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Thursday, September 4, 2008

As a parent, I have a natural inclination to want to protect and shield Nate from experiencing the tumultuous emotions of pain. Not necessarily superficial pain. He’s a kid. He needs to explore. He needs to fall, and tumble and rediscover the symmetry of balance between unsteady feet and too-fast toddler legs. This sort of pain is easy to handle. The uncomplicated sting of a scraped knee can easily be forgotten in the silliness of laughter and a face first fall and mouth full of carpet fibres can easily be fixed with the comforting security of a blankie and the magic of spot-healing Mom kisses.

But explaining death to a child; an inescapable fact of life that we all have to deal with at some point in time, is not quite as easy. I’ve never hid from Nate the fact that he has a sister. We’ve mentioned Ava to him before, and showed him pictures of her, but we’ve never actually told him that she died.

Children seem to have an intuitive nature about them, and on a deeper level, I’m certain Nate senses and picks up on my emotions. Maybe it’s my own narcissism, but if I’m sad on the inside and force a smile on the outside, something in his eyes tells me that he sees right through the façade.

I want Nate to know about his sister, and I want him to know that it’s ok to talk about her, but he’s not at an age where he’s ready to carry the weight of death on his shoulders. There’s a delicate balance, I believe, between the truth and protecting his innocence.

And just to complicate matters, considering death is one of life’s greatest certainties, it’s also one of life’s greatest uncertainties. Some of us believe in an afterlife. Some of don’t. Some of us believe in Heaven. Some of don’t.

As a kid, whenever someone died, I was told that they were with God in Heaven. I remember being fearful for a very long time that God might come and take me away from my family, too.

And although religion can be an instrumental beacon of strength and hope, it’s not something that Mark or I practice. This is where it can get tricky too, because there are many religious euphemisms that are actually quite hurtful to hear. And although death and religion tend to go hand in hand, I never planned to raise Nate under the teachings of one religion, and instead hope to expose him to a wide range of beliefs so that he can explore and figure out for himself what religion and spiriturality mean to him.

I also have to imagine that telling Nate his sister is in a better place, or that she is happier now would only cause some very mixed and confusing feelings when this message is coupled with the obvious sadness of her passing. If Ava is in a better place, why aren’t we happier about it?

And wouldn’t telling Nate that Ava is resting in peace just perpetuate the confusion of death and cause unnecessary anxiety for him about falling asleep and never waking up again?

Obviously, just telling Nate that Ava is “gone” isn’t ok either, because family doesn’t just go away never to come back. Tell me that's not a trust issue waiting to happen.

I don’t have all the answers today.

But it won't be long before he starts to wonder where all the flowers went, and I'll have to tell him that eventually flowers stop growing and blooming. And that one day insects stop crawling and eating.

Eventually well have to explain that his sister does not breathe or eat either. And that she doesn’t smell flowers or run and play.

Eventually, Nate will understand that different people believe in different things, and that’s ok.

Eventually he’ll be old enough to fully grasp the concept of death, and I pledge to help him navigate that journey through the sombre trenches of humanity as openly and honestly as possible while making him feel safe, loved and secure.

But for now, Nate has a sister. And her name is Ava.

Labels: In Memory of Ava, The Learning Curve, Thinking Out Loud