Raising three children, one of the things I always dreaded was the “death talk.” With each, there was a time when they would ask about death. I clearly remember when my youngest inquired about it.
A few years ago, as I was tucking my son into bed one night, he told me he felt like crying, but didn’t know why. It was a Sunday, and after a few days off, I immediately thought he wasn’t looking forward to going back to school. This I was familiar with. He was six years old at the time, and he always enjoyed being off and had to settle back slowly into a weekly routine.
His voice started to crack, as he told me he was just thinking about “sad stuff.” I tried to ease his worries and explained how he would see his friends in school tomorrow, we’d make cookies afterschool, and it wouldn’t be so bad.
“But it’s not that,” he shrieked. “I’m thinking about what if you died, and I was all alone.”
This I was not expecting.
I felt something between intense sadness and quiet horror. It is, of course, almost the worst thought imaginable. Death scares us, and yet, we can’t lie to our children and tell them it won’t happen.
So, I began to spin a major cover-up. In fact, I airbrushed life and death like a very skilled art director at a glossy fashion magazine.
“Well, I am young and healthy, so we don’t have to think about that for a very long time,” I explained.
“So you only die if you’re old and sick?” he asked.
“Most people live very long lives now,” I replied.
“But what about kids on the news that die? I don’t want to die either!” he cried.
“Some kids have diseases that make them very sick. But you are healthy, and you are strong,” I countered.
This semi-real yet fabricated banter went on for a while. I think I was trying to convince myself just as much that we were safe and would live forever. As a mom, you naturally want to shield your child from scary thoughts. But when you are disturbed by them yourself, it makes it even more difficult.
Surely there is a part of a mother’s heart that is forever carried around in her precious child the minute a woman gives birth. I don’t care if that child is 1, 10, or 25. The fact remains that women are so deeply intertwined in their children’s lives and happiness; we would do anything to protect them from harm. Still, there is no greater gift than being allowed the chance to raise a child. Helping another human being grow up and take his place in the world is no simple task, however.
After about 15 minutes of carefully worded appeasement (I think I even threw in how, since we all eat vegetables, we are even more resilient), his mind turned to other things — like how if he turned into a superhero, he would save the world from disease and let everyone live forever. I saw this as my opportunity to inform him that by being a doctor, he could help many people (a little cajoling toward medical school, albeit premature, couldn’t hurt).
Soon, he fell asleep — while I lay awake and started my mental to-do list … pack extra carrots in lunch. Schedule check-ups. Iron shirt.
The next morning, the fears had vanished. I woke my boy up, told him over breakfast what a great day he’d have back at school, and waved goodbye to him as he got on the bus. In fact, I waved until he couldn’t see my waving anymore, and until the yellow bus faded into the distance. As I watched, a piece of my heart raced away down the block.
Danielle Sullivan, a mom of three, has worked as a writer and editor in the parenting world for more than 10 years. Sullivan also writes about pets and parenting for Disney’s Babble.com. Find her on Facebook and Twitter @DanniSullWriter, or on her blog, Some Puppy To Love.
