I Couldn't Survive The Death Of My Son

I was destroyed. I raged at God. I drank. I stopped caring for myself.

(Lindsay visited her son in Heaven not once, but twice. Her full story is featured in Routed to Heaven: How Near-Death Experiences, Afterlife Testimonies And Heavenly Insights Can Help You Live With Intention)

After multiple miscarriages, an abusive marriage, and the loss of my grandmother, my heart was already fragile. Then I lost my four-year-old son, Jordan.

Life didn’t just fall apart—it collapsed. And it never really recovered.

I had been raised in church and had always walked closely with God. But when Jordan died, I turned away. I could survive many things, but not that.

While pregnant, a routine ultrasound went quiet. A second technician was called. Finally, the doctor explained Jordan had Truncus Arteriosus—a rare heart defect that would require immediate open-heart surgery. Only one surgeon in the state could operate.

“I need to close the nursery,” I whispered when I got home. I knew my baby might not live.

Jordan did survive that surgery and several others. At one point, we spent two months at a Ronald McDonald House while he recovered, tubes feeding him because his heart couldn’t handle the strain of eating.

When we finally came home, my husband left us. I became a single mother to a medically fragile child and his big sister, Emma.

But Jordan was joy itself. Sweet, affectionate, glowing with a laugh that filled rooms. Sometimes I wondered if Heaven had slipped a piece of itself into him.

At four years old, after his seventh heart surgery, he was finally allowed normal activity. One afternoon he jumped on the trampoline, ate dinner, and danced to Lion King songs. Then he suddenly became sick.

In the bathtub, he began vomiting and growing weak. His eyes wouldn’t focus. Something was terribly wrong. I carried him to the couch and told Emma to call 911.

The EMTs rushed him to the ambulance. His heart rate dropped. CPR began.

“Stay with me,” I begged. “I love you.”

Then they told me his heart had stopped.

At the hospital they worked on him, then stopped. Jordan was gone. Later I learned an undetected infection from surgery had taken him.

I was destroyed. I raged at God. I drank. I stopped caring for myself. My house mirrored my grief.

I Went To Prayer

But one day something shifted. I started praying for hours at a time. I prayed—really prayed—for peace, for truth, for a sign that Jordan was okay.

A week later, I was given one.

In a vivid dream, I found myself in a beautiful neighborhood filled with joy and music. The sky glowed. The grass shimmered. Two men approached me.

“Would you like to meet my son?” one asked.

Then Jordan ran toward me—healthy, laughing, glowing. I held him. We spun. We walked hand in hand. He was whole.

Eventually the man told Jordan it was time to go inside. I panicked—but the door opened again and Jordan returned, older now, calling, “Mommy!”

We sat together. He smelled clean and fresh. He was vibrant, not tired or sick.

Then we moved toward a ladder rising into light. I handed Jordan to the tall man at the top. He laughed as he climbed and ran joyfully into the crowd above.

And then I woke up—crying tears of joy.

“Thank you, God,” I whispered. “I just needed to know he was safe.”

And now I do.

-Lindsay Wessinger