The Q life Grief Journey

There are days when the softness of memory isn’t enough. Days when gratitude and peace and acceptance all feel like strangers. Days when the only thing sitting in my chest is anger, heavy, hot, relentless.

I don’t talk about this part often, but it’s real.

I’m angry.

I am so incredibly, deeply angry.

I’m mad that Quinten is no longer here.

Mad that I can’t see his smile or hear his voice.

Mad that I can’t wrap my arms around him in one of his tight, comforting hugs.

Mad that his spot on the couch is empty, his cabin is dark and quiet, his laughter is missing from everywhere and every holiday.

I’m angry at the finality of it all.

Death does not negotiate.

It does not compromise or soften its edges.

It just… ends things.

And Quinten was only 34.

Thirty-four years old.

So young.

Too young.

Why did he have to get cancer?

Why did it have to be incurable?

Why did it have to take him from us when he still had so much life left to live?

There are no answers that feel good enough.

There are no explanations that ease the ache.

Not for a mother who buried her child.

And losing a child… it goes against everything in your heart and soul.

From the very moment they are born, something inside a mother shifts forever.

You become responsible for their safety, their well-being, and their comfort.

You promise, silently, instinctively, that you will protect them with your life.

That you will stand between them and anything that could cause harm.

So when cancer comes, when illness steals control, when your child begins slipping away, no matter how tightly you hold onto them… it shatters something sacred.

And the anger comes from that fracture.

It comes from the feeling that you failed at the most primal job a mother has ever been given.

What’s worse, in those last moments when Quinten’s breathing changed, when the death rattle filled the room with a sound no parent should ever have to hear, I found myself begging the Lord to take him. Begging for mercy. Begging for peace.

And that goes against everything you’re taught as a parent.

Everything you swear to uphold.

Everything you believe that makes you a good mother.

A mother is supposed to fight to keep her child alive.

Not pray for their suffering to end.

Not plead for their release.

But when your child is dying in front of you, love becomes something different.

It becomes a surrender.

It becomes a sacrifice.

It becomes the hardest kind of mercy a parent can ever give.

And still… the anger remains.

Because none of it feels fair.

None of it feels right.

None of it feels like the way things are supposed to be.

I’m angry that he hasn’t come to me in my dreams yet.

I wait every night, hoping, longing, for even the faintest glimpse of him. A sign. A visit. Something.

But the nights are quiet, and that silence hurts more than I ever imagined it could.

I’m angry that my youngest child is gone.

Those words still don’t feel real, even when I say them.

Even when I write them.

Even when I live inside their truth every single day.

And yes, I know I was lucky, blessed, even to be with him when he took his first breath and his last.

I know how many parents never get that gift.

But the gratitude does not erase the grief.

And it certainly does not erase the anger.

Because anger is part of love, too.

It rises up when something precious is ripped away.

It fills the space where a future used to be.

It grows out of all the “should-have-beens” and “what-could-have-beens” and the dreams that were never given a chance to bloom.

I’m not ashamed of my anger.

I’m not afraid of it.

It is simply proof of how deeply I love my son.

Someday, the sharp edges of it may soften.

But for now, I let it be what it is,

a natural, honest part of my grief,

a place where my love has nowhere else to go.

And even in my anger, I know this:

Love is still stronger.

Love is still louder.

Love is still here, carrying me through the moments when nothing makes sense.

But some days,

I’m angry.

And that’s okay.