Guest Blog by Kaitlin: Ever Wonder What It's Like Being In The Dead Kid's House?

Today's blog is brought to you by our daughter, Kaitlin. She wrote it at 2 a.m. You might want to grab a tissue.

Ever wonder what it’s like being 

in a dead kid’s house?

I do. 

It’s empty. 

There’s an empty seat at the table. 

There’s an unused bedroom. 

There’s an empty spot on the couch. 

There are uneaten snacks in the cupboards. 

There’s less laundry to do. 

Everywhere you look, something has been affected by the dead kid’s absence. 

Usually, there are lots of pictures of the dead kid. Reminders of the memories that were made. The sad thing is that during those times, you have no idea you’re making “memories.” You simply feel that you’re living your daily life in an ordinary way. Then one day, the kid dies and you realize that those ordinary days become some of the most precious times you can hold on to. 

You frantically search for videos so you can remember the dead kid’s voice because you know that one day, you won’t be able to remember it on your own. You’ll need to listen to one of these “memories” to be reminded. 

You quickly start photo galleries to collect all the photos you and your family have of the dead kid so they’re all filed together when you want to look at them. 

You go through their closet and try to decide what’s worth keeping for yourself, offer to the dead kid’s friends, and what should go to Goodwill. Have you ever thought about that? That you could be purchasing a dead person’s old clothes from Goodwill? It’s a creepy yet humbling thought, isn’t it?

Then here comes the toughy: you need to decide how to bury the dead kid and what kind of a gravestone they should get.

Now imagine this: you as a parent dream of your child getting older. You see them getting through school, finding their passion, and getting a job. Maybe they won’t love it, but you know they’ll eventually find their way. Sometime later, they’ll get married and you’ll be busy planning the days of a wedding. After that comes to pass, you’ll beg them to give you grandchildren. You know they’ll smirk awkwardly and avoid the question, but eventually.... the kids will come. And you’ll be enamored with love for these second-generation children of yours. Everything will be grand. You’ll grow old and the memories will continue to be made during holidays, summers, and fun weekends in between. You envision so much happiness for your children. 

But your happiness is short-sided. It’s stolen from you. Because instead of planning a wedding, you’re picking out a coffin that your child will forever remain sleeping within. You then need to decide what the headstone should say. How can you possibly sum up the life of your most precious gift in a few mere words? “Impossible!” You say. Yes, it is. But you need to do it or your child will have nothing to represent them in the graveyard where they now abide instead of safe within your home. 

Instead of sending out save-the-dates, you write an obituary. 

Instead of helping organize wedding gifts, you collect money from funeral cards. Instead of dancing and celebrating, you listen to a pastor give tribute to your child. Your CHILD. The person you birthed. The person you dropped off at preschool with tears streaming down your face. The person you taught to ride a bike. The person you drove to practice. The person you helped nurse back to health. The person you made dinner for every night. 

The person you would die for a million times over is now dead. And somehow, you’re expected to move on. 

So, this funeral that you so beautifully planned comes, and people think it will bring “closure.” That somehow, you’ll attend an hour-long service, while in complete shock, disbelief, and denial, and you’ll find CLOSURE. Closure? You don’t find anything at a funeral. You don’t find answers, explanations, or clarity. You simply turn on auto-pilot and continuously beg God to wake you up from this nightmare. 

People are nice at funerals. They cry while they’re there, bring you food, and give their well-wishes. But later, They jump into their cars and go back to their regular life because... you know...things were starting to get a little uncomfortable and it’s best if we go home now. 

A couple of weeks go past, and that Mom is still crying. Can you believe it? When will she get it together? The dead kid is in a better place, after all. She should feel so comforted by that. Also, she’s very #blessed so she should be grateful for what she has. 

Funny, isn’t it? When we expect others to be grateful in the most horrific stage of life that you could never possibly imagine unless you were going through it. But, no. Those parents have too much to be thankful for. They can’t possibly be so sad. Better give her some time and space. It makes me feel uncomfortable to talk to her, so I’ll distance myself for a while. 

They say time heals, but I haven’t found that to be true. Instead, I’ve found that time helps you forget. 

Forget how he laughed

Forget how he walked

Forget how he would eat his food

Forget your inside jokes

Forget how he loaded and cleaned his guns

Forget how he’d hug you

Simply put, forget what it was like to be in his presence. 

But parents don’t forget. Parents continue to love through death. But parents have to live in the dead kid’s house. 

Please 

Love those parents. 

Don’t pretend like their dead kid doesn’t exist. Don’t stop calling because it makes YOU uncomfortable. And whatever you do, don’t complain about your children.  You don’t have a dead kid. You have the greatest gift that too many parents wished they had: a living, breathing, and capable child. 

Hold them. Hug them. Kiss them. Tell them you love them. Because they’re the greatest treasure you will ever receive, and you don’t know how much time you have left with them. 

Lucky you, your kid’s not dead. 


By:  Kaitlin Schlegel Budish, sister to the dead kid