Big Questions
Lying in bed with T last night, having just kissed and said our usual "good night, sleep tight, sweet dreams, I love yous," he suddenly gasped and started crying -- sobbing.
"What's wrong? What's the matter?" I asked.
"I just had a bad dream," he said.
Bad dream? He couldn't possibly even have fallen asleep yet.
"What was the dream?" I asked, certain I could soothe him.
Wrong.
"I dreamed I died. I don't want to get old and die. I always want to be with you."
The child, at age six, has figured out and understands the concept of death being forever. Which, given his background and the fact that we've lost three companion animals and one grandma since he came home, is maybe not terribly surprising. The bunnies' and the cats' absences are palpable. They left and never came back. He watched Grandma Post's casket being lowered into the ground and then being covered with dirt.
And last Tuesday we made our annual stop at my family's burial plot outside of Boston, where I laid flowers on my father's and grandmother's -- and by default grandfather's and great-grandparents' and great-uncle's and great-aunt's -- graves. Purple for Grandma, yellow for Poppa. Every year I wish that Poppa could see this grandchild, who is so much like him despite having arrived in our family from a country 7,000 mile away. That he could see him run and get perfect grades on his report cards. And how this child would drive him nuts with his crazy antics and all-boy energy and noise. And I sob. I miss my Dad. Every year T cries with me -- for me.
It's hard for him to see me cry. I've always thought it's healthy for him to see me grieve so he knows it's OK for him to grieve -- such a stubborn child who refuses to acknowledge sadness about his losses, because sad is scary and vulnerable and angry is much easier to handle and to be in control of.
But, death being forever -- such a big concept for such a small child.
And not being a big fan of thinking about dying -- I ski like a snail, knowing that catching an edge at high speed can catapult even the most experienced skier into a tree or off a cliff -- I'm not the one to reassure him that it will be OK. I brought in the Big Gun -- Daddy -- who is not afraid of death. Between the two of us, we tried. We told him he has a long time before he is old -- although really, looking back from my perspective, it seems to have happened to me in a millisecond, but right now for him time goes by slowly. We reminded him that he's not afraid of dying when he rides his bike really fast. We told him that it's a privilege to die, because it means you were born at all. We told him that it's part of life. We told him that because we die, it means we have to really live -- make every moment count.
He seemed comforted a bit. Daddy kissed him again and closed the door. T started to cry quietly again. "I want to be with you always," he repeated. I hugged him and rubbed his back. "Wherever you go, my love will follow," I said. "Wherever I go, your love will follow me."
His pent up fear burst out again, as his whole body shook with uncontrollable sobbing. "But I don't want to die. Dying means you do nothing forever!"
We did what I do when I start thinking those big thoughts. We got up and plunked down in front of the TV in the living room. Daddy found a NOVA program on human/dog relationships to stream and we watched happy things for about 20 minutes. Did you know that the right side of our faces show the most emotion and that humans tend to look at that side of people's faces when interacting with them? And that dogs also look at the right side of people's faces -- the only animal known so far to do that? And that they don't do that with inanimate objects or even other dogs -- only people?
T's little body relaxed into mine and it was getting really late, so we 'shuma'd again and crawled back into bed. This time he snuggled into me and was asleep in less than two minutes.
I think that's the last time he watches Transformers right before bedtime.
"What's wrong? What's the matter?" I asked.
"I just had a bad dream," he said.
Bad dream? He couldn't possibly even have fallen asleep yet.
"What was the dream?" I asked, certain I could soothe him.
Wrong.
"I dreamed I died. I don't want to get old and die. I always want to be with you."
The child, at age six, has figured out and understands the concept of death being forever. Which, given his background and the fact that we've lost three companion animals and one grandma since he came home, is maybe not terribly surprising. The bunnies' and the cats' absences are palpable. They left and never came back. He watched Grandma Post's casket being lowered into the ground and then being covered with dirt.
And last Tuesday we made our annual stop at my family's burial plot outside of Boston, where I laid flowers on my father's and grandmother's -- and by default grandfather's and great-grandparents' and great-uncle's and great-aunt's -- graves. Purple for Grandma, yellow for Poppa. Every year I wish that Poppa could see this grandchild, who is so much like him despite having arrived in our family from a country 7,000 mile away. That he could see him run and get perfect grades on his report cards. And how this child would drive him nuts with his crazy antics and all-boy energy and noise. And I sob. I miss my Dad. Every year T cries with me -- for me.
It's hard for him to see me cry. I've always thought it's healthy for him to see me grieve so he knows it's OK for him to grieve -- such a stubborn child who refuses to acknowledge sadness about his losses, because sad is scary and vulnerable and angry is much easier to handle and to be in control of.
But, death being forever -- such a big concept for such a small child.
And not being a big fan of thinking about dying -- I ski like a snail, knowing that catching an edge at high speed can catapult even the most experienced skier into a tree or off a cliff -- I'm not the one to reassure him that it will be OK. I brought in the Big Gun -- Daddy -- who is not afraid of death. Between the two of us, we tried. We told him he has a long time before he is old -- although really, looking back from my perspective, it seems to have happened to me in a millisecond, but right now for him time goes by slowly. We reminded him that he's not afraid of dying when he rides his bike really fast. We told him that it's a privilege to die, because it means you were born at all. We told him that it's part of life. We told him that because we die, it means we have to really live -- make every moment count.
He seemed comforted a bit. Daddy kissed him again and closed the door. T started to cry quietly again. "I want to be with you always," he repeated. I hugged him and rubbed his back. "Wherever you go, my love will follow," I said. "Wherever I go, your love will follow me."
His pent up fear burst out again, as his whole body shook with uncontrollable sobbing. "But I don't want to die. Dying means you do nothing forever!"
We did what I do when I start thinking those big thoughts. We got up and plunked down in front of the TV in the living room. Daddy found a NOVA program on human/dog relationships to stream and we watched happy things for about 20 minutes. Did you know that the right side of our faces show the most emotion and that humans tend to look at that side of people's faces when interacting with them? And that dogs also look at the right side of people's faces -- the only animal known so far to do that? And that they don't do that with inanimate objects or even other dogs -- only people?
T's little body relaxed into mine and it was getting really late, so we 'shuma'd again and crawled back into bed. This time he snuggled into me and was asleep in less than two minutes.
I think that's the last time he watches Transformers right before bedtime.
Purple flowers for my Grandma. I don't dare bring up that this is where I too will be interred when my time is up. We'll just leave that alone for now. But I hope he sometimes stops by and brings flowers for me. And knows that my love will follow him wherever I go.
Such hard stuff, but I agree it is important to tackle it. And how brave he is to share that fear and say he wants to be with you forever. I really think the big hard talks are the harbinger of progress and healing. Hang in there mama.
ReplyDeleteThis made me cry. The kids are outside right now with Daddy. I hope I can get it together before they come back in. Poor T, big, scary thoughts for a little boy.
ReplyDeleteThat's interesting about dogs. I will think about that now, to distract me.
Death is forever...that's a hard one for grownups too. It's hard for me...maybe because I can't bring myself to believe that there is anything after. We have conversations like this too, though so far it's still a little abstract and matter-of-fact for Elfe - I don't she gets yet that it's forever.
ReplyDeleteSuch a huge topic for such a little boy.
ReplyDeletePoor T, how brave of him to open up to you. Our son rarely cries but when he does, we are, in a way, happy. He's letting his guard down. Sounds like T is doing the same thing. Hugs to you all. Such a huge scary topic where parents can't offer answers...
ReplyDelete