Conversations with my Kid - Talking about Death

The memory is vivid.

I am standing in my jammies at the end of our hallway. I am leaning against the corner of the wall peering into the living room and I am hidden from my parents' view. They are sitting on our yellowish-flowery 1960's sofa cuddled close looking happy. The glow of the television flickers on their faces.

I stare at them. Loving them. Needing them. And my five-year-old brain is riddled with fear.

"I don't ever ever want my parents to die," I think.

It's the scariest thought I have ever had in my entire five-year-old life. And my eyes well with tears but I do not run out to them to hug them close and tell them how I feel. I do not seek comfort from their loving arms. I return to my room and when I'm under the covers with a soft pillow under my head, I let those scary thoughts slip away with sleep.

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The memory is vivid.

I am a mother of a 5-year-old girl, a 3-year-old girl and a two month old baby boy. It's a sunny weekend summer afternoon and I am sitting on the back deck letting the sun warm my soul while my infant boy sleeps in his baby chair at my feet.

The girls emerge from the side of the house after a mini-adventure seeing what mysteries a side of the house holds. They have seen a bird. And the bird was not moving.

My 5-year-old, my Claire, asks me, "Why wasn't the bird moving mama?"

"The bird was dead, honey."

"Dead?"

"Yes, honey, the bird was dead. It is with God now."

"Will the bird ever open his eyes again?"

"No, honey. The bird won't open his eyes here on earth. But he may be opening his eyes in heaven."

She pauses as her 5-year-old brain considers this information. And then -

"Are you going to die mama?"

My heart skips a beat as I did not consider this next line of questioning. And my mind must have flashed back to my own fearful 5-year-old soul and now I am a mama and I am not prepared for this and my eyes well with tears and my brain races to try and explain this inexplicable destiny we all share and I answer -

"No honey. Mama's not gonna die."

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The memory is vivid.

I am a mother of a 7-year-old girl, a 5-year-old girl and a 2-year-old boy. We are in the midst of the chaos that is bath and bedtime. Clothes are being ripped off, our master bathtub is filling, toys are being thrown in over the side, the day's energy is still jumping off their young skin and as their mama, I hope the warm water will settle them for sleep.

My 7-year-old, Claire jumps in with a entourage of Little Pony characters to aid in her bath time storyline, and my Tommy tells me he's ready to "Get in!" I lift him in the tub and he joins Claire in play.

I turn to help my 5-year-old, Phoebe, get in the tub and she stands there with tears brimming.

"Mama, I don't want you to die."

I drop to my knees in front of her sweet face and "Oh honey, why are thinking about this?"

"I just know that you are going to die and I don't want you to die."

I've grown in my motherhood since the dead bird incident. I've lost two important people in my life since then and my girls have watched me grieve. They were by my side through the funerals of both my grandma and my aunt in the last two years. I've been given a reason to talk about death in a very real way to them.

So I say to Phoebe, "I know you don't want me to die, honey. I don't want to die either. And don't you worry, it's gonna be a real long time before I die."

"I wish I were 42 like you mama," she says. "Because if I were 42 like you, we would die at the same time. And I want to die with you mama."

And I am kneeling and staring into her tear-filled eyes and my eyes well with tears and I say, "You and me are the same baby. We have the same heart, Phoebes. I know exactly how you feel. I really, really do."

"You do?"

"Yep, I do. And I know it's scary to think about me dying and I know it's hard to understand. It's hard for me to understand to. I don't know anything for sure about dying but I do know that God will take care of us when we die and that we will be in a very happy place."

"And if you die before me, mama and then I die, will I get to see you again in heaven?"

"Yes, Phoebes, you will. All of us. We will all be together forever after we die."

And with that explanation, she wiped her tears, and I hugged her sweet lil' soul wrapped up in a 5-year-old body.

Then, she jumped in the tub, grabbed a pony, and started playing.

I walked around the corner of the bathroom and let the tears fall. This death conversation is tough. As a mother, I want to take away the tears and the fear and the unknown and I can't.

It's the one mystery that will never be solved in life.

But I've learned I can give them one thing to ease the fear.

Faith.

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Have a great weekend.

Seeing the Light ...

Written by Amy, a mom without a blog

I have almost died three times. Well, I should say I almost died twice, but I looked death straight in the eye a third time.

