Life & Death

Over the last couple of months, Henry has brought home "death." It started with the use of "killing" as a thing he'd do to something he didn't like or something he'd protect me from.

"I love you so I won't let anyone kill you."

Crossing the street, I say, "Hold my hand, please."
"Because you don't want me to die?" he'll ask.

Or when a train track doesn't do what he wants, "I hate this thing, I'm going to kill it."

I asked him where this was coming from, the nonchalant way I've developed, the way people approach skittish kittens. He's also recently aware of snitching, getting other kids in trouble, and hesitates to reveal sources. I have to greet these developments with curiosity rather than the sometimes panic, sometimes anger, sometimes sadness I actually feel.

"Killing," I started. "Have we talked about that together? Or did you talk at school about it?" I practically shrugged, the universal sign for I couldn't care less.
"...School," he finally said. "Igor (name changed) told me." He waited a beat, then looked at me, "Can we talk about killing?"
"Of course." I hunkered down in my chair, physically prepping myself for tough questions. "What questions do you have?"
"Do you like killing?" he asked, letting me know his brain isn't there yet.
"I don't," I said, not too quickly.
"How come?" he asked with genuine interest, his head tilted to one side, eyes scrunched.
"Killing is very serious," I stalled, trying to figure out where I was going with that. "Killing sounds like an angry word to me. It sounds mean. If you kill something, it means it will never live again. Never get to see its mom or read books or eat goldfishies or play at the park. It would be gone forever."
"But what if someone is mean. Do we kill them?"
"I don't," I answered, leaving room for others. "I walk away. Or I tell them no, thank you. I don't spend time with people who are mean to me, but I also don't kill them. Just because someone is mean, doesn't mean I have to be mean."
He got distracted by the red nose of a leftover Victor the train poking out from under a chair. I know this will come up again in varies forms for years.

In San Diego, he went with my dad to a cemetery. I'd explained to him the headstones are things people buy to remind them of someone who died. It is a place where they can go and remember how funny/smart/silly/kind/brave that person was. We didn't talk about bodies. He didn't ask. But he did learn I'd lost both grandmothers and a grandfather. "Did they die?" he asks when they come up. "Do you miss them?" he asks when I tell him yes.

A 14-year-old boy died recently in Pittsfield. It was sudden and completely unexpected and has rocked the town. He was a kind and involved kid who left many to mourn him. Henry heard about this as he doesn't miss anything being discussed in the same room. When he saw the boy's headshot, he frowned and said to Jared, "Oh, that is so sad. I bet his parents miss him. What kind pants was he wearing?"

I wish I could look inside his head and see what his brain is doing with death. See what images flash when he thinks of sadness and what pants mean to him with a dead child. He is a sensitive boy and I want to both maintain that and protect him. I've said more than once what lucky boys my sons are (for many reasons) to have four amazing grandparents so close and involved in their lives. But I also recall the near devastation I felt when my grandfather, a man I spent every afternoon with, died when I was in 8th grade. I don't want that heartbreak for my children, but I also wouldn't trade the relationship I had with my grandfather.

All this has been swimming around in my mind since Henry brought home those words. Words that, unlike pink and girly, aren't constructs. They are reality. Death happens. Killing happens. I can't critical think them away for him.

And then my dad had chest pains. And then my dad was in the hospital. And then one of his main arteries was 95% blocked. And then I was relaying medical diagnosis to my brother and my mom's voice was cracking on the phone. And with my father on an IV of blood thinners to avoid a heart attack until they could schedule a procedure, I stopped to ask myself how I was feeling. And I was pissed. Driving to the hospital, in my imaginary conversation with my father, I told him how mad at him I'd be if he died. What a jerk he'd be if, after solidifying his spot as the Greatest Bumpie ever, he'd just kick the bucket and leave me with two sons who love him, but would eventually not remember him.

But I couldn't say this to Henry, of course. Death is hard enough to wrap a near four-year-old's head around when it doesn't involve Bumpie. Instead I told him Bumpie was in the hospital for the doctors to work on his heart. We talked about medicine and hospital gowns and the sounds a heart makes while pumping. We talked about how proud we were of Bumpie for listening to his body and going to the doctor. I told him how a tiny balloon would help Bumpie's heart and I waited for death to come into the conversation. Whether my explanations were good enough or he couldn't even fathom Bumpie dying, Henry didn't ask. Together we painted a cardboard heart box "for Bumpie to keep his heart things in" and wrote him a card. He waited for Bumpie to come home, "Why are the doctors taking so long??" he dragged.

And then Bumpie came home. With a barrage of new medicine and some lingering lethargy, but he's there. And, for Henry, it's almost like it never happened. It has made me refocus on life. I can't stop death for Henry, for anyone, but I can show him how to love and be loved. I can show him compassion and kindness. Communication and discussion. Teach him to ask questions and never make him feel like they aren't good ones. And we can enjoy our Bumpie, Nona, Grammie and Grampie as long as we have them. Because they have all shaped my children, long after their lives.