POSSIBILITIES:
Reflections on the death of a child
by Lynne Avitia
“Nature never repeats herself, and the possibilities of one human soul
will never be found in another.”
Elizabeth Kady Stanton
 On a hot July morning in 1994, I stood in the open door of my home and watched the black hearse drive away with the body of my three year-old son. The sun was barely peeking above the horizon. The sky, a beautiful southwestern pink, gave herald to the new day. Now, as I watched the back of the van disappear from view—my eyes reaching heavenward at the promise of a new day without him—I began to understand the profound reality that my son was gone and I would never hold him again. It was his time to move on.
When adults die, they leave achievements. When children die, they leave possibilities. If we lose an adult to death, there is a hole. But when a child dies, he leaves a vacuum that threatens to tear at the very fiber of a parent’s being.
Many people have since asked me how I could watch my son die. My job wasn’t the hard one…Sammy’s was. It’s the dying that is hard. My son died like a man—with strength, dignity and faith. Although he left no estate, no inheritance to be handed on, no assets to be appreciated by heirs, his legacy is much more valuable. He has left the bright light of hope. He has set a standard by which my husband and I live. He is a tough act to follow, and I often wonder what he might think of my actions before I take them. His willingness to give himself over to his disease and its treatment, and yet maintain a strong sense of self, has inspired me over and over again.
Almost immediately after his death, I decided to volunteer at the hospital. Being afraid that it would become a place I would associate only with pain, I decided to make new, more positive memories that would lead me past my fear of entering through those imposing hospital doors. I became a Eucharistic Minister and was able to reach out to other families who were experiencing pain. I had no fear of entering the hushed room of a terminal patient. I also found joy in seeing new mothers holding their tiny infants to their hearts. | |
Working with patients forced me “get over myself” and recognize that many people are experiencing pain in one form or another. Sharing the pain makes bearing it all the easier.
After a year of serving at the hospital, I added the title of “Youth Minister” to my resume. I felt a calling to work with high school youth at our church and I hesitantly answered the call. And what a great adventure that decision turned out to be! Not only was I able to help the youth, but they, in turn, helped me heal from my pain. They made me feel needed. I was, again, brought out of my own self-centeredness and was able to make a difference in the lives of others.
All through the years since Sammy’s death I have made it a point to share his powerful story with anyone who’d listen. I have spoken at Women’s meetings, retreats, youth groups and diocesan assemblies. Sharing his story—and constantly reminding myself of the impact he has had on my life and the lives of so many others—has helped me come to peace with the loss.
It might seem odd, but my husband and I are often overcome with a powerful sense of pride. Pride that we were considered strong enough to be chosen as Sammy’s parents. “Why us?” was not the question we chose to ask about his illness. “Why us?” was what we asked when we wondered what we had done to deserve this beautiful and fascinating child.
I understand now that Sammy’s possibilities have come to fruition. Maybe God’s plan for him was, quite simply, to teach the rest of us. If so, he has succeeded. He has changed our lives forever.
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Lynne Avitia lost her son, Sammy, to neuroblastoma in 1994. She works as a college instructor and also speaks publicly regarding her son's death. She recently recorded their story for EWTN radio.
(September Newsletter "Loss of Role - Finding a New Purpose".)
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