Age 12: I was crossing the street by foot and got hit by a car. I was rushed to the hospital, all my vital signs stopped twice, they brought me back “to life” and a grueling, six weeks later I was released from the hospital after recovering from multiple fractures in my skull, pelvis and having two screws and a staple put into my knee in order to hold it together.

After that experience, I can honestly say it had ultimately affected me positively. Of course, I wallowed in pain both physically and emotionally through what had happened but after coming out on the other side, I was given a sense that God had left me on the planet for a purpose. I was here. I was thankful. And most of the time, I carried that sense with me – that I had a purpose.

Age 18: After getting kneed in the stomach during basketball practice (by my own teammate I might add who was vying for my position – but that’s another story), I was seen by the staff doc and was told I had probably been bruised. He said if anything were to change in the way I was feeling, I should immediately go to the hospital. I woke up in the middle of the night in excruciating pain, crawled into my parent’s bedroom where they scooped me up and drove like crazy to the ER. My spleen had just ruptured and I was bleeding internally. Moments after entering the ER, I was having emergency surgery. I had been minutes away from dying.

Ok again, feeling pretty sorry for myself, but had been reassured. God had big, big plans for me. Right? I’m still here. I’ve got stuff I need to do on this planet. I’m not done yet.

Fast forward to age 41 (just over 1 year ago), when I was being wheeled into the operating room for brain surgery. I was having a brain tumor removed. The week of the surgery, I was a blubbering mess. Things had changed. I had two kids now and a husband I love dearly but who is clearly unable of raising our two kids alone. I was scared and panicked to the core. I needed to address the tumor, but what if I didn’t wake up? What would happen to my family? The risks were so much higher now. I could not afford to die.

A pretty large portion of my purpose had been uncovered and now there were two little souls who couldn’t afford to lose me. I wallowed. I sobbed. I cried my eyes out, but I made it out again and this time I had 24 staples in my head along with three titanium plates and six screws to prove it.

What am I thankful for every – single – day –of – my - life?

I am thankful for my simple existence.

I am thankful for this very moment in time.

I am thankful I am here.

I might not be fully aware of God’s plan for me, but I know He’s keeping me here for a reason and for that … I am so very thankful.

Oil of Olay is the Secret to Beautiful Skin

Written by Lee

At least that's what my grandma would tell me. Her skin was awesome. Sure it looked kinda like it had been around for a while. Hell, she was 90 but I'll tell you, her skin was sooooo soft and really? Had minimal wrinkles.


I always told her that I hoped I looked as good as she did when I was 90. But I guess to look that good, I need to start using Oil of Olay. And I haven't. What's my problem?

Two years ago today, my grandma Anne, less than two months shy of 91, slipped away from us and headed to the next world. She was so strong, so vibrant, so happy, I guess I just assumed we would have her until at least 100.

I miss her.

When someone lives for 90 years on the planet, you just expect that the time they spent living and the impression they made in the clay of the earth would be so indelible and lasting that I could look around me and catch glimpses of my Grandma in the air.

But two years later I feel that her presence is not as available to me as I want it to be. When she first passed, I felt her. I knew she was just a reach away into the sky - her soul still lingering for all of her loved ones to feel. She didn't speak to me then - at least not her voice - but her soul spoke to mine and I knew she was still with us.

I wonder as time passes if the souls of the departed drift further to their place in the after-world making it harder to get in touch with them. I still have moments when I feel my grandmother's presence - but it's only when I am very very still. Which is rare.

So I am left with memories and stories and cookbooks to infuse my living life with her deceased one. And I want to do all that I can to feel her. The her that was living and such a precious soul in my life.

My grandma loved to bake and she gave me a Kitchen Aid mixer as my wedding gift. Whenever I bake, I think of her. I stand at my mixer watching the dough swirl remembering the cookies, cookie bars, 7-layer cookies, holiday cookies, Polish "kolaches", rum cakes, pound cakes, coffee cakes, birthday cakes and all of the smiles plastered on our faces after eating some of her yummy treats.

She was baking almost until the day she died. It was her gift.

I have some of her cookbooks now filled with notations in the pages marking what recipes she liked and the dates she baked it. From one of her cake books, I have learned that on 11-15-05 (my birthday) she made Ambrosia cupcakes and she decided they were "very good." And on 8-13-05, she baked a pineapple inside-out cake and deemed it "crumbly."

