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Advice on Death from Morticia and Morticia Jr.May 03 '04 Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line The Bottom Line is immortal, and thus, will linger long after the rest of us are gone.
I am generally happy when I’m in an utterly hopeless, morose mood. My six-year-old daughter, Edie, is obsessed with the subject of Death. I’d probably be Goth if I could afford it. She’d probably be Goth if she weren’t preoccupied with being popular. We own two Male Betta fish, Bluey and Twoey. They share one tank with a two-piece divider. One piece is transparent and fixed. The other piece is opaque blue and is removable to “help encourage Betta flaring.” Edie understands that two male Bettas can not be put together because they will fight until they die. It’s a fact. No dramatics, not much hysterics (One time I told her I’d pull the opaque piece out, and she cried, “Noooooooo, they’ll kill each other!” Two minutes until I explained that the clear piece would keep them safe. Then all was well.) Edie comprehends that dead is dead – forever. At least within her limited concept of forever. Her introduction to death was not as simple as a small pet. In fact, I don’t really worry about the fish (or the future bird I’ve promised her) kicking off. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll do everything in my power to avoid it, but if it happens, it happens. It’ll happen to me one day, too. Edie’s introduction to the so-called Circle of Life involved a person. My son’s father’s mother lived with us on Hospice until about a month before she died. Edie was four-years-old at the time. I did not take her to the funeral. It was a memorial/cremation service for an unclose relative, and I didn’t really see the point of putting Edie through all that trauma (i.e. people crying, Preacher talking about better places that Edie had no previous explanation of, no body, etc.…). In fact, I was used to “traditional” funerals, and this service creeped me out a little. But, after the crisis had passed, and because Edie had inquired about his mother’s whereabouts, I sat down and told Edie that she was dead. “Dead?” “Yes, Baby, that means she isn’t alive anymore.” “Is she gonna come over?” “No, Baby she’s dead. She’ll never do anything, anywhere ever again.” “Will I see her again?” “No, she’s dead forever, Baby.” [Crying] “That’s sad!” “Yes, it’s very sad, but it’s okay to be sad and to cry when you’re sad, if it makes you feel better.” “Where did she go?” “Her body stopped breathing. She didn’t go anywhere. She just died.” [Crying] “But I want to see her again!” “You can’t. Well, um, okay, some people believe that we see people who have died before us again after we die, so maybe you will see her again.” “After I’m dead?” “Maybe.” [Crying] “I don’t want to be dead forever!” “It’ll be a long, long time before you die, if you’re lucky.” “Promise?” “No. Nobody knows when they’ll die. But dying is just what happens at the end of living.” “Can I see her after I die?” “Maybe.” I paraphrased that to clean it up, due in no small part that Edie didn’t, and still doesn’t communicate very clearly verbally. I also caved when I told her about the possibility of being able to see passed loved one’s after we die. I did it to stem a flow of histrionics that, knowing her as I do, saw looming. Since my relationship with my son’s father ended, the subject of death has come up fairly often and I’ve been able to be more open with Edie. She was always considerate. When she saw my son’s father in a state of seeming sadness, she would ask if he missed his mom, and told him not to worry, and assured him that it would be okay. We lived with my mother after the relationship, and Edie was told that my father was also dead. For several weeks, she’d ask if I missed him, where he was, could she see him and when. She asked the baby-sitter about her parents, then bugged her with the usual unending barrage of missing, location, reunification, etc. Finally, I had to tell her that it made people sad to think about it, some people thought it was rude, and generally discourage her from discussing the subject with anyone other than myself. The death of my best friend’s dog and another friend’s fish, in addition to a couple of close calls (it’s been a helluva year for Edie) have only furthered Edie’s interest in Death and the Beyond. I tell Edie that different people believe different things, and that the only people who know are dead people, but they can’t tell us, because dead people can’t talk. My best friend, Aunt Lori, and I are locked in a debate over the theological teachings (or lack thereof) of the very death-interested Edie. Lori believes that I should tell Edie something, anything, so that Edie’ll have something to understand and cling to for comfort as she grows older. I won’t do that because I never lie to Edie about the important stuff, and God has not bestowed the skinny about the Grave to me, yet. Edie and I don’t have a lot of theological learning discussions, as, again, I won’t lie, and I’m currently in a quandary about what belief system, if any, to pursue. Another part of it is, I want her to be free to make her own decisions without having to be bogged down in preconceived ideas. A few weeks ago, Edie came to me, and in her simplified manner, asked me if people die and then come back to be people again without remembering. I told her that some people believed in reincarnation. She even asked me to repeat the word, so that she could pronounce it, too. Then she walked back to whatever she was playing with in her room. I was proud of her. Whatever she’d caught onto at school or daycare or in the movies we watch, got her to thinking, and she knew she could come to me and ask and get the straight dope. In the end, that’s what’s important. The trust she has in me to tell her the truth, even if the truth is, “I don’t know,” is paramount to me. In the two nearly two years since her first exposure to Death, she’s gotten to the point where she can be sad about my mother’s childhood goldfish dying, but ask Grandmamama directly whether she flushed it. Then again, when my mother explained that the fish had been buried, Edie had to inquire if it could get up and be a Zombie. She’s six. We’re working on it. Sometimes, Edie will remember that I’m going to die, and enact a desperate plea for me to not let it happen. She doesn’t want me, or anyone else for that matter, to get old. She figures if we don’t get old, we can’t die. Recently, though, I had to make mention of the fact that anybody can die anytime. Even kids. She tried to cross the street on her bicycle, as I ran full out and barefooted on popcorn gravel to catch up with her. I was screaming for her to stop, but she either didn’t hear, or didn’t want to hear. I’m just glad the Montero had anti-lock brakes and that the driver was paying attention. If s/he hadn’t been aware of Edie, I’d probably be writing this from the local loony bin. Yes, it was that close. When I finally caught up with Edie, I made her wish she’d been killed by the Montero by making her understand, at the top of my lungs (up close this time) that she came so very close to being dead – forever. Now, she’ll tear my arm out of socket to remind me to look both ways in a parking lot, much less a street. She explained to me that she didn’t want us to get dead. In short, (too late) the end-result of all this rambling is this: Whatever your beliefs, whatever your concept of the great beyond, don’t lie to your kids. Tell them they can die, too, and what can kill them. As far as the hereafter goes, if you know in your heart that we go to a Christian Heaven, tell them. If you know in your mind that there is nothing after expiration, tell them. If you genuinely want to tell them that you don’t know, then do so. It won’t erode their confidence in you. In fact, just the opposite. It will let them know that you value them enough to not hide around behind pleasantries. While it may separate them from their peers, and possibly make them seem weird, it will let them accept their inevitable role in this Trip we call Life.  |
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