ORLANDO, FL, January 06, 2026 /24-7PressRelease/ -- 1988 was a bittersweet year. I gave birth to my first son, married my ex-husband, and lost my father. His death from stage IV lung cancer came so quickly that he never had the chance to meet his grandson. Still, I always told my son how much they resembled each other and how deeply my father would have loved him.

Nothing, however, prepared me for December 1, 2020, the day my world broke. I was at work, serving as the charge nurse in the ICU, when I received a call that somehow made its way through the dead zone of the hospital basement. It was my son's landlord, telling me my son had been taken to the hospital because he couldn't breathe. I remember repeating only one word, "What?" as though my mind refused to understand.

My son had moved back to New York, where I was born and raised, to stay with my brother while he looked for work. After getting into minor trouble, I wanted him somewhere safe and steady, and my brother had a way of helping people land on their feet. Within three months, my son had a good job and was looking for an apartment. I had not seen him in over a year due to the pandemic, and we were finally planning for him to visit that Christmas. It would have been our first time together in 20 months.

When I finally reached the emergency room doctor (by phone), every word he said made my heart drop. My son had suffered a severe asthma attack and stopped breathing. They performed CPR on him once before arriving at the hospital and twice more in the ER. As an ICU nurse, I knew too well what this meant. I booked the next flight.

By the time I arrived, he had a seizure and was on multiple cardiac medications. I wished more than anything that I wasn't a nurse because I recognized the signs. I prayed that I was wrong about them. His medications were decreasing, his vitals were "normalizing," and he was producing excessive urine, a classic indicator of brain injury. My family urged me to move him or get a second opinion, yet I couldn't answer. I knew. I was watching my son slip away.

For days, I sat by his bedside, knowing I would never again hear his voice, his laugh, or his corny jokes. When he first moved out in his early twenties, he would disappear for weeks without calling. I used to yell, "Boy, I don't know if you're alive or dead!" After that, he would text me, "Mommy, I'm not dead." I knew I'd never get that message again.

Losing my son, JP III, felt like stepping into someone else's life. The first week passed like a film I was watching from outside myself. I kept asking God the same question: Why me? And in the quiet of my spirit, God asked back: Why not? (Romans 2:11). Grief makes you search for reasons, but some answers never come.

People say things like "He's in a better place" or "Call me if you need anything." I have said the same to others, never realizing how hollow those words can feel. Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, and there are moments when no words can comfort. Still, whatever your belief, you must draw strength from it and from those who love you. Grief does not look the same for everyone. If one day you realize you haven't cried, don't feel guilty. It means healing has quietly begun.

The organ donation team contacted me after he was declared brain dead. I didn't rush my decision. I could have blamed his healthcare team or the pandemic that slowed reaction times, but blame would not bring him back. When you lose someone you love, your mind creates stories. If I had been there, maybe I could have saved him. It is a natural thought, but none of us can alter God's plan (Jeremiah 29:11). I am reminded of the movie The Flash, where no matter how far back he traveled, his mother still died. In the same way, nothing I did could have changed the outcome. At most, I could have held him one more time. But I am grateful that our last words to each other were "I love you."

This is the deepest pain a heart can carry. I cannot tell anyone how long to grieve. But I can say this: choose pathways that help you heal. Walk, listen to music, and lean on family. Avoid destructive escapes like drinking alcohol or drugs. They only leave you in more pain.

When someone dies, the world surrounds you with calls, visits, and messages, much like a theater full of people when the show ends. But slowly the crowd thins, and the room empties. Eventually, you find yourself alone in the dark. In that moment, the choice becomes yours. You can remain in the darkness or step toward the light. Whether you want it or not, the sun will still rise.

My husband and daughter became my anchors. I didn't fully realize how much I needed them until grief pulled me into a dark place. Those waiting for my return, including my son, grandson, granddaughters, and closest friends, reminded me that this journey cannot be walked alone. People say I am no longer the same. They are right. I never will be. A piece of my heart is gone.

I returned to work on Christmas Day, 24 days after the phone call and a week after his memorial. Was it too soon? Maybe. But staying home meant drowning in my tears, and I needed to start healing. A friend who also lost a child told me she had to rebuild a life without her daughter. I now had to learn how to live without my firstborn son.

Everyone leaves this world eventually. As one singer said, "We all have a reservation in someone's cemetery without the privilege of cancellation." This Earth is not our home (Hebrews 13:14). The death of a child, no matter their age, is a unique and unbearable pain. But they leave more than you can imagine behind. Others lose a brother, father, grandson, cousin, or friend. So be kind, give people their flowers while they are still alive, and cherish every moment. 

About the Author

Angela is a U.S.-based ICU nurse, mother, grandmother, and writer. Her debut memoir, Forever 32, is a heartfelt tribute to her beloved son and a guiding light for anyone experiencing the pain of loss.

# # #