In the chaos of my life as a mama to three young kids, I must remember to find the time in between the hustle and bustle to slow down and honor my grandma's rich and storied life. And with three kids ready to bake anytime I am ready, I realize this is a perfect way to keep her soul close to us in a tangible way.

To me, she was "Grams" or "Gramma" and to my kids she was "GG Anne."

I miss you Gramma.

Now I must bake.



A recipe from GG Anne's kitchen:

GG Anne's Filled Coffee Cake

Ingredients:
2 sticks margarine or butter
4 eggs
2 t baking powder
1 1/2 cup sugar
3 cups sifted flour
I can pie filling
1 t vanilla

Frosting:
1/4 lb. butter
7-8 oz. cream cheese
2 T vanilla
3 1/2 cups of powdered sugar

Directions:
Cream margarine or sugar well. (My grandma preferred Imperial Margarine for all of her baking.) Add whole eggs one at a time. Add sifted dry ingredients, then add vanilla.
Grease 15 1/2 x 10 1/2 pan. Pour all dough but one cup. Place your favorite flavor pie filling on poured dough then spoon rest of dough on top. (Cherry Pie filling works excpetionally well with this recipe.) Bake at 350 degrees for 35-40 minutes.

Frosting: Mix above ingredients and spread generously over top of coffee cake. Or if you don't want this heavier frosing, sprinkling some powdered sugar on top instead works just as well.

Enjoy this yummy cake with those you love.

Facing the Fall of Change

Written by Kath, a mom without a blog

It’s fall across most of our country. The long, warm days of summer have given rise to brisk mornings and evenings; the sun is lower in the sky, and days are shorter. It’s fall out here in the desert as well, but the signs aren’t as obvious. You really have to look for them.

Fall in Phoenix means we open our windows again. Of course, this only happens in the early morning and late evening hours when the temps dip to the 70s or so. But still…we OPEN our WINDOWS. We haven’t done this since, seriously, May. Watching my curtains sway a little in the morning breeze is a little bit of heaven for me.

We don’t have the usual “look” of fall here, either. Our trees (for the most part) don’t turn color and drop their leaves. Oh, sure, a few do. They are scattered among the masses of desert trees (mesquites and palo verdes) and palm trees which pretty much stay green year-round. So the minority of trees that do change get sort of lost in the greenery.

I feel sorry that my kids don’t get to experience the traditional fall. My 5-year old daughter has only seen fall leaves in picture books or Charlie Brown specials. So last weekend, my husband and I packed up our three kids into our SUV and headed north for the weekend.

The usual noise and chatter of conversation and DVDs playing became a hush as we hit the dirt road and started the climb up the mountain. We rolled down our windows and breathed deeply the clean, crisp mountain air. And then, my kids began to see them. Small clusters of yellow and orange at first. But then we saw the maples. Oh, those glorious maples in their pinks, reds, oranges, fuchsias, rusts….so absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful. I turned around and watched my kids’ eyes soaking up the sights. Their “oohs” and “aahhs”, their squeals of delight…it was quite a moment.

We got settled in to our destination and went for a walk. Approaching the first oak tree, my daughter picked up an acorn off the ground.

“What’s this, Mama?”

“That’s an acorn, honey.”

Pause. Turning and examining the acorn in her little hand. “Like the one from Ice Age?”

“Yep, just like it.” Note to self….make this trip EVERY year with the kids.

There was just something so beautiful and comforting in the magnificence of pure nature. The colors were so vibrant. It’s an extraordinary sight to behold, but the trees were just doing what they were SUPPOSED to do—they were changing.

When we returned to Phoenix, I was telling a friend about the beautiful sights up north. Her reply stunned me a bit.

“Oh, I lived on the east coast and HATED fall,” she said. “The leaves changing color always made me depressed and anxious, knowing that the trees would soon be totally bare and that winter would set in.”

Wow. That thought had literally never occurred to me. I guess since I’ve lived in the desert most of my life, I didn’t realize that fall for some people (who live in areas where the winters are brutal) would be so anxiety-provoking.

It reminds me of a time in my life when I saw that things were “changing.” When I anticipated what would come with dread, fear, and anxiety. I know what that feeling is like. It’s scary. The unknown always is.

I’m currently in one of those moments again in my life. The subtle colors are there signaling a change that I know deep down is coming. It makes me frightened of the “barren tree.” I don’t want to think about it.

