If Your Child Is Still Alive, You Still Have Time

In 2021, my son Ian died at the age of 31. In 2024, my daughter Catherine also died at the age of 31.

Both of my children are gone. Permanently.

There will never be another conversation.
Never another Christmas.
Never another birthday phone call.
Never another hug.
Never another chance to say, “I love you.”

And if you have never lost a child, I do not think it is possible to fully understand what that does to a human being.

People speak casually about heartbreak but this is something else.

There are moments when the grief feels so profound, so physically painful, that it is almost difficult to breathe. Sometimes I would willingly give away every remaining year of my life just to sit in a room with Ian and Catherine again for one single hour.

One hour.

To hear their voices.
To see them smile.
To hold them again.

But I cannot.

That door is closed forever.

And that is why I am writing this to every parent in the world who still can pick up the phone and call their son or daughter but chooses not to.

I know families are complicated.
I know people fight.
I know divorces happen.
I know pride hardens.
I know words get said that cannot easily be unsaid.
I know years pass faster than anyone realizes.

But if you could somehow step inside my mind and my heart for just ninety seconds, if you could feel how totally broken I sometimes feel as a human being knowing that my son and my daughter are gone forever, that there is no longer any possibility of reconciliation, no possibility of another conversation, another hug, another moment together.

If you could feel the depth of that sadness, a sadness so profound it feels embedded in the marrow of my bones, a sadness that never fully leaves no matter where I go or what I do, I honestly believe many of you would break down in tears, pick up the phone immediately, and call your children before this becomes your reality too.

Not next week.
Not “when things calm down.”
Not after another birthday passes.
Today.

Because while your child is still alive, there is still hope.

Ian and Catherine buying boots in San José, Costa Rica

There is still time to apologize.
Still time to forgive.
Still time to explain.
Still time to listen.
Still time to hug them.
Still time to sit together in awkward silence if necessary.
Still time to rebuild something.

Even imperfect relationships are infinitely better than graves.

And please understand something important.

When your child dies, the arguments die too.

The pride dies.
The politics die.
The old grievances die.
The ego dies.

What remains is love.
And regret.
And memories.
And the unbearable understanding that you would now give absolutely anything for another Sunday afternoon together.

Unless you have repeatedly and sincerely tried to reconnect and been rejected, I am begging you not to waste more years.

Do not assume there will always be more time.

Life is fragile in ways most people do not fully understand until catastrophe enters their own home.

A car accident.
A hidden addiction.
An illness.
A moment of despair.
A random phone call in the middle of the night.

And suddenly the possibility of reconciliation disappears forever.

If your son is still alive, call him. If your daughter is still alive, call her. Please.

Even if the conversation is imperfect.
Even if it is awkward.
Even if it only lasts five minutes.

Because one day, if they are gone, you may discover that you would willingly trade everything you own for just one more ordinary conversation.

I know I would.

Ian and Catherine in Tamarindo, Costa Rica