Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Death and the 7 year old

The 7 year old is upset. She doesn't want to go to bed in her own room; her eyes brimming, she creeps to my side, presses in, and mumbles "I want to sleep with you, Mummy." This is not particularly like her; an independent child and a great lover of sleep, she favours her own high loft bed, her little soft boat in the nightsea, for long and dream-filled slumber.

I brush her hair off her face and say, "Come sit in my bed with me for a while, love. We can have a talk. You might feel better then."

In my bed, she says, "This book I just read. Poppy. You know, in the Our Australian Girl series." She stops. A light dawns on me.

"Has it made you feel sad, darling?" I ask. She nods, and the tears trickle out.

"Her mum - Poppy's mum - dies in it," she says, her voice catching. "And Poppy and her brother go to an orphanage. Because their dad can't look after them." She pauses. "And then at the end, Poppy loses her dog, too!" She's really upset now, and I know why; the death of the mother has taken her back to the terrible winter of 2010, where a dear friend of ours (and mother to three small children) died, and the sucker punch of the dog's disappearance has closed the loop, as our own beloved dog Basil died in the spring that year, his old body worn and faded.

"Ahhhh, hon," I say, and cuddle her. She cries quietly for a little while. Then she says, "Mummy, I don't want you to ever die." But the tone of her voice is that of someone who knows they ask the impossible; she has seen dying people, she has been to funerals and cried tears for personalities gone from the world. She knows, actually, that all her wishing and wanting, the fierce force of her love and her will, isn't enough to deny nature; more, she knows that death doesn't always come only to the old.

Carefully, I say, "Sweetheart, Mummy's not sick, and I come from a long-living family. You know my great-grandpa was 104 when he died! There's a really good chance that I'll live a long time yet. You could well be a middle-aged lady yourself by the time I die." She is silent, thinking on this, and her tension is starting to release.

"I wish no-one had to," she says pensively. "Die, I mean. Ever."

"If no-one died, the world would pretty soon be full of people," I note. "Unless people stopped having babies, and I don't see that happening soon, do you?" She shakes her head.

"When you die, does your body turn into dirt?" she asks. "Sort of, over time," I answer. "Eventually it breaks down and turns into rich nutrients for the soil. So plants can grow and thrive. It's the way it's meant to happen, pet."

"Mmmmmm," she says. Then, "Mummy, are you afraid to die?"

Well, that's a big question. She deserves an honest answer, so I take my time formulating one.

"I worry about dying too soon, darling," I say. "And I am afraid of having a painful, drawn-out dying. Yes, I am." She nods. "But I'm not really afraid to be dead. Not really. I think that it's just my body that will die, and the other part of me, my soul part. will move on to a different kind of life."

"I think that, too," she says, sleepy now, snuggling in. "Well, I hope that." Me too, I think silently, as I kiss her hair, and we fall asleep together, warm and safe.

18 comments:

  1. oh wow. Well done you on being able to handle the tough ones so eloquently. We had a similar conversation recently as well after watching the movie Paulie. Not that anyone dies there but to Miss 6 the separation of bird owner and bird was as good as death.

    Fairy wishes and butterfly kisses #teamibot

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    1. Yes, separation is like death for the litte ones. Conversely, death is so painful because it's the ultimate separation...

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  2. Lovely post. I hope your Miss 7 always feels comfortable chatting with you about what's troubling her. That's so very precious.

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  3. Oh such a hard conversation to have. To be honest any little child talking about death gets my tears rolling. So sad they have to fathom such an adult concept at such a young age. I still remember the time it dawned on me that my mum wasn't going to be here forever, when I was 6, it's still a bloody scary concept. Thanks for sharing such a poignant conversation.

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    1. There's a level at which I have *still* not accepted fully that my mother will one day die, so I get what you mean completely!

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  4. You handled that so well! I hope I can deal with it as beautifully as you did when my daughter is old enough to inking and asking about such things. I remember when I was little I used to hate the movie Dumbo because the idea of losing my Mum was so terrible and it just made me too sad.

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    1. Dumbo is a sad movie! I know it ends all right but there are some really heartrending moments in it.

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  5. A beautiful response you've given to her on such a hard topic. A precious post xx

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  6. Hoping miss 7 felt better when she woke.
    I'm not so sure i could have handle this type of conversation as good as you did. xx

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    1. She'd moved on and was sparky and upbeat. I, on the other hand, felt pensive for days afterwards.

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  7. It's quite a challenge for our little ones to understand. I remember a similar conversation with my mother around that age. You handled it beautifully.

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  8. You handled this conversation so well. I have noticed that lately I make an effort to avoid conversations about death or dying near Miss 3. I am in fear of bursting that precious little bubble but it is coming, I can feel it.

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    1. It's so hard. Much, much harder than answering questions about bodies and sex, which I thought would be challenging but actually turned out to be really natural and incremental. Death is the big, inescapable, difficult truth that we have to gently guide our children to understanding, much as it would be wonderful to not have to.

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  9. Deep thoughts for such a little person, but understandable considering the life experience.
    We had two of our guinea pigs die today, and my daughter cried saying "Why did it have to happen?" there is no good answer to that question.

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    1. There really isn't :-( When my friend was dying (she had a brain tumour) my eldest, then 7 herself, asked me over and over why it was happening and how unfair it was. I had nothing to tell her but: I don't know, and yes it is. My friend herself, when we were visiting one day, helped my girl the most of all; she hugged her and told her not to worry, that everyone has their time and it's all in God's hands. Reduced all of us to a teary wreck but we held onto it in the months that followed.

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