Angela, a U.S.-based ICU nurse, experienced what she describes as the deepest pain a heart can carry when her 32-year-old son, JP III, died following a severe asthma attack on December 1, 2020. The tragedy occurred while he was living in New York, separated from her by pandemic restrictions, just weeks before a planned Christmas reunion that would have ended a 20-month separation.
As a charge nurse in an ICU, Angela received the call at work that her son had been taken to the hospital unable to breathe. By the time she reached the emergency room doctor by phone, she learned her son had stopped breathing, received CPR multiple times, and was in critical condition. "I knew too well what this meant," she said, booking the next flight. Upon arrival, she recognized the clinical signs of profound brain injury—decreasing medications, normalizing vitals, and excessive urine production—and understood her son was slipping away.
"Losing my son felt like stepping into someone else's life," Angela writes. The first week passed like a film she watched from outside herself, filled with questions that had no answers. She reflects on common condolences like "he's in a better place" or "call me if you need anything," acknowledging that while well-intentioned, such words can feel hollow when facing a heartache no one can heal.
Angela emphasizes that grief does not look the same for everyone and cautions against guilt if healing begins quietly. She describes the aftermath of loss as similar to a theater emptying after a show: initially surrounded by support, but eventually finding oneself alone in the dark. "In that moment, the choice becomes yours," she writes. "You can remain in the darkness or step toward the light."
Her husband, daughter, son, grandson, granddaughters, and closest friends became anchors during this time. "People say I am no longer the same," she notes. "They are right. I never will be. A piece of my heart is gone." She returned to work on Christmas Day, 24 days after the initial phone call and a week after his memorial, recognizing that staying home meant drowning in tears while work offered a path toward healing.
Angela chose to donate her son's organs after he was declared brain dead, a decision she didn't rush despite the trauma. She avoids blame toward healthcare teams or pandemic-related delays, noting that blame cannot bring back the lost. Instead, she focuses on the reality that nothing could have changed the outcome, drawing parallels to the movie The Flash, where the protagonist cannot alter his mother's fate despite time travel.
Her advice for those grieving is to choose pathways that help healing—walking, listening to music, leaning on family—while avoiding destructive escapes like alcohol or drugs. She also stresses the importance of giving "flowers while they are still alive," cherishing every moment with loved ones. Angela has channeled her experience into writing, authoring the memoir Forever 32, a tribute to her son and a resource for others navigating loss.
The death of a child, Angela concludes, is a unique and unbearable pain that leaves more behind than one might imagine—others lose a brother, father, grandson, cousin, or friend. Her story underscores that while the world continues, with the sun rising whether wanted or not, the journey through grief cannot be walked alone and requires conscious steps toward light.
