Afraid To Die

“Not yet, Mama.”

It’s been almost 10 years since my daughter died. I talk to her every single day, but in that time, she’s spoken to me exactly twice. Once, just after her death to let me know she was okay, and most recently a couple of weeks ago, to let me know that death wasn’t in the cards that day.

In the time she’s been gone, I’ve quite frequently thought about dying and getting to be with her again. Yes, I’ve thought about suicide. Whether they admit it or not, I think anyone who’s lost a child, has thought about committing suicide. I’ve always managed to back away from that idea, not for religious reasons, but because I think that act might actually prevent from seeing my beautiful daughter again.

Recently, I was in a situation, where for a split second, I thought death was a definite possibility.  I discovered was that I wasn’t afraid. I had a calm and peaceful feeling about it. I thought I’m finally going to get to see Katy again.

In that millisecond when death crossed my mind, Katy spoke to me.  In a voice as clear as if she were standing beside me, she had three words.  “Not yet, Mama.” As quickly as she had come, she was gone. Those were the most gut-wrenching words I’d ever heard, and for a split second, I was angry with her. She was dictating the terms on when I’d get to see her again.

In that moment, I realized I’d be okay. We would all be okay. In the strange chain of events that followed, I knew Katy was responsible. She was watching over us.

I’ve often heard people say they’re not afraid to die and I’ve wondered about that.  Was that really true?  I’ve said it and wondered if it was true, or was it only what I believed to be true.  Sometimes we think or say things that we truly believe, but when faced with reality, we find to be untrue. I don’t believe anyone really knows the answer to that question until they’re put in a situation where death is an actual  possibility. I know that my belief is reality.

I am not afraid to die.







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  1. I’ve read your post three time now over this weekend. It’s hard for me to form the words that I want to express to you. I feel where you’re coming from but I cannot know how you feel. I know that she’s deep in your heart just from the way you talk about her. I can’t image that she wouldn’t be. No matter what I say, it won’t be much comfort. Just know that I think about you and how special she was to you. I never knew your daughter but if she’s anything like you – she’s very special. I can tell you that the pain eases a tiny bit as each year passes – but just a little. Love you, Terri!


  2. Hi Terri,
    Thank you for following my blog. I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of your precious baby girl.

    I, like you, have also lost my beautiful baby boy, when he was 16 years old to suicide.

    It took me ten years to say that word out loud. And I, like you was so angry. Mad at God, made at him and mad at myself the most.

    How could I as his mother not have seen the signs? How do I live without him? Losing a child is like losing your lungs. You can’t breathe. Your heart bleeds. You’re life will never be the same. It has changed forever.

    He died in 1996. Even after all these years, my heart bleeds at times. The only advice I can share with you, is the time between these feelings get further apart as time goes on.

    It takes time to find a place to put that love in a place that doesn’t hurt. We grieve because we loved them. Love never dies. It lives inside us.

    You have every right to be angry. To be depressed. To remember them. We will never forget them. They are part of us.

    You also have the right to laugh, to smile and to think of others. I remember the first time I laughed after he died. It was 3 months after he died. His friends came over and shared memories of him. He was a funny guy. My laughter should foreign to my ears. But I remember that day vividly.

    You will laugh again, your memories will be those of fondness and not pain.

    One of the kindest things I was told, was. “He was more than that day.” That split second of his life was only a split second of millions of seconds. He was more than that day.

    I wish you gentle days, peaceful sleep and good memories to fill you heart and mind.

    Diane Kratz


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