Not all parents choose to talk about death with our children when they’re young. We began the conversation when Lila was three.
Grandma Ruth died right before we left Brooklyn. We got the call the same day our cat Mathilde died. It may sound silly, but the cat’s death helped Lila relate to Grandma Ruth. We only saw Grandma a couple times a year, so her absence was not obviously apparent in Lila’s life. She noticed Mathilde’s disappearance.
Why did she die? Because she was sick. Does everyone who gets sick die? No. How long will she be gone? She’s not coming back. Are you and daddy going to die?
It amazed me how this set of questions applied to both deaths. The questions went on for a couple weeks. Her questions came and went for months after the deaths. Sometimes the same ones. Sometimes new.
I recently read advice from Mr Rogers, a how-to talk to children about death. His descriptions matched in many ways what I’d experienced with Lila.
A visit to the cemetery
When Lila was four years old, we began bringing her with us to the cemetery where Noah’s mother is buried. Noah’s mom died when he was eleven years old. We’ve been to visit three times with Lila.
“This is where Daddy’s mommy lives,” Lila said as we drove into the Jewish section of Mount Lebanon cemetery. I was amazed she remembered from the year before.
All three of us stood by the grave, and immediately the questions began.
“Does Daddy’s mommy lie down here?” Lila asks.
“She’s underneath the stones,” we tell her.
“How does she breathe?”
“She doesn’t. You don’t breathe after you die.
Lila repeats these same questions with slight variations over and over.
At one point, she put her hand on Noah’s shoulder and reassures him. “I’m going to get you a new mommy.”
“You can’t just get a new mommy,” he tells her. “Can you just replace your mommy?” he asks.
“No,” she replies, and I admit, I am mildly relieved.
Then Noah asks for some time to himself. Lila does not want to leave him, but I convince her to take a little walk around the grounds. She looks back, keeps him in sight at all times and gets anxious when we pass some bushes that obscure him from view. She continues with her endless string of questions.
Does Daddy miss his mommy? Do people stick their tongues out when they’re dead? Why is Daddy crying? Followed by a symphony of whys?
What to say when death isn’t normal?
The Newtown shootings added a sinister dimension to the death conversation. Parents were forced to choose whether or not to talk to our children about what happened. We had to ask ourselves hard questions.
How old is old enough to explain a massacre? What is necessary for them to know? Why do we die? What happens to us after death? What would someone kill twenty six people? Why do innocent people die?
These are questions without answers. How much more complicated when our children turn to us so they can understand and we don’t know what to say? It exposes us as frail and human. Death leaves us vulnerable on multiple levels.
Sometimes I wonder if perhaps we refrain from talking to our children about death not because their young minds cannot handle it, but because we cannot.
