Issue Index

Full-Time Dads;

The Magazine for Caregiver Fathers

Issue 24

Talking to Children About Death

By Robert Loughran

At 2:00 in the morning, my youngest daughter, five-year-old Elisa, woke me up. She stood in front of me in the half-light of the bedroom. Her hair was mussed, and her Flinstones pajamas were ruffled. She had been crying. In a voice that barely trembled, she said, "I can't remember what Mommy looked like."

I didn't say a word. At that moment, her grief was irreconcilable. At that moment, the world had snatched another thing from her: her mother's face no longer existed as a ready and reliable memory. For Elisa, the time to cry and say goodbye to her mother was not at the official funeral, but in her pajamas on a warm August night 13 months later.

What about my four other children? Did they, like Elisa, have "unofficial" moments in which they felt permanent loss of their mother? They certainly seemed to. The main dilemma for me was, how do you talk to children about death?

On this night with Elisa, I did the only thing a father can do in such a situation. I made hot chocolate.

Elisa was sitting in my lap, drinking her chocolate, when I asked if she wanted to look at some pictures of her mother. She nodded a silent yes. As I rummaged in the closet for photo albums, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. At times over the past year, it had been comforting to look through the wedding album, peruse old pictures, and reread poetry I had written to Luanne. At other times, it was like picking a scab.

Elisa and I sat down on the kitchen floor, and soon-it would have been sooner had I not spilled my hot chocolate on the descent-pictures were scattered all around us. Elisa latched onto a picture of her mother holding her sister Rachel. "That's me, huh, Dad?" she asked.
I could not lie. "No, Ellie, it's not."
She sat quietly, then asked, "Can I have this picture?"
I said yes. So she walked to the refrigerator, grabbed a magnet, and positioned the picture halfway up the door. She returned, kissed me, and skipped off to bed. It did not matter to Elisa that she was not the baby in her mother's arms. There was something in the image-Luanne's eyes, her hair, the way she held the child-that resurrected the spirit and memory of her dead mother.

Elisa was four when her mother died. At the time, she was stunned and numb. Like most four-year-olds, she had little conception of "forever" and could not understand how unalterable death is. A year later, however, Elisa understood that death is a permanent loss, and was upset that she could no longer remember what her mother looked like.

Elisa's brother Nathan was six when their mother died, and had a different reaction entirely. my wife had been sick for more than two years, and the children had been told that her death was imminent. Even so, to Nathan, it came as a complete surprise. On the day of my wife's death, I returned from the hospital just before dawn and sat around waiting for the children to wake up so I could break the news. Nathan was, as usual, the first one up. I told him what had happened, and he started yelling, "No, it isn't true! It isn't true!" Tears streamed down his face.
"It is true," I said.

He insisted it wasn't, it couldn't be, his mom couldn't die. He cried violently and was soon incapable of speech. He hugged me roughly and thrashed about in my arms, gasping in wet tearful sobs with each inhalation. Then he fell asleep.

When Nathan awoke later that morning, he was different. He was calm. He knew his mother was dead, and that was that. He cried at the funeral along with everyone else, and at other times over the next few months. To this day, he asks me to tell him stories of when he was a baby, and the stories seem to assuage his feelings of loss. I can only conclude that Nathan's initial, incredulous reaction to the death was a catharsis for the pain and poison of this tragedy, for it seems to have helped him work through a good deal of trauma.

Contrasting reactions were exhibited by my oldest daughters, Danielle and Rachel. The were 10 and 8 at the time, and had seen their mother in hospitals and wheelchairs, and did not need anyone to tell them the cancer was fatal. Immediately following Luanne's death, I did not know what to say to them. I did not know what I could say to them. I said the simple words, "your mommy died," and we all hugged and cried.

Later in the day, when the magnitude of the funeral arrangements was becoming apparent, I asked Danielle and Rachel if they wanted to go to the funeral parlor to pick out a casket, a dress, flowers, death announcements, and on and on. They both said okay.

I thought the pomp and preparations of the funeral would be an initiation, a way for them to ease into the reality of their mother's death. For Danielle, this was true. She accompanied me and did everything at the funeral parlor except sign the check. Being welcomed into the adult world of arrangement seemed to help her deal with her own burgeoning adult feelings.

For Rachel, it was different. When we were about to leave for the funeral parlor, she decided she did not want to go. I said, "Fine, whatever you want." Then, just as we began pulling away in the car, Rachel waved from the driveway. I stopped. She walked to the driver's side and asked, "Dad, is it okay if I ride my bike?" I said, "Sure."

Not until months later did I realize what Rachel was really asking. She was asking for permission to enjoy herself. Even though her mother had died, Rachel wanted to be a kid, ride her bike, see her friends. Not until I gave me permission to enjoy myself could I understand what riding that bike meant. Despite all that had happened, Rachel wanted to be OK.

Whether it takes six hours, six months, or six years, you must pass the hurdle of enjoying yourself without guild over the death of a loved one. The fact that Rachel passed it so quickly amazed me.

My daughter, Adrienne, at seven, had a response all her own. She was calm and almost surprised that people were making such a fuss over her mother's death. Days passed, and instead of acting chocked or hurt or angry, she became a barometer for my feelings. If I was having a bad day, she would spike a fever and stay home from school. If we were at a family outing and I grew sulky or sullen because I missed my wife, she would manage to fall out of a tree or crash her bicycle to distract me. it was as if she were afraid to leave me alone. In effect, she accepted her mother's death immediately, and began taking care of me.

The only change in Adrienne was, as with Nathan, an insatiable thirst for stories about her mom-tales of picnics, cooking lessons, birthday parties, anything. I do not know why Adrienne responded in this way. Just as some people are better adapted to certain professions and lifestyles, some, perhaps, are better adapted to coping with death.

About six months after Luanne's death, I was helping Adrienne with her homework. She asked, "Dad?" "What?"
"How come you wear your wedding ring?"
"I don't know. I just want to."
"But," she said. "You're not married."
"I know. But I've worn it for thirteen years."
"But you're not married."
I though about that, and switched the ring to the third finger of my right hand.

Sometimes the best way to talk to children about death is not to. You just have to listen.

This article originally appeared in Mothering Magazine, P.O. Box 1690, Santa Fe, NM 87504

Copyright 1996 Robert Loughran