The Bus to Heaven: When a Sibling Misses the Sister He Never Met

Guest Blog Post by Michelle Valiukenas

“Mommy, I’m going to heaven soon, I’m going to die soon.”

These words from my 4-year-old son, sitting in his car seat in the back of my car,

nearly destroy me. They come out of nowhere and I somehow manage to keep my car

on the road, telling him, that’s not true and mom doesn’t like you saying that. He goes

on to say that he wants to visit his sister and I become speechless.

My firstborn, my daughter Colette, died at nine days old and this is her little

brother, our only living child. He has grown up knowing Colette, being encouraged to

have a relationship with her, and talk about her as much as he wants. Over the last

year or so, he has become very open, talking regularly about her with us, but also with

anyone else who will listen.

In the moment that he says these things, I am distraught. I feel all the

emotions—guilt over my part in creating this reality for him, grief over the fact that I am

missing my angel, worry over how this will affect him long-term, and questioning all of

our parenting decisions.

We have a short conversation where I tell him that I understand he wants to see

Colette, but that we want him to live a long life and that saying he is going to die really

hurts mom’s feelings. By the time we get to school and I walk him into his preschool

classroom, I am barely holding it together. He hugs me as per usual, but it feels like the

hug lasts longer, not just because I’m holding him a little tighter, but also because he

hangs on a little longer too.

I get back in the car, manage to drive, even remember to drop off my car for the

recalls it needs, that I know how to walk through the motions, to talk to the service desk,

to hand over my keys, to move one foot in front of the other as I drop off the car, and

walk the half mile back home.

When I walk inside, I am just a mess. I am angry, I am sad, I am questioning and

blaming myself for every decision we have made regarding talking about Colette, I am

feeling overwhelming grief and pain as a parent. I feel responsible for the fact that

Colette died, despite doctors repeatedly telling me that I was not the cause, because it

happened in my body, because it has felt like nothing I have been told should be

easy—get pregnant, have baby—has been easy for me. I vary between wanting to

scream and hit something and just sobbing. I feel like a complete failure as a parent.

I am also mad about the fact that this is what I am dealing with, that parenting

after loss never stops, that my family will always be incomplete, and that so many other

people never have to deal with this.

I worry about how his openness will be perceived by others. In the last seven or

so years that I have had to navigate as a loss mom, I have heard some of the most

insensitive, triggering, awful things I could have imagined. I know that at some point, he

will also experience this, but I am so protective and want him to not experience this for

as long as humanly possible.

I fear that we have done some kind of irreversible damage to his mental health.

Sure, all of us as parents are bound to screw up our kids in some form or another, but I

want to minimize those impacts. Should we have cleaned up what we said? Waited

until he was older?

I spend a majority of the day completely drained and in an overwhelm of emotion.

I cancel my plans for the night because I cannot imagine socializing and being among

people who may or may not understand and hold space for my pain. I worry about how

I will address this in further detail with my son and strategize about a dozen different

ways and responses from him.

Finally, it’s pickup time and it’s my husband’s turn. His plan is to pick him up,

drop him off at home, and then pick up the Friday traditional dinner—McDonald’s—that

we started as a way to make sure he was behaving at school all week at a time when

he was definitely testing boundaries.

While he and I are alone, I pull him up onto my lap and say that I want to talk

about what he said this morning. I tell him that I love him, I tell him that I want him to

live a long life and that I don’t like the talk of him dying. He looks at me with such

innocence, but also with a knowing, old soul look in his eyes, and says “mommy, I know,

it’s just that I miss Colette so much.”

Tears spring into my eyes as I say, “I know honey, I miss her too.” I admit that

sometimes I have the same thoughts about dying and wanting to go to heaven because

then I can see her, that I can hold her in much the same way that I am holding him. He

nods and leans his head against my chest. After a few moments of just sitting there

together, he lifts up his head and says, “Mommy, why isn’t there a bus that goes to

heaven? That way, we could go see Colette for the day and play with her and hug her.”

The tears swell once again as I say, “I wish there was a bus that went to heaven,

but unfortunately there’s not. I wish we could go see Colette and that I could hold both

my babies.”

He sighs and snuggles closer as he says, “I know, I just really wish there was

one.”

I tell him, “me too” as we cling to each other, each in our own grief and pain.

Today has been a tough day, but I feel so much joy as I think of my kids having a

wonderful sibling relationship, one that transcends time and space and the finality of life.

And I love that I have a son who so easily shares his feelings and knows that there is

room and space for him to do so with me.

This is parenting after loss, mixing joy and grief, laughter and tears, questioning

and accepting, the ugly and the beautiful, the good and the bad.

Deb here…If you were moved by Michelle’s story and the mission behind the Colette Louise Tisdahl Foundation, we invite you to consider supporting their work. Every dollar donated goes directly toward helping families cover essential bills while their baby is in the hospital—easing financial strain so parents can focus on what matters most: being present with their child. Your support can make an immediate and meaningful difference.