The D-word (Part Three)

Two notable things happened in the beginning of April.

We started a blog and my son's first pet died.

Launching a blog with three posts about death isn't exactly what I planned, but that's what happened. The previous posts are here and here.

Will meets Tank on his fourth birthday.

We came home from visiting family two Sundays ago with our arms full of Easter candy and tired babies. I ran upstairs to grab pajamas for the kids and I couldn't help but notice Will's fish bowl. The water was cloudy and Tank was swollen and swimming on his side.

I sent Bill up to take a look. I hadn't wanted to get Will a fish in the first place. I never had pets growing up and the idea of cleaning and feeding another living thing on a regular basis just wasn't too appealing. When we made the purchase, it was decided that Bill would be in charge of all things pet-related.

"Not good", was his assessment as he came back down the stairs. He had taken a look and changed the water, but he felt that Tank's hours were numbered.

We explained to Will that Tank was sick. Will considered the situation seriously, staring at the water and asking questions before we tucked him in for the night.

"Is Tank going to die?", he asked.

We answered him honestly, telling him that Tank was very sick and that he might get better and he might not. We assured him that we had done everything that we could do and that we would check on him throughout the night.

Within an hour, poor Tank had sunk to the bottom of his bowl.

Bill flopped down on the couch next to me so we could come up with a plan he could watch the latest episode of Pawn Stars. (Don't get me wrong, Bill is 100% involved in our parenting decisions. It's just that he knows that I tend to change my mind at least twenty times before we're set on a plan.)

Our initial plan was this: Bill flushes Tank. Will wakes up the next morning. We explain that we sent Tank out to sea... to get better with his family. (Any kid that's seen Nemo knows that 'all drains lead directly to the sea'.) This seemed like the best choice. We'd spare our four-year-old the death of his pet and give Tank a happy ending. Although this seemed like the most positive option, it wasn't sitting right in my gut.

So I Facebooked. And Googled. And Twittered. It seemed as if most people, including the pros, thought that honesty was the best policy. Losing Tank might be a valuable life experience and lying to Will might only confuse him and impede his development.

It was hours later and in retrospect, Bill might not have been fully awake when I explained all of my findings to him. I felt that we should be truthful and supportive. Flushing Tank would probably not be a good idea. Maybe we could bury him in the backyard. Bill seemed to agree. I mean, he did say 'okay' a bunch of times.

The next morning, I was making pancakes in the kitchen and Bill was in the family room with Liam. Will came down the stairs and I could hear him ask, "Did Tank die?"

And then... Bill launched into the Nemo story. Not the plan. Well, the revised plan anyway.

"What?", Bill said as I bounded into the room. Will was sitting on the couch staring at us and it was pretty evident that we did not have our story straight.

Will began crying and saying that he missed Tank and that he didn't want him to be in the ocean. He wanted Tank to get better with us.

Bill got up and signaled that I was a crazy lunatic person I should just take over.

So, I did my best at damage control. I explained to Will that we didn't want him to be sad or upset, so we were planning to tell him that Tank went to find his family. Then I told him that we changed our minds because we knew that he was a 'big boy' and he would understand. So I told him that Tank was sick and couldn't get better. I told him that Tank had died.

It seemed that he was less upset at this idea. I think he had felt abandoned at the idea that Tank had 'gone to find his family'. He seemed to accept the truth much better.

Bill returned and we talked. With a little guidance, Will came to the conclusion that his Nana was taking care of Tank in Heaven. We would bury Tank in the backyard and we'd make a special stone for him. We could get some flowers. And when a little time had passed, Will even asked us to get him another fish.

It's nearly two weeks later and Will's fish bowl still sits empty on his desk. He flies past it throughout the day, coming and going in search of toys or books or games-- busy with all of the things that occupy a typical four-year-old's life. He pauses to remember Tank now and then; to ask a question or tell me that he misses him.

Watching him reminds me of a quote I once read: "Death is not a period, but a comma in the story of life."

The D-word (Part Two)

I'm writing a couple of posts on my four-year-old's questions about death.

Part One is here.

