The national awareness of the needless loss of children probably started with Columbine in Littleton, CO, in 1999 when 13 students and a teacher were senselessly gunned down in April of that month.  I was teaching in a high school in Connecticut then, and the universal remorse was so profoundly felt; we had television feeds on in the high-school library about it for days, and security was suddenly beefed up for everyone entering the campus. It was a traumatic time for all students, teachers, and parents. How could this have happened?

     But then other school shootings kept happening.

     Sandy Hook, CT. December 2012: 20 children, 6 adults and one teacher, 23 others injured. This was the town next to where we lived, we had friends there who suffered losses, and our friend, Msgr. Robert Weiss, became the chief spokesperson and national consoler for the tragedy. Sandy Hook still resonates as one of the major, most significant school shootings in the Country. Parents and survivors of Sandy Hook still argue and advocate for gun control, mostly gaining good publicity but not many real solutions.

     And then there are the other incidents of youngsters, such as this last week of 19 year old Isabella Gonzales, an Army Private from Carrollton, TX, who died in an Iranian air strike in Jordan. Needless, senseless. Once again, not about gun laws this time, but about war laws, congressional responsibility, and a do-nothing, know-nothing, care-nothing administration that is willing to let not only young people, but any people all over the world, die for nothing.

     Our own son died last week, not in a school shooting or in the military or of famine, but because of the incredible pandemic of early on-set colon cancer in people under the age of 50. The minute it was diagnosed, in 2023, we headed to M.D. Anderson in Houston which had pioneered a program specifically targeted to this group. We were fortunate; we lived within 250 miles of Houston, and could afford to drive there for treatment every other week, which we did for over 2 1/2 years. Regardless of the dramatic funding cuts under this administration to cancer research— 115 clinical trials, a freeze on NIH research grants,  and reduction on 181 grants from NCI totaling over $317 million dollars — I cannot blame gun laws or budget cuts or a senseless war for our particular loss and tragedy. But I soooo want to blame someone.

     That is what grief does; it makes you so angry and so ready to blame. It makes you tired of people who don’t know what to say and always manage to say the wrong things. So tired of cheap condolences with worn-out clichés like “no more suffering,” “gone to a better place,” “time heals all wounds,” “let me know if you need anything,” or the perennial favorite “thoughts and prayers.” Please. Give me a break. If you cannot come up with an original thought, if you cannot write a hand-written, heart-felt letter or note of condolence, then make a donation or send a prayer card. Sorry, but it’s not my job to tell someone how to be a supportive friend, nor can I be expected to help others “process” their own shock and sadness.

     The need for blame also makes me angry at god. Here is a younger person who had done, and promised to continue to do, so very much good in his life and community, and yet, he’s gone and  we are left with all these horrible, deplorable (yes, Hilary) people who go on inflicting damage and hate and death everywhere without any retribution.  It makes me sick. But I am not God. I am not even sure there is one. But ironically, if there isn’t, then in the end there won’t be a heaven or a hell either. And then these horrible people will end up scot free into eternity, just like Donald Trump always does in life, without any consequence at all. 

      If there is any consolation at all in our grief, it is that at least we had 50 wonderful years with our beautiful son, to enjoy him, laugh with him, be proud of him, learn from him, and love him. I feel especially deep sympathy for those parents who have lost children early on, as youngsters or young adults, parents who have not had the benefit of knowing what their children might have become and experiencing the pride and the joy in that knowing.  In this blessing I find some solace for us, and for that I am eternally grateful.

     In loving memory of Aaron, now and forever…

     October 27, 1975 – July 10, 2026