By Timothy Loftus, Editor & Publisher | Sergeant Bluff Advocate
On Sept. 6, I received the call no parent ever expects to receive. It was the kind of call that throws a parent’s mind into complete shock because its implications are final. There is no fixing what happened, asking for another chance or going back to the moment before the telephone rang. There is only the terrible dividing line between the life you knew before the call and the life you must somehow learn to live afterward.
My son, Logan, was 25 years old. He had recently moved out of my home and into an apartment of his own. The morning before he started a new job and was beginning another chapter in his life. His mother had seen and spoken with him the night before. Twelve hours later, he was gone.
We still don’t know exactly what happened. Because healthy-looking 25-year-olds do not ordinarily pass away without warning, Logan was sent to the state medical examiner’s office in Ankeny for an autopsy. Then came a week of silence as we waited for the call telling us when he could come home. Preliminary information suggests he may have had a problem with his heart, but many questions remain unanswered.
I’m not sharing these details because I am looking for sympathy. I’m sharing them because they explain where I am and why I am writing about grief before I fully understand it myself. I am not writing from the other side of this experience. I am writing from somewhere in the middle, trying to find my way through one day at a time.
When a child dies, even an adult child, a parent’s mind desperately searches for an explanation. It replays conversations, decisions and ordinary moments that seemed insignificant at the time. Was there something I should have noticed? Should I have encouraged him more strongly to see a doctor? Was there a symptom everyone overlooked? Could I have done something differently?
The questions come fast, but the answers don’t.
Parents spend so much of their lives protecting their kids that it can feel like a personal failure when something happens to them. We teach them, warn them, encourage them and worry about them. Even after they grow up, some part of us still believes we should be able to protect them.
But love does not give us control over everything that can happen.
I have to remind myself of that, sometimes several times a day. Logan’s death does not mean someone failed him. It doesn’t mean his mother or I missed something obvious. Sometimes the human body carries a hidden weakness that gives little or no warning. Sometimes terrible things happen before anyone realizes there is a danger.
Accepting that is not the same as understanding it. It simply means recognizing that guilt can become another burden placed on top of grief, and it's often a burden that doesn’t belong there.
There's also a tendency to withdraw from life. Grief makes isolation seem easier. There are times when I don’t feel like talking, answering the telephone or explaining how I’m doing. Even simple conversations can be exhausting. You may worry that people will not know what to say or that your grief will make them uncomfortable. Sometimes you don’t want to be around happiness because it reminds you of how much your own life has changed.
But there's nothing wrong with needing time alone. Silence can give us room to think, cry, pray or simply breathe. But there is a difference between taking time for yourself and disappearing from the people who care about you. I’m learning that grief needs solitude, but it also needs connection.
Depression can become part of this journey. Grief and depression aren’t the same, but grief can become so heavy that getting out of bed, eating, sleeping or caring about tomorrow becomes difficult. There’s no weakness in admitting that to yourself. There's also no shame in talking with a counselor, physician, pastor or trusted friend. If the darkness becomes overwhelming or a person begins thinking about hurting themselves or no longer wanting to live, that’s the time to reach out immediately to family or friends or to seek professional help.
Working through grief does not mean completing a checklist and becoming “better.” It can begin with smaller steps: getting out of bed, taking a shower, eating something, walking outside or calling someone instead of sitting alone. On some days, accomplishing one ordinary task may be enough.
Grief can also turn into anger. A person can become angry at doctors, family members, God, the world or even the child who died. That anger can eventually harden into bitterness if we allow it to take over our lives.
Death is a completely natural part of life, and it will eventually touch every one of us. Knowing that doesn’t make the death of a child feel easier or natural. Parents expect their children to outlive them. When that order is reversed, it feels fundamentally wrong. Still, I don’t want the way Logan died to make me bitter about the life he lived. I don’t want anger over losing him to overshadow the gratitude I feel for having known and loved him for 25 years.
For me, staying connected begins with family. We are all grieving Logan in our own ways. Sometimes we talk about what happened. Other times we tell stories that make us laugh. There can be tears and laughter in the same conversation, and neither cancels out the other.
It’s also very important for me to remember that I’m not the only person grieving. A parent naturally views a child through the relationship they shared, but every person has a life beyond what his parents see. There’s his friends, coworkers, neighbors and others whose lives intersected with his. Each knew a different side of him and carries different memories.
I’ve been genuinely surprised by how many people Logan affected. I knew he was kind, compassionate and funny, but I didn’t fully understand how far that kindness reached. Hearing from the people who knew him outside our family has helped me see more clearly the life he created for himself and the place he held in the lives of others.
I’m also noticing what keeps me moving. There are stories to write, pages to build, photographs to take and a newspaper to publish. Deadlines do not erase grief, but they provide structure to days that might otherwise lose their shape. Work gives my mind something in front of me that needs to be completed.
My friends have helped simply by remaining present. The most helpful people do not try to fix the unfixable or search for perfect words. They listen. Sometimes they let me talk about Logan. Sometimes they talk about ordinary things, which can provide their own kind of relief.
Then there are my dogs. My little fur babies that don’t ask you to explain grief. They still need to be fed, let outside, walked and cared for. They sit beside you without trying to fill the silence. Their routines pull you out of bed, and their companionship makes the house feel a little less empty.
Another way to work through grief is to create something living or meaningful. Plant a tree in your child’s memory and watch it grow through the years. Write down your memories before time softens the details. Create a scholarship, volunteer, support a cause or help another family going through a difficult time. Pain does not automatically become meaningful, but we can choose to do something meaningful because of it.
I wrote a song
(Logan's Song) to help work through my grief. It gave me a place to put emotions that were difficult to express in ordinary conversation. In five days, that song was viewed more than 9,000 times. The number surprised me, but what mattered more was realizing how many people connected with it. Some knew Logan. Others may have recognized their own grief in the words. The song became a way of sharing something deeply personal while reminding others that they are not alone.
None of these things—family, friends, work, dogs, planting a tree, writing a song or supporting a cause—makes the pain disappear. That isn’t their purpose. They're anchors. They keep us connected to life while we learn how to carry a loss that will always remain part of us.
Logan’s death has also made me think about the health of young adults. Young people can appear healthy while an undetected condition is developing beneath the surface. Because they are young, they may not schedule regular physicals or mention symptoms that seem minor. Parents should continue encouraging their children, even after they become adults, to receive regular checkups, know their family medical history and speak honestly with a health care provider about unexplained symptoms.
We live in a world filled with highly processed foods, chemicals, supplements, energy drinks and other substances that may affect our health. I don’t know whether any of those things had anything to do with Logan’s death, and I won’t guess because that takes you down another rabbit hole. Regular examinations also can’t identify or prevent every sudden medical emergency. Still, screening and honest conversations with a doctor may detect some problems before they become life-threatening. If sharing Logan’s story encourages even one family to have that conversation, it is worth sharing.
I’m only beginning this journey, and I do not pretend to know the right way to grieve. Some days will be harder than others. Grief doesn’t move in a straight line, follow a schedule or end when other people expect it to.
For now, I’m trying to stay connected. I am trying not to retreat too far into myself or allow anger to become bitterness. I’m talking with his brothers to help them through this and I’m trying to accept that I can’t change what happened and that placing blame will not bring Logan back. I am holding close to my other two sons, returning to my work, talking with friends, caring for my family, and finding ways to turn some of this pain into something that may help others.
Most of all, I am learning that moving forward does not mean moving away from my son. It means carrying Logan with me into the life that remains.