But here’s the deal. If I spend my days focusing only on the bare tree, I’ll miss the beauty of the fall. I won’t see the rich golds, bright reds, and deep browns. I might miss the very best part of all because I can’t stop thinking about what’s to come.

So, today, I will enjoy the fall. I will soak up the hues and try to imprint the images in my brain, so that I may NEVER forget.

Because when the leaves fall, it’s true the tree becomes bare. But what happens next is that the leaves break down and nourish the tree; for when spring comes, new buds will appear. And the hope of those new leaves…leaves that have been fed by the ones that came before, comforts me.

Death and Life and Flying Little Boys

Written by Lee

He wasn’t my uncle by blood. But it doesn’t matter. He was family. He is the brother of my step-mother-in-law. Is there such a title? She’s been with my father-in-law for over seven years. And she has a brother. And his name is Bill.

When I first met Bill it was like meeting someone I’d known forever. He reminded me of my Polish relatives from Chicago. Open arms and an open heart and feet planted firmly on the ground. A ground that was familiar to me. There was an instant comfort when I met him. And so it began. Family. In the best sense of the word.

This past Saturday, it was my dude’s birthday and in the middle of a mellow evening of kids and ice cream scoops in plastic party dishes with candles burning, we got a phone call.

Bill was gone. He was brain dead, my father-in-law told us. He had been in a motorcycle accident.

No one knows the details of the accident but Bill was alone when it happened. Having just finished a weekly ride with his Harley bike group, he was headed home to his wife, another soul I adore and don’t seen enough of. It was some mystery of an accident where a state trooper found him on the side of the road with his motorcycle 75 feet away from him. Hours earlier he was riding with the wind blowing against his face invigorating his soul and then - he was gone.

After everyone had done all that could be done in a situation as grave as this, Bill passed away in the middle of the night as the sun shone on another part of the world.

I woke up Sunday to the official news of his death and I’ve been feeling sunk. Like I'm living with a blanket over my head. And a surge of feelings swirl within my being and I’m stuck on how abruptly life can leave us. Like a moment in time with happy thoughts in your head and love in your heart and things to look forward to and then…. what? Where?

You know. All of the stuff that you think about if you allow yourself to think about it. Death. And life. And the space where the two meet.

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I put on my running shoes and grabbed my iPod and left to clear my brain on Sunday afternoon. I cranked the volume up loud, too loud, in my ears and as my feet pounded the pavement and my heart sped up and the tunes played, the tears welled.

“Funny the way it is, if you think about it
Somebody’s going hungry and someone else is eating out
Funny the way it is, not right or wrong
Somebody’s heart is broken and it becomes your favorite song”
- Dave Matthews Band

And the instruments welled with my tears and the words spoke to me and I crunched hard on the thought of “Hell yeah, funny the way it is…..”

Funny the way it is…..

How life can throw you such juxtapositions…like my kids doing a funny dance for a video camera on Sunday afternoon oblivious to the pain that so many were now feeling that Bill was gone. Lives altered. Plans instantly changed. The world felt different just knowing that Bill wasn’t walking on the planet anymore.

But all my kids wanted to do was ride their bikes.

“Funny the way it is, if you think about it
One kid walks 10 miles to school, another’s dropping out
Funny the way it is, not right or wrong
On a soldier’s last breath his baby’s being born”

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Boy, their clothes look colorful, I thought. Bright pinks and deep purples and why does it seem like they’ve always coordinated their outfits even though there is nothing the same in each of their own eclectic ensembles?

Hairbands and homemade necklaces, tights under skirts, winter gloves and bike helmets, a orange dress over a pair of brown and pink patterned pants, freckles, rosy cheeks, wide eyes, and wider smiles.

I sat on the grass alone with their bikes by my side and watched as they ran over to the playground and started climbing. My girls were the most vibrant pictures of life right then and there. In that whole park. Climbing together over a netted bridge, talking and laughing and is anyone else as blinded by their light as I am? Does anyone else see it? How come no one else in the park seems to notice these fluid, alive, colorful, bubbles of love and light climbing over the monkey bars?

And those life feelings within me surge and my heart swells and the tears well and how can this be? Life is so big and it beats huge within my chest and inside I am filled with a million, zillion thoughts and feelings that define just one life. Just one life. Mine. All of this swirling stuff inside is just. me.

