One night a month, while most people are relaxing after the events of their day or tending to nightly routines, a small group of parents meets in the basement of the Norwich Public Library to share stories about their children who have died. They also hope to garner support from the long-standing members of the group who have somehow survived what most people agree is the worst loss that can befall anyone.

As one of those members, now nine years out from the death of my daughter, I always enter this room with quiet reverence, not knowing if a newly bereaved parent will attend that night. Or if someone’s death anniversary is approaching or what of the many possible triggers has motivated them to attend a meeting of this local chapter of Compassionate Friends.

The room where we meet is spare — a large square table, metal chairs, four boxes of tissues, a name tag and marker, and, at the side, a card table holding books to give away. During introductions, someone might mention that we’re a club no one ever wants to belong to and add that we’ve clearly paid our dues for life. Nods everywhere. Some people remain silent through the entire meeting, some share stories about their child or they ask questions, often relating to how one survives the unbearable pain of this grief. All of us listen in silence; no one offers advice unless requested.

For some parents in the initial stages of grief especially, this meeting is a godsend, a place where understanding is immediate and automatic; no words are necessary to describe the unbearable pain they’re experiencing. For others who attend for the first time, it’s also their last, as the shared pain is too overwhelming to bear. Some will go away and stay away, some will return. Those who attend meetings on a regular basis are likely to witness a continuum of emotional states marked at either end by transformation — healing, acceptance, re-finding joy and meaning at one end — and at the other, frozen grief, marked by unrelenting underlying depression and a sense of debilitating paralysis. And a wide range of states in between.

In addition to birthdays and death anniversaries, holidays like Hanukkah, Christmas and Thanksgiving, are usually among the hardest for parents and grandparents to manage. While the mood at the table and around the tree is usually celebratory, we each carry a pebble in our pocket that constantly reminds us that our child is forever missing.

Over time, fortunate parents are able to experience joy again; however, what we know now that we didn’t know while they were alive is that now there can be no joy without sorrow. We also know that our lives are changed in ways unimaginable before our child died. We’ve learned through hard, gritty work over weeks, months and often years how to connect and find meaning again. The support of friends, family and community is integral to this healing process.

I’m recalling meeting an old friend in the parking lot of the Coop who asked, “How’s Laura?” The question stopped my mind until I realized that he meant it and that by saying her name, he was giving me a gift. When a child dies, saying their name and hearing it from others is like a prayer. Something to remember as we approach this holiday season.

Linda Mulley lives in Norwich.