An Unthinkable Loss
Personal Perspective: No parent should ever have to bury their child.
By Greg O’Brien
Greg O’Brien with his son, Conor.
Source: The O’Brien Family
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.”
—Washington Irving
Several weeks ago, I became a member of an exclusive club that I never wanted to join: a parent who has lost a child.
No parent should ever have to bury their child, and no parent should ever have to rush to an emergency room, as I did recently at Cape Cod Hospital, to see a sheet pulled over their child’s head.
And yet so many have.…
I am at peace in the belief that my 33-year-old son, Conor, is in Heaven with the Lord, free of his challenges, though the collective hearts of our extended Irish family are pierced. In some ways, we’ll never be the same—my wife Mary Catherine, son Brendan, daughter Colleen, me, and others. Maybe that’s not a bad thing.
Conor’s passing has given us a frontline perspective of the serpentine grief of other parents and relatives who have had to walk through this valley—balancing unthinkable grief with the need to press on toward the light, to walk it out.
Time heals wounds, they say. But in so many ways, I feel, as others have felt, that the clock has stopped, frozen in time.
Many, with the best of intentions, are asking: “How do you feel?” The cold reality is that few, if any, outside family circles can fully grasp the loss of a child. It is hard to articulate something so deep. Merriam Webster has no words for this.
Not that numbers always matter, but more than 400 people attended Conor’s memorial service, including 40 relatives from around the country. As others were seated, our extended family walked into the sanctuary, each holding a yellow rose, as the bagpipe played “Coming Home.” After several heartfelt eulogies celebrating the God-given gifts of our son, the service concluded with a beautiful, moving solo: “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” followed immediately on the bagpipe by “Amazing Grace” as we all filed out of the church.
I felt in the moment, the collective pain and numbing fog of others who have lost a child. I offer this word picture in an effort to honor Conor and those who have left us all too soon.
Conor was named after Conor Larkin, the larger-than-life lead character in Leon Uris's best-selling novel Trinity. His middle name, Michael, was named after Michael the Archangel, the leader of Heavenly hosts.
He wore the names well in good times and in times of challenges. He was a gifted athlete and had characteristic wit and humor and his laugh would echo throughout the house.
Conor carried others. And at times, others carried him….
Gradually, we carried one another—imperfect individuals giving each other support—and a reason to press on.
For 10 years, as I continued to battle Alzheimer’s (a disease that has taken several family members), we traveled the country together. During speaking engagements and national interviews, I was so amazed at how Conor would rise to the moment and speak from his heart, far above the level of most his age—to audiences of hundreds and thousands.
Conor indeed had creative talent, often beyond the view of others and often beyond his own view.
To say Conor was my guardian angel is to say Tom Brady throws a tight spiral.
Conor also spoke at national panel discussions in Washington, D.C. with UsAgainstAlzheimer’s where I serve on the board. He captivated others with his humor and passion. In answer to a question, he once told a room full of world Alzheimer’s advocates and some members of the U.S. Congress that his job description was “to make sure that my Dad didn’t get lost and lose his filter again…. It’s ugly when he does; boy, is it ugly!”
The room erupted in applause.
Looking back now, as others have, I wrestle with the question, what more could I have done better? It haunts me… haunts me today, not only for Conor but for Brendan, Colleen, and my wife.
Conor’s passing has made me a more introspective, and maybe even better father.
Conor, I believe, is now fully perfect in Heaven and even knows how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. He’s now smarter than the rest of us, starting with me.
At 72, my mind today is a like a vintage color slide carousel, clicking family photos throughout the decades… click, click, click.
I can’t stop it… nor do I want to.
The old saying: “The Lord doesn’t give you more than you can handle….” I just think God, at times, has me mixed up with someone else.
On Sunday, July 10, before Mary Catherine, Colleen, and I left for the beach with grandkids Adeline, Timmy, and Lucy, in tow, I got to say goodbye to Conor, not knowing it was good-bye.
He told me that he wasn’t feeling well.
“Are you okay?” I asked twice.
“Yes,” he said.
“I love you, Conor,” I told him.
“I love you, too, Dad,” he said.
Those were the last words….
When we returned, Conor was gone.
Doctors told me the end came swiftly, mercifully, and without pain for Conor—another massive seizure, brought on by a spate of ongoing medical issues.
While the shock of his passing is abating, the grief is bearing down like a heat-seeking missile, as those who have lost a child would know.
For me, today, grief is like the Brewster flats at low tide on Cape Cod Bay where the water drains out for two miles as if someone has pulled a plug, exposing a legion of sand bars. One has to wade out through the rocks, seaweed, the slushy mud and the cracked sea shells to swim. One must have patience and perseverance to keep walking. You have to forgive yourself on a journey of grief; you have to keep walking toward the sunset until you can swim.
And so, I’ve promised Conor that I will keep walking while I can.
I’ll keep walking toward the sunset until I can swim—hoping others in their grief might join me.