We meet in the dining room and exchange quick hugs, getting a table for four. Mom tells me that Dad is busy somewhere socializing with a friend he ran into, so it's just us girls to start.
“So happy to see you, sweetie. I’ve been thinking a lot about you today,” Mom says, reaching across the table to take my hand.
“How are you holding up, sis?” Spencer jumps in, taking my other hand in hers.
I force a smile, knowing they’re already aware of how I’m feeling today. I don’t need to tell them that today is the second worst day of my life. They already know.
Not wanting to spend any more time focusing on myself, I don’t bother answering and instead change the subject. “So, how was your date last night, Spence?”
My sister rolls her eyes dramatically. “He couldn’t stop speaking about himself in third person. And he stared at my tits all night.” Poor girl. She has no luck when it comes to men, and knowing my sister, I’m sure she told him how terrible she thought he was.
“We were talking about our work, and he literally said, ‘Martin wants a woman who stays home and keeps him fed and the house clean.’ When I told him that women can be more than just homemakers, he said, ‘Martin thinks you need to submit and let him teach you what to do.’” She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Who the hell talks about themselves in third person?”
A genuine laugh escapes me. “You must’ve done something terrible in a past life in order to have such shitty luck with dating.”
Spencer narrows her eyes at me. “He was a fucking idiot.”
“Language,” Mom chastens, holding back her own laughter. “Perhaps you should stay off dating sites and allow me to set you up with my handsome doctor.”
“Mom, for the love of God, you are not setting me up with your gynecologist.” Mom and I collectively laugh at Spencer’s misery.
The waiter arrives with our drinks, just as Dad finally appears. He greets me with a kiss on my head and takes the seat beside Mom.
"What's new with you, Cammy Bear?" Dad asks, using my childhood nickname that's followed me over the years. "How are you holding up?" He places his hand on top of mine across the table, giving me a reassuring squeeze.
"Well, actually, I just met with Dr. Reynolds. She suggested I attend a support group," I admit before hesitantly explaining the support group to my family. Of course, they're all thrilled and on board with the idea of me attending a support group to interact with other grieving parents.
“That’s fantastic, sweetie. I hope it’ll be beneficial for you,” Mom says, smiling, her bright eyes full of hope.
Dad had suggested that I attend a group when I first moved back home, but at that time, I wasn't willing to consider it. Dr. Reynolds also mentioned it a few times, but I vetoed it just like Dad’s idea.
I feel like I’m finally semi-ready to attend.
The rest of our lunch goes by quick, and thankfully, our conversation is light. We avoid the elephant in the room. I know it's a hard day for everyone. I'm not the only one who suffered a loss one year ago today.
My sister lost her nephew.
My parents lost their only grandchild.
And I lost my son.
After lunch, I hug my family goodbye and drive straight home to get some work done and shower. My nerves and anxiety become higher than ever. I don't like group activities or talking about myself, but I'm going to suck it up and step out of my comfort zone, even if it kills me.
And there’s a good chance it might.
By seven o'clock sharp,I arrive at the community center downtown, sit in a circle, and watch as men and women fill the empty chairs around me.
"Hi, mind if I sit here?" a woman asks in a soft voice, almost a whisper. I barely spare her a glance before I nod my head, gesturing for her to sit beside me. It is the last seat available, and I must admit, I hadn't expected the meeting to be so full. I hadn't realized there were so many parents with dead kids near me.
Five minutes later, a woman with beautiful dark skin and curly hair stands from her chair and begins speaking, "All right, let's get started. I see a lot of new faces, and I'm glad you've all decided to join us today. I'm Eliza, and I put this group together three years ago after my daughter died from leukemia. This is a safe space where we can all laugh and cry together. Your pain is our pain, and we will help each other heal. Now, let us all introduce ourselves." Eliza takes her seat, nodding toward the man on her left to start us off.
I’ll admit; I’m skeptical. Sharing my feelings in a room full of strangers doesn’t seem appealing to me, but I’m willing to try.
With a heavy sigh, the man nods his head and waves before standing. "My name is Jerome, and six months ago, my eight-year-old son was riding his bike and was killed by a drunk driver. His death caused my wife to miscarry our daughter, and honestly, I'm struggling to take it day by day." He sniffles, wiping the tear that falls down his sad face. "I blame myself every single day. I was supposed to be watching him, but I took my eye off of him for a minute so I could go inside and get another beer." When he’s done speaking, he sits back down after taking a tissue from Eliza and using it to wipe his face.
One by one, everyone in the room shares the reason they're here. Some parents lost living children; others experienced a miscarriage or stillbirth. Nonetheless, they are all parents in pain. I would know. Pain recognizes pain.
And I can feel their pain.