The Triage of Grief: On Loving the Child You Lost While Fighting for the One You Have

There is a question that lives in the quiet corners of our house, a ghost that sits with me in the hospital car park long after visiting hours are over. How do you grieve a child you lost when you are fighting with every fibre of your being for the one you have?

The Weight of Loss

When our son Bailey was stillborn, our world fractured. But we were not allowed to sit in the rubble. Days later, when our son Finley (Rah) was diagnosed with cancer, the ground gave way to a new kind of war. In the face of so much, the only way to survive was to build walls inside myself.

I knew, with a clarity that felt both cold and necessary, that I could not hold the full weight of Bailey's loss and fight for Finley at the same time. The grief for my dead son was a vast, open ocean, and the fear for my living one was a fire. You cannot drown and burn at once.

Building a Box

So, I did the only thing I could think to do. I built a box inside my chest for Bailey. I closed the lid gently and promised him I would open it when it was safe.

This was not forgetting. It was triage. It was the brutal, necessary act of a first responder of the heart, deciding which wound to treat first to keep the whole system from collapsing. For months, my focus was singular: checklists, medications, advocating for Finley in rooms that once silenced me.

Compartmentalisation gets a bad name, but in practice, it was mercy. It allowed me to be the father Finley needed—a father who could hold him still for blood draws, who could argue for pain relief, who could stay standing.

The Rattle of Grief

But boxes rattle. The grief for Bailey did not disappear. It waited. It would surface at a traffic light when a song came on the radio that should have been for a newborn’s drive home. It would find me in the toiletries aisle, where the tiny baby shampoo sat on a shelf, daring me to touch it. It would rise in the dark of a hospital recliner at 3 a.m., when Finley was finally asleep and my body had a moment to notice it was broken.

This is the impossible territory of layered loss. You carry a two-sided guilt. If you take an hour to sit with the memory box of the child you lost, you feel you are stealing from the energy reservoir the living child requires. If you spend a day researching treatments, you feel you have let your dead son sit in a dark corner without you.

Moving With Memory

We haven’t "moved on" from Bailey. We never will. Instead, we are learning to move with his memory, to weave him into the fight for his brother. We are learning that honouring him doesn't have to be a grand, time-consuming act of sorrow. It can be a quiet, deliberate practice.

The Practice of Saying His Name

It is the practice of saying his name. On Sundays, we light a candle and speak his name before a meal, so the table stays honest. This simple act keeps his memory alive in our home.

The Practice of Connection

It is the practice of connection. Before walking into the ward, I’ll whisper to Bailey in the car, asking him to sit with me while I sit with his brother. I touch his photo in my wallet before I press the lift button. These moments create a bridge between my two sons.

The Practice of Integration

It is the practice of integration. I found myself saying both their names in one breath—BaileyFinley—as if they were a single word, a single love. This merging of names reflects the unity of my heart.

Embracing Two Truths

If you are walking this same impossible road, know this: you do not have to choose. Loving one child fully does not mean betraying the other. Love isn’t a pie you divide. It is a river that finds more banks. The grief you carry for one child and the fierce hope you hold for another are not in conflict. They are two truths, held in the same heart. They are the shape of your love.

Both names, one breath. Always.

In this journey, I have learned that the heart is resilient. It can hold joy and sorrow simultaneously. It can embrace the laughter of a living child while cherishing the memory of one who is gone. This is the essence of love—a love that transcends loss and celebrates life.

As we navigate this path, let us remember that we are not alone. We are part of a community that understands the weight of grief and the light of hope. Together, we can find strength in vulnerability, and we can honour our children in ways that resonate deeply within us.

Let us continue to share our stories, to support one another, and to keep the memory of our loved ones alive. In doing so, we create a tapestry of resilience and hope, woven from the threads of our experiences.

The Silent Hum Project aims to build a supportive community and be a trusted resource for families navigating childhood cancer and profound grief, offering honest personal stories and practical guidance to help them find resilience and hope.