The Day After

The day after we said goodbye to Simon was a fog. We cried almost constantly, we knew we needed to be there for each other and for Nolan so we got out of bed and did what we could. We got out of the house and went for a walk to the end of the block and back. It was all we could manage, and we were proud of ourselves for making  it that far.

There have been a lot of days after since then.

The day after we picked up Simon’s ashes. Something we never thought we would have to do, and something no one should have to do for their child. The day after, we were still in the fog and being pummeled by the waves.

The day after our first support group. We were told about the so-called grief-hangover that we should expect. It was real, and it hit hard. It was another day in the fog and while I was glad we went and glad we were beginning to learn we were not alone, I was still unable to see any light.

The day after we decided to honor our son with a bench at a beautiful Denver park. I had a task. A job to accomplish. I had to find out how to do it, what it takes, and I had to get it done. It was a job I wish I didn’t need to take on, and a job that I am so glad I did throw myself into. There was an end result. A perfect bench at a perfect park.

The day after we met with the specialist and confirmed what we already knew. We were scared about what we might hear, what we might learn. The day after, I felt a little stronger and more confident in what happened to our Simon, and at the same time, more confused and unsure of our next steps.

The day after Nolan’s surgery. Relief. A healthy, safe, happy boy. He woke up. He was fine. Our weeks (or months) of worry about the outcome were all for naught. We had our boy at home.

Now today.

The day after our memorial for Simon.

The day I was dreading.

It was a day of utter heartache. A day punctuated by a speech I never thought I’d get through, a song I never thought I’d want to hear again (but I am so grateful I did), people we hadn’t seen in weeks, months, years, even decades coming together to cry with us, laugh with us, and to remember Simon.

It was a day that my grandpa, Simon’s great-grandpa, comforted me and gave me a lifetime of advice without uttering a word.


It was a day we’ll never forget.

I was dreading yesterday right up until yesterday happened. Then, and now (the day after) I am so glad we did it the way we did, and so glad I gave the speech I never thought I could. Everything we did was for Simon and it showed us how much support we have, and he has. And that support will be there for our family of four, always and always.

2 thoughts on “The Day After”

  1. God fills his numbers in mysterious ways and though we can’t understand his ways we know he has a perfect plan and gives strength for the trials he allows. Pray that God will lead you to your child in heaven.


    1. First of all, I want to know what in my blog posts makes you feel that I believe in a god that would kill my son. I would encourage you to know your audience before making a comment like you did.

      I have heard a couple of times before that “god works in mysterious ways” or “it’s part of god’s plan” or even the hated “everything happens for a reason.” I want you to know that these words are not the comfort you are intending. They are incredibly hurtful.

      When you say to me that god has a perfect plan, and THAT is why my son died days before a planned c-section, you are telling me that a plan for my wife and me means that he didn’t get to live. That’s a horrible thing to say, and I truly cannot understand how that can be comforting to anyone.

      If you truly believe that god has a plan that takes children from parents as part of some kind of horrible divine intervention, what kind of a god is that? A vengeful god? Or just a cruel one?

      I hope that in the future you will chose your words more carefully and understand that parents grieving the loss of their baby do not want platitudes and crap about god’s plan. We want support and empathy.


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