From Hockey Mom to Bereaved Mom: A Journey of Grief, Love, and Hope

The following is raw and real. It is difficult to recount. We all hurt. No one goes through life unscathed. My written words may be too intense and difficult for some to read. Grief is deeply personal. I am writing this lengthy blog because I feel the need to educate others about child loss and sibling grief.

It was August, and hockey tryouts were around the corner. All three of my children had been on the ice together preparing for another hockey season. It was a busy but happy time.

When I went to bed, I was a hockey mom. When I woke up, I became a bereaved mom. My sweet eleven-year-old son Clarke died suddenly and unexpectedly in his sleep. We were all in shock. It was the ultimate sucker punch. The carpet had been pulled out from underneath us. Our lives were forever changed.

Some referred to this new and heart-wrenching chapter in our lives as our “new normal.” It was not normal. It was brutal. Disbelief, so many unanswered questions, immense sadness, anger, and tears were rampant in our home. My beautiful 16-year-old daughter and my sweet little 8-year-old boy grew up overnight. Their world had imploded. Nothing made sense anymore. Our hearts were tender.

We all loved our Clarke. Our home felt empty without him. Trauma had impacted all of us. Grief and trauma were a new learning curve. We quickly learned that our grieving styles were different. There was so much pain behind closed doors. Grief is complicated, and we were all trying our best to support each other. It is a lot when a family is immersed in grief.

As a grieving mom, I felt overwhelmed. Kind people surrounded us and wanted to take our pain away. We received so much love from our community. Complete strangers offered their condolences. The Hockey Family showered us in kindness and unwavering support. So many broken hearted players and coaches. There was a cooler at our front door, and generous, gracious, caring friends left meals for the first six weeks of our grief journey. Wonderful neighbours gently supported us in so many ways. Our family was wrapped in a blanket of love. My mom, dad, and my big brother took turns staying with us in our home. They loved Clarke, and their hearts were also shattered.

A beautiful couple visited us every Saturday for the first year of our journey. The teachers and principals will always have a special place in my heart. They watched over Caroline and Matthew. The hugs, so many hugs. Hugs that spoke so many words. As sad as I was, I had gratitude for the kindness bestowed upon us.

I worried incessantly. I worried about Caroline and Matthew. It was devastating observing their heartbreak. Many do not understand how siblings suffer. There is immense pain behind closed doors. At times, children are consoling their grief-stricken parents. My children were so close. They were each other’s best friends. They were so involved in each other’s lives. I wanted so desperately to take their pain away. I felt like I was walking on a tightrope, nervous about my every move. Some days they wanted hugs. Some days they did not. I wanted to mend their shattered hearts. I couldn’t.

I was also absolutely stressed out from worrying about Clarke’s friends. Many of their moms were calling me and telling me how sad their children were. Some asked me for advice. There was so much pain.

I was very hard on myself in my early grief years. I felt like a failure. People told me I had changed, and of course I had. I felt badly about all of my griefy moments in public. Grief has its own agenda. There were many times when I would be an absolute teary mess. The kids’ schools and the hockey rinks were hard places for me. They were filled with so many memories of Clarke.

One day, I had a grief burst at my hairdresser’s. A young woman who was getting her hair cut called me “Debbie Downer.” There were harsh moments…

I have learned so much on my ever-evolving journey. I have learned about myself, sibling grief, the importance of community, kindness, compassion, and hope.

I had dark days when others held hope for me. Days and nights when I was immersed in sorrow and worry. The loss of hope is temporary. Hope does return. Hope is powerful.

I now hold hope for others.

I have learned to carry my grief. I miss my son every day, but I have turned my pain into purpose. I now support other grieving moms, because I can.

Our journey has evolved. It will continue to evolve. Every year has been different. The sun does come out again. You will feel joy and calm.

I am here to serve. To walk beside other grieving moms. To gently listen to your stories.

We do get through dark times.

Yours in hope,

Denise