Major holidays almost always include a trip to the mausoleum. Bill's mom passed away in 2000 and we visit the cemetery pretty regularly. We've always brought Will along with us. As a baby, he would gaze up at the statues and stained glass from the baby carrier. As a toddler, he would stumble around in the wide open space-- giggling and pausing to hear the soft music playing in the background. At the age of three and a half or so, he would follow his dad's lead-- kissing his hand, putting it to the marble plaque, and bowing his head a little. Before too long, he began asking questions.

At first, it was the basics.

"Who is Nana?"

"What happened to Nana?"

So we explained the family tree. Explained that Nana was sick. Gently explained that Nana had died. He seemed to get it. He seemed satisfied.

Then one day came the question: "Where is Nana?"

I should have seen this one coming a mile away. Will was already asking questions about life and death. He had been exposed to death in some kids movies and the concept seemed so mysterious to him.

I wanted to be better prepared. I wanted to know what I was talking about. I wanted to explain how different people believe different things. I wanted to be honest, admitting that I really don't know what happens.

I was kicking (and am kicking) myself for not having my spirituality together before having kids. It's not easy to be a good guide when you're a little lost yourself and not so firm in your faith.

But all that came out is, "Nana is Heaven". This was followed by a brief, but descriptive fairytale about a beautiful place where people go when they die.

And then came the onslaught of related questions.

Where is Heaven?

Is it above or below outer space?

Will I go to Heaven?

Will you go to Heaven?

Will you know me in Heaven?

Will you find me in Heaven?

Will my eyes work in Heaven?

Can I eat fruit snacks in Heaven?

Is there school in Heaven?

Are there toys in Heaven?

Will my friends be in Heaven?

Will I be old like great-grandma when I go to Heaven?

Will I be able to see Earth when I'm in Heaven?

Will I be a ghost?

Will I be an angel?

Will I be in Heaven forever?

When I die, can I come back to life?

Every question seemed to be delivered with an anxious curiosity. I wanted to reassure him and realized that there was no way I could admit that I really didn't know the answers to some of these questions.

So I answered the questions as thoughtfully as I could. And in my son's eyes, I am a complete and trusted expert on life and death. He fully believes everything that I've told him and it's interesting to hear him repeat the details back to me.

"Nana went to heaven because she was so sick. Now she is happy and isn't sick anymore. She loves me and watches over me. When I go to heaven, I'll see her."

He has complete and total faith in everything I have told him.

It is amazing and refreshing and... is it completely crazy that I am just a little bit jealous?

The D-word (Part One)

One day last year, I picked Will up from school and noticed that the kids were watching Land Before Time. I had seen the movie as a kid and vaguely remembered it as a cute dinosaur movie. A few days later, I purchased the DVD and added it to our collection in the van. Will was three at the time and I remember being totally caught off guard by this scene...

As the t-rex fight scene came to a close, I instantly remembered what was about to happen. I remember floating my finger over the fast-forward button, thinking that I could easily zip past the scene. He might have let out a, "Hey!" and then become easily distracted by whatever came next. When the movie was over, I could shelve it up high in a closet and replace it with an old-faithful, Elmo in Grouchland. I could protect my baby's innocent and perfect view of the world. I could avoid the whole Littlefoot's mommy is sleeping and not waking up and why is she not waking up and what happened and who's going to protect Littlefoot and now he's all alone and is she sleeping, is she coming back and mommy, mommy, mommy...

But for whatever reason, I avoided the proverbial easy button, and let the scene play out. This was Will's first official introduction to death and loss.

As time passed, our DVD collection expanded to include similar scenes.

There was Mustafa, killed in a stampede as Simba watched helplessly. I'll spare you the YouTube video. Just two words: crumpled whiskers. Sigh.

Then Nemo's mom.

And then Optimus Prime (after I assured my boy that robots never die) "became one with the Matrix"...

He flat-lined for crying out loud.

Then there was Obi-Wan Kenobi, struck down by Darth Vader and evolving into some sort of Force Ghost.

And somewhere along the way, there was the Thriller video. (I'm not exactly sure why we showed him this video, but we did.) Decaying corpses moaning and rising from the ground with outstretched arms will definitely spark a four-year-old's curiousity.

These were Will's first introductions to death and dying.

Now, nearly at the age of five, we are getting past these fictional accounts and beginning to deal with some real life stuff.

(To be continued.)

Did you or your child have a similar first introduction to death or loss?

Feel free to share comments below.