“I wish I was never born...”
My heart sank, as I tried to process
the sentence coming from my sweet, precocious six year old as we
drove down the road. I didn't think such things until I was in the
middle of my junior high “yuck” phase, hating everything about my
life, a female George Bailey with no Clarence to convince her
otherwise. But this was different. My daughter was still innocent.
“...because then I wouldn't have to
die.”
And then my heart shattered. Poor
E is still processing all the grief of losing a loved one,
and grappling with the inevitability of death. I have a hard time
with it myself, so it's no wonder that she would consider such dark
ideas. Hell, I caught myself thinking the exact same thing only
the day before.
My father passed away suddenly and
unexpectedly in August 2013, followed a month later by my maternal
grandmother. Since that time, both my children have been obsessed
with death. And who wouldn't be? I'm obsessed with death and think
about it all the time. Perhaps it's because I have no answers, but I
have the same questions they do. What happens? Where do you go?
What do you do? Do you see your family? Can you talk to people?
Does it hurt? And my favorite - Are you magical?
Aside from Christmas, Easter and when
her baby teeth fall out, I am completely open and honest with my
daughter. I try to tell her the truth in everything, in the best way
I think she will understand. When I broke the news to her about my
dad dying, she was initially upset that she wasn't going to be
getting pretty dresses for Christmas and her birthdays anymore. And
then she blew me away and broke my heart by saying “He'll be your
daddy forever and you'll never see him again.” We held each other
like our lives depended on it and cried until our tear ducts dried
out.
Until December of last year, I've been
able to reassure her that I won't be dying anytime soon. While I've
been honest that I don't know when I'm going to die, I may have
allowed her childhood innocence to believe that only old people die.
My three year old drives her crazy because 32 is the biggest number
he can fathom, and he's convinced that is the magical number for
death.
“Mommy, when you turn 32, that's when
you die,” he says.
“But Mommy's 41! Don't say that, L!”
And the tears flow.
Just a few
weeks before Christmas, a dear friend of mine lost her baby at 27
weeks gestation and my daughter learned that death does not
discriminate. The only thing more heartbreaking than watching your
daughter realize that you can die at any moment, is watching her
realize that she can die at any moment.
Hearing her only logical solution to
this mysterious and frightening puzzle on routine drive home from the
store made me question my ability as a mother. How can I reassure
her and restore her love for life when I'm not 100% certain about
this thing myself?
We sat on the couch when we got home,
and we talked about those unanswerable questions. I told her that I
don't know exactly what happens. I told what I believe, why we go to
church, and that we should look at death as a peaceful thing - not
something to fear. She asked if we would be with our families when
we die. I told her that I certainly hoped I would get to see my dad
and my grandparents again, and that I hopefully would be reunited
with her when it was time. But I don't know for sure, and that's
what's hard. And scary.
I spent the first six years of my
child's life holding every answer to every question in the palm of my
hand. I was the omniscient and omnipotent being in the household. I
was God, and Unit 14 at Timbercrest Condominiums was the Garden of
Eden. As my daughter's innocence is stripped away, I feel my resolve
weaken. I cannot protect her. I cannot save her. I am just as
helpless and vulnerable as she is. I'm fairly certain she figured
this out long before I did, even though she still seems to act like
she adores me. But maybe that's because she's six.
I can't protect her and I can't promise
her that nothing terrible will happen. I can only promise that I
will continue to eat my vegetables, keep up with my running, try not
to hit other cars in traffic, keep my doors locked at night, drink
ample amounts of water, avoid soy, take my vitamins, brush and floss
my teeth, and practice yoga.
I can promise her that I will strive to
bring joy into our lives. A friend of mine who lost the battle with
breast cancer many years too soon always ended her journals with the
line: “Every day is beauty – beauty in the every day.” I
promise that I will find that beauty, I will share it, and I will
treasure it. From early morning wake-up kisses, to the surprise
pumpkin muffin in the lunch box, to raspberries on her cheeks at
tuck-in. I will treasure the not so pleasant moments, too. The
legos I step on in the middle of the night, the rush to the car for
school in the morning because she decided to play in the bathroom
instead of brush her teeth, the screaming with her brother in the car
over which song to sing, who has what toy, or whatever egregious deed
she accuses him of.
I can promise to treasure each moment
as she grows from precocious six year old to the intelligent and
creative young woman I imagine she will become. I can promise to
share all of my joys and hobbies, and create memories that we can
cherish together and will keep us warm when we're not.
I can promise her that I will support
her through her hardships, cheer her endeavors, and relish her
accomplishments. I can promise that nothing she can do or say will
diminish the amount or intensity of love I feel for her today, and it
will only grow stronger as time goes on. I can promise that I will
never give her reason to doubt my love.
Because without love, what is there to
live for?