Today is December 7th. 2010. Mason died one year ago today. We’ve reached the first anniversary of losing one of our own, one of our children. There are names given to people left behind after a death. A wife who loses her husband is called a widow. A husband who loses his wife is called a widower. A child who loses his parents is called an orphan. But there’s no word for a parent who loses a child. We all experience loss during our lifetime, no one is spared. The loss you can reasonably anticipate, like the death of an aged parent, though heart-breaking, is at least within the realm of what most of us would consider to be the natural order of life. A parents’ death severs a life-long connection to the person who first gave you unconditional love, the person who created a refuge where innocence could unfold into wisdom, the person who gave you legs to stand on and wings to fly. I thought my heart would break when my parents passed. But parents die before their children. You always knew it would be so.
It is said that when a parent dies you lose your past, but when a child dies, you lose your future. I think this is especially true when a baby or young child passes. With the death of a young adult, the grieving is more for the future they have lost, a future being fully realized as you watch nearby, sometimes in amazement, sometimes in amusement. The absence of Mason’s physical presence in our lives is palpable. But on occasion I am fortunate enough to sense him, nearby, only a breath away. In trying to understand why life that is so lovingly given to each of us, is at times so cruelly taken away, I asked questions that cannot be answered, not in this lifetime. When I stopped asking and started listening, I began to see. It’s not about finding answers, it’s about having faith, faith in the Divine. Faith comes first, then understanding and hope follow. Even so, a year later, we still struggle to accept that when the phone rings, Mason won’t be on the other end, or when a car pulls up in front of the house, Mason won’t be getting out. Mason won’t be sharing his wit, his wisdom, his enthusiasm, his energy or his light. Or will he? My resolve is to take a leap of faith, believing without benefit of proof and learning to see with my soul and listen with my heart. So, I talk to Mason and he hears, I smile at Mason and he sees, I believe in Mason and he knows. He’s always been gifted.
“Faith consists in believing when it is beyond the power of reason to believe. It is not enough that a thing be possible for it to be believed.” – Voltaire
When You Lose a Child 
IM sOrry For ur los i lost my son I know how u feel al i want is to die that al i want i
Really beautiful post. Thank you.
Susan, I’m so sorry for your loss. I worked with Mason at Cingular, managing a retail store in Austin and then the retail store in Brenham. After leaving Cingular in mid-2004, I had lost touch with many of my friends, including Mason, and actually only learned of his passing a few days ago.
I know that you know Mason better than anyone, so I’m sure there’s nothing new I can tell you about him. But I did want to take a moment to let you know how much I admired him. I have been fortunate to have worked with some fine men and women over the years, and Mason was indeed one of the very best. It was Mason who welcomed me as a new manager to the company on my first day at Cingular; we seemed to hit it off well, perhaps because we had a few things in common: we were a few years apart in age (I was two years younger), and our birthdays were close (mine is December 22nd). We had both grown up in relatively small towns (I grew up in Elgin), and we were both obviously in the wireless business. As I got to know him, I became impressed by his professionalism, knowledge, business acumen, wit, and the ability to take tough challenges in stride. He was competitive, always wanting his store to do the very best. And throughout my tenure, he was always willing to lend a hand or an ear to me if I asked, and I could always count on him to make me laugh. His work ethic was amazing, and he had a desire and drive to succeed that served him well. We were co-workers, but it was his friendship that I appreciated above all.
I know that nothing I can say can ease your pain. But I want you and your family to know that although he may be gone way too soon, he lives on in all of us that were fortunate enough to have known him while he was here. I will always speak of him as he should be remembered – one of the best men I have ever known.
I am the father of an almost two-year old son named Montgomery, and now that I’m a parent, I think about how my young son would know me and what others would tell him about me if I was suddenly taken. When young Rowan gets older, if he ever wants to hear stories about his Dad or find out what others thought of him, feel free to give him my email address. It would be a privilege to honor Mason’s memory by making sure that his son understands exactly how remarkable and fine a man his father was. Take care.
Stormy Stuard
Hey Susan, I got your message and thank you for your kind words, too. If you want to email me directly, do so at jtparsons8@earthlink.net. jtp.
Susan, I am in Austin and a sepsis survivor. I saw your son’s story. I would be happy to be a contact for you. I try to do what I can to help the survivors and the families of the tributes on the Sepsis Alliance website to connect and help each other. You are welcome to email me or find me on Facebook. Take care and thank you for your efforts to get more people aware of sepsis! You definitely will save lives by doing so. jtp.