Returning to Work After Child Loss

In August of 2020, the world was still under the siege of Covid 19. My industry in particular was nearly at a stand still. I’d worked in advertising as a non-traditional producer, mostly doing live events, for the better part of my career as a freelancer. My only child had come home early from college. At 18 years old, he was working as essential personnel at a senior living facility until the quarantine was over.?

And then on August 25, 2020, the unthinkable happened. My child passed suddenly and my whole world changed in an instant. For most of the population, it already felt as if the bottom had dropped out but now I was wrestling with my will to even go on living another day.?

I was fortunate to have a group of family and friends surround me with love, bring me meals, stay with me, offer financial help, take me for walks and just listen as I crumbled. I don’t know what I would have done without them.?

Mere months into my grief, a friend offered me what I would consider a softball project. It was both a Godsend and a test of my ability to return to work at all after experiencing the worst tragedy. I’d already demonstrated the diminishment of social skills from being in isolation and found myself blurting “my son died” to anyone who asked how I was doing - the dental hygienist, the pharmacist, the mailman, my uber driver. I had no roadmap. Not for navigating the new normal of the pandemic world or for emerging back into life as the walking wounded.?

The project was to construct packaging for a custom award being gifted to a CEO of a Fortune 500 company. It was not a career maker. However, it was paying the bills and it was the perfect gig for me in those very early days.?

I wore a mask of normalcy all day. Still working remotely, it was relatively easy to plaster a smile on my face and engage in water cooler chit chat until everyone got on the Teams meeting. No one knew except my direct supervisor. I would lead meetings and occasionally look up to see my son’s urn and think “What the hell am I doing? This is so unimportant. My son is dead and I’m sweating over a box that’s going to be in the landfill the day after its use. Why?” It is hard to fight the apathy in the beginning. Everything, EVERYTHING seems pointless in the wake of child loss.?

I’d pull myself together until 6 or 7 and then the dam would open. I was so grateful to have the work and for McCann New York, who had my back. I had one day during that project that I simply couldn’t lead a meeting and the VP who hired me took it on. I’d heard of people who lost children and were given 3 bereavement days and then were expected to return full time with no special accommodations. I knew how lucky I was for the work and for the support.?

The day I finished that project, I literally raced the clock to pick it up from the vendor and deliver it to the award fabricator in Brooklyn. I couldn’t drive away for some time as I was blinded by my own tears. It felt like all of the grief I’d held together chose right now, parked in an industrial area near the Gowanus Canal, to explode out of me.?

But I had finished the first job. I had what I call Grief Reference - I’d already experienced my son’s first birthday since he’d passed. Now I had worked on my first small project, my baby steps.?

This project was followed by another softball. Really, how lucky was I when so many are not? I kept my tragedy close to the vest and found this next one incrementally easier to get through. I do recall texting with the Creative Director after dinner and him telling me he needed some time to put his kids to bed. I texted back “Kids ALWAYS come first. Go Go.”?

As those early weeks turned to months, I brought to my work a much needed hyper focus that mostly eclipsed the pain. I also tried my best to wear the worries of the work like a loose garment. It is possible to deliver the highest quality of work while still understanding that it’s not life or death. Having experienced the worst possible, you do gain a freedom, for lack of a better word, to not sweat the small stuff. That is not antithetical to professionalism. It just means that should a calamity arise, I remain calm because I’ve seen some shit.?

At the end of year one, I took on my first multi million dollar project. Working closely with a team for over 2 years, little by little my colleagues would learn about my son. My department head on that project met with me one on one to kick-off and said “I’m not sure if you know this but my mom just passed.” That was the beginning of close colleague support and the ability to touch base and share both tears and encouragement, sometimes in the middle of the work day.?

I became more comfortable being transparent while not oversharing. When someone asks how many children I have, not an unusual question, I say one. If they ask how old, I say “he would have been 22, he passed in 2020.”?

I am quite open to talking about my son. Ask any parent in my shoes and they will tell you that never hearing their child’s name is like losing them again. However, I’m learning to navigate and recognize when it’s appropriate and with whom. My greatest supporters in the workplace were those colleagues who would ask me how I was doing and to share who my son is.?

As part of my healing journey, I’ve also gotten a couple of meaningful tattoos. I was a former Never Tattooer and now my forearms tell a story of love and remembrance. Under some circumstances they are on display and will elicit questions. My eyes will light up as I tell what each one signifies. Again, I have to be particular about it. Sometimes their response is tears. It’s hard to explain what that feels like for me. Part of me is grateful they can feel a little of what I’m going through. Part of me feels like I must comfort them.?

Then there are the times I am brought to tears. I never want to be the Debbie Downer in the room but the reality is, I’m never not going to be carrying this hole in my heart. But you didn’t make me cry and regardless of my physical reaction, saying nothing is worse. A simple acknowledgement of “let me know how to support you” or “I really don’t know what to say” or encouragement - it matters.?

As I approach the 4 year anniversary of my son’s earthly release, I’m not all better. However, I’ve honored my grief. I’ve allowed the tsunami to pull me under when it approaches. I allow the tears, I try to get enough sleep, I eat healthy food and because of this I am healing.?

I no longer feel I need a disclaimer before I enter a room. My empathy has not only returned but multiplied. I bring love and compassion to my work and to the people I work with. I am changed and I think for the better.?

Amber Briscoe

Producer and Author of the upcoming Jagger and The Fireflies;A Memoir of Enduring Love,?Survival and the Afterlife