Bill had all of that swirling inside of him too. His. And only his. And I am thankful for the time that my life crossed his. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t that long. But it was enough. For him to have a real impact on me. He was an exceptional soul.

And then in a flash of color, those pink and purple creatures of light are running toward the tire swing.

And my sorrow is mixed with boundless joy.

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It was in August when I left our week-long extended family vacation on the lake leaving my man and my kids behind as I drove back home to perform in that show I was in. And Bill was with me. We had quite an adventure on our trip down the mountain as I drove him to the airport to catch a flight home. For the first time in my life, I had a tire blow out on me on the freeway and Bill was right there.

It was freaky pulling over onto the shoulder in the middle of the insanely busy I-10 West and waiting there for 45 minutes for help. I told Bill over and over again after the ordeal, “Thank God Bill. Thank GOD you were here. I would have totally freaked if I had been alone.” And that was the truth.

Bill, in his calm and assuring and understated way, did all of the things you are supposed to do when you have a tire blow out forcing you to sit on the shoulder of a busy freeway with big semis looking like they are headed right for you. Bill popped the trunk, set out the orange emergency thing that I guess all trunks have? and started working on changing the tire. I kept yelling through the traffic noise, “Bill, why don’t we just wait for AAA? And “Is there anything I can do Bill except stand here and freak out and pray that something bad does not happen?”

He was cool and calm and collected and I was nervous and scared and useless.

A broken jack and 45 minutes later, AAA arrived and set us up to get back on the road. Within the safety of a driving vehicle again, I laughed and said over and over “Thank God for you Bill. Wow. I am so glad I wasn’t alone.”

I hugged him goodbye at the airport 30 minutes later never thinking for one second I wouldn’t see him again.
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I just couldn’t get out of my damn pajamas today. It was noon and I was still sitting under that figurative blanket and I just couldn’t get excited about anything. I was motivated for nothing. Which is weird for me.

Staring at the muddy paw prints of three dogs drying on my bamboo floors and catching a glimpse of those orange ice-cream sticky hand prints that have been on our back glass doors for a week now – I could do nothing but stare some more.

This isn’t normal for me. I am known to keep myself busy with a never-ending to-do list that can pop out of my brain at any time of the day or night calling me to action but today – nothing.

Just life. Inside our home. With the sun shining brightly outside and the Southern California fall air with a hint of crisp calling me out to play but I stayed inside. In pajamas. With my Tommy boy. My two-year-old devil of love and carnage. Swinging a stuffed USC baseball bat around the house at anything that moves or doesn’t. Boys, I thought. How different than my girls. Swinging a bat and growling.

I put on some tunes, walked into my girls’ bedroom with a basket of clean laundry, dumped it on the floor and started folding. It was motion at least. That felt good.

And as I folded and the minutes passed and the music played, I looked up to the bed to see my heart boy playing with his “bat tub” and his “cage.” Oblivious to my gaze, he played. A joyful play filled with bursting imagination and wonder and just two-year-oldness.

And I stared at him. And the tears started to well. And I grabbed my camera.












I felt life swirling around in the space of that room – in the space that binds us all really. Whether we are breathing or not – or whether we can be seen or not – the life we live and lived is one in the same.

And I peeked out from under my little blanket and smiled.
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Uncle Bill, we love you and we will miss you.

Lake Arrowhead, California - August 2009

We all need Neda

Written by Karen, a mom without a blog

There are so many images, so many sad, sad stories that daily come across the internet, are printed in our newspapers and are plastered all over our television newscasts, that we often become completely numb to it all. We may see something that will give us pause, but not even long enough to even qualify as an official “moment of silence” before we’re on to our next task.

It’s so difficult for me in the midst of my daily grind to focus on anything besides my own little self and my own little life – that to keep aware of what is going on in the rest of the world becomes almost another chore to add to my already addled brain.

Until something happens that cannot be ignored… a tsunami, a hurricane, a declaration of war. Something you cannot take your eyes off of or you can’t read enough about.

It’s akin to slowing down on the highway just long enough to marvel over the overturned car on the other side, grumble about how “everyone ALWAYS has to slow down to see the accident”, then speed up and back to reality – the tangled wreckage just a small side-note to your afternoon, soon to be forgotten altogether. That is precisely how we treat major calamitous events in our world. We stop, we take it in, we analyze our own feelings and those of others, we take stock