Vol. 110 - A Very Real Conversation

On death and dying

Emily and I spent the final hour or so before bedtime last night trying our best to console our son.

Through hushed sobs, he explained to us that he was sad that someday Emily and I were going to die, that he was scared at the thought, that he wouldn’t know what to do without us.

Let me rewind a moment.

I was in a sour mood for much of the afternoon yesterday, having just found out that a close childhood friend of mine passed away earlier this month. Beyond being Facebook friends, we had all but lost touch over the last few decades. But there was a time—one of the most important times in my life, to be sure—when we were as close as brothers. And even though we haven’t traded much more than a social media message here or there over the last few years, learning about his death was a gutpunch.

And so, when my son asked me what was making me sad (he’s good like that), I told him. And I told him as honestly as I could, because that’s how Emily and I choose to communicate wth our kids. I explained to him the regret I have that I didn’t communicate with my friend better as we grew from boys into men. I explained how sad I felt for his father and sister. I explained to him the fact that I’ve lost so many friends in my life and that I’m so tired of getting the news that yet another kid I grew up with died too soon. I even laughed and told my son a funny story from when we were kids, one that ended with my mother giving the both of us a good and well-deserved whack.

As we talk openly about death (try explaining to a kid why he has no grandmothers without a sugarcoat), it all seemed to be going okay. My son’s focus was on trying to comfort his dad. That is, until he asked how old my friend was.

“He was my age,” I said. “Well, maybe a year or two older.”

My son paused for a moment, which I can only assume was spent making the connection between my friend and me, before he squeezed me as tight as he ever has. At first, I thought he was consoling me (he’s good like that) but then I felt the gentle thump of his body against mine and realized he was crying.

It took him a minute to articulate why he was so upset but eventually he did. And I did my best to comfort him, to tell him that it was unlikely I was going anywhere anytime soon. And I pointed out the fact that both of his grandfathers are still around and the fact that many of my paternal ancestors lived well into their nineties. He countered with the fact that both of his grandmothers died young. And, after all, hadn’t I lost so many of my friends when we were too young to be dying?

A few moments later, he rushed to Emily and held her for a while. We let him speak his mind as much as he wanted, gave him the space to feel everything he was feeling, and apologized for not having all of the answers.

Eventually, we all climbed into our big bed and held on to each other.

As I squeezed my son and whispered to him that I wasn’t going anywhere for a while, I saw a future version of him, one that was mourning the death of his old man. And in that future version, I saw myself, mourning my mother (a process I’m still very much engaged with and probably will be for the rest of my life). And I wondered if, when that time comes, my children will feel as unmoored as I did when my mother died. I wondered if my death would destroy them in the same ways my mother’s did me. I wondered if they would feel as though the lighthouse who guided their tiny boat through the tumbling harbor had crumbled into the sea, just as I did when my mother died.

All this and so much more raced through my head for who knows how long, as, by the time I whispered into my son’s ear once more that I loved him, he was fast asleep.