not balanced.

A new year without my daughter feels incomprehensible. There is nothing to be excited about, there is no positive outlook. This calendar change is bleak and unwelcoming. There is no room among the sadness to make way for new and better ideas, attitudes and changes.

Our daughter is dead and we all we hear is “merry Christmas” or “enjoy the holidays” or “the new year will be better”. ‘Tis the season to be jolly does not compute. Merry and bright are the opposite descriptions of how we really feel. Holly, jolly, fa, la, la, la, la. Blah.

The local community has showered us with ongoing support. Here's a story of how they continue to honor our daughter and her life.

Doing things after your child dies is liking eating a meal that has no flavor.