I’m selling my car. When Constance was alive, I drove constantly. I drove her to school, therapy, golf lessons, play dates, the outdoor park, the trampoline park, to the recreation center for lap swim and swim lessons, etc. She enjoyed singing in the car. Now, I don’t need to be anywhere.
I called Constance’s father to tell him I was selling the car because he might need to sign something. He mentioned that he’s also selling his vehicle because he no longer needs something so large.
After the call, I reflected on how small everything is compared to losing your only child. It’s like the moment your baby is born, your whole world changes. You realize at that moment that the rest of your life will be about helping that child be happy and healthy.
When your child dies suddenly, it’s the reverse. Nothing has meaning and the rest of your life is blank and pointless. You sell your house because you don’t have a family to live in it. You sell your car because she doesn’t need you to take her anywhere. Your life becomes as empty of things as it is of meaning.