Passages

A guest essay about the grief of a mother

Content warning: Grief and loss (death of a child)

Two year olds often drag prized stories from bookshelves for family to read to them. I didn’t expect my toddler, Devin, to be able to pronounce and memorize words from his choice of a college-level biology textbook and Antoni Gaudí—1852-1926 A Life Devoted to Architecture.

When he read, “Mitochondria,” “Golgi apparatus,” “Park Güell,” and “Sagrada Familia,” I said, “Uh-oh.” After a pause, sensing his life might become complicated from here, I added a promise. “One day, I’ll take you to Barcelona to see Gaudí’s work!”

Off the charts in every way, due to his advanced physical size, with academic abilities to match, most people expected far too much of him. No one can be gifted in all areas, and these “needs” aren’t always thought of as “special.” But his social, emotional, and fine motor skills and development couldn’t keep up with him. Too ahead of his time, throughout following years, Devin died at eighteen in February of 2022.

Vilomah is Sanskrit for bereaved parent, meaning “against the natural order.” Fate enrolled me into an unfortunate club with unwilling members. “You’ll have time” comforts from well-meaning loved ones also ended, as my only child and I hadn’t spoken in two years.

Drop-kicked through complicated grief from his sudden death, my broken heart fixated on the one thing I could control: taking him to Barcelona. In June of 2022, Devin’s stepfather and I took his ashes abroad.           

During two flights, four vacuum-sealed baggies of a powdered substance in our carry-on luggage prompted “additional baggage checks.” Were we carrying malt, beach sand, or cocaine? No, dehydrated Devin. Personnel inspecting our bags waved us through with knowing chagrins.

Due to a scorching summer, we traveled north to escape the heat, unexpectedly through seven countries of our distant ancestors: Portugal, Spain, Basque Country, France, England, Wales, and Ireland.

At a staggering stretch of ocean along The Cliffs of Moher, I knelt down while holding Devin’s sooty pouch. Before leaving my tribute, I recognized other people’s pile of unmistakable beige crumbles and bone fragments. Standing, I searched the faces in the crowd, wanting to know them. Other mourners, like us, traveled with their lost loved ones. Anonymous sorrow is everywhere. I hoped others, finding our offerings, would feel less isolated, too.

Photo by Victoriano Izquierdo on Unsplash

In Porto, my husband and I walked the first 100 kilometers of a spiritual pilgrimage along Camino de Santiago. Camino is “way or path.” Ours took us to Santiago de Compostela Cathedral in Spain. Camino Portuguese Litoral is one of many routes, and ours followed yellow scallop shells and arrows along the coast. Locals said, “bom camino” or good walk, knowing blisters and discomfort would accompany us. Their gratitude, for continuing their cultural tradition, urged us to keep moving forward.

The first memorial, in Matosinhos, Tragedia No Mar or Tragedy At Sea, consists of five colossal statues of women, wailing at the ocean. They drop to their knees, rip their hair, and scream into the wind. Tense hands stretch out in anguish. When I received “the call” about Devin, I did the same. Unfairness of those taken too soon, without goodbye, has substance.        

In a stream of walkers, we paid penance. Toes rubbed raw in our shoes. Old injuries swelled from daily friction. Backpacks scratched our shoulders. And the click-clack of hiking poles grounded us in present moment.        

At the cathedral, in an open chapel, a priest offered confession. My husband suggested I take my first sacrament of reconciliation.

“What would you like to confess?” The priest asked.

My sins are too great. Tears flooded my eyes. Deep inhales and audible exhales wouldn’t dislodge the regret, sadness, and anger from my choked throat. I failed Devin and couldn’t keep him alive. Too young. Too soon. Why not me?

“I lost my son.” Did the words made a sound?

“You’re not alone.” He motioned to a distraught mother, Mary, cradling her lifeless son, in The Pieta. “Pain can lead to the camino inside: forgiveness and compassion.”

I’m no saint, but I nodded at my sacrifice, too.

Like push pins on a map, spoonfuls of ashes marked our travel. We found Devin-specific nudges along the way.

In Madrid’s Plaza Mayor, we admired painted tiles commemorating the July 7, 1822 uprising—my son’s birth month and day. On July 7, 2022, our security camera back home recorded a rare skunk visit to our gated patio. Avid “skunk-watchers,” at our former neighborhood park, during Devin’s childhood, my husband and I yelled “Happy Birthday, Devin!”

In Bilbao, on Ledesma, my husband and I navigated the street, crowded with outdoor restaurant tables, chairs, and awnings. He walked ahead without realizing—I froze. Never before have I seen a sign for “Devin’s” restaurant. In Bordeaux, the label on a folded bag of wine salt read, “Sel Devin,” and when unfolded, “Sel De Vin.”

Devin made this journey and led us onward.

Some days my feet didn’t touch the ground, but tangled in spiderwebs of memories. Children, in person or art, triggered reminders of him at their age. Your child survived, but mine didn’t. Enjoy each other. There’s less time than you think. Nights were restless. Once I screamed myself awake. Otherwise, dreams of him took on a surreal comfort.

“Devin, where are you?”

“I don’t have the words you would understand to explain.” His disembodied voice remained cryptic.

“Could I have saved you?”

“No, not really.”

“Do you know I love you?”

“Yes.”
In Barcelona, outside Sagrada Família Basilica, the ruddy, sand-like, towering exterior awed us with endless narrative sculptures. I rubbed my bare shoulders, while reading the dress code, and we scrambled to find cover. The one open-early store only stocked men’s extra-large Star Wars tees. I draped myself in the smallest, “Ride The Storm,” emblazoned over a surfing Stormtrooper.

Inside, a brilliant, massive, and smooth skeleton of columnar leg bones stepped over me. Enormous mammal-like vertebrate, from Gaudí’s book and my son’s childhood, spanned the distant ceiling. From splendor came overwhelm and then denial.

No, stop, this isn’t happening. My knees buckled, and I sat down. Devin should be here. The sacred belly of this beast forced me to admit the truth of my loss. He’s gone.

I traveled thousands of miles to stall at the finish line? An interior monologue taunted me. Take Devin to meet Gaudí! I still have more of the world to see. Experience life for him. Keep going. The camino will provide.

I stood, pulling my sunglasses over my face, self-conscious about the steady stream of tears. In a mass of tourists, disguised as a Stormtrooper, I surfed through. A shock of stained glass blasted a prism of color on the blank canvas of the interior.

“Wherever you are.” I talked to Devin inside my head. “Behold!”

Locals and fellow travelers silently acknowledged my pain with quick glances and generous buffers of space. There is tenderness and fealty in humankind’s suffering, sewn into the fabric of every culture. Some hardships must be moved through, and there are many pathways at home and abroad. As for me, I’m still riding the storm of my vilomah camino, one day at a time.

After earning a master’s in creative writing at New College of California, Dawn Gernhardt completed the UCLA extension’s writer mentorship program, and taught English in high school. Her fiction and nonfiction are published in Author Magazine, Random Sample (nominated for Best Of The Net), Pink Panther Magazine, Defenestration, Wry Times, Funny-ish, and The Haven. She’s currently working on a novel. Links to her online work are found here or https://linktr.ee/dawngernhardt.

Author's note: For anyone who is triggered by grief or loss while reading "Passages," here's a warm hug. If you're struggling with the loss of a child, there are many services for help, such as Compassionate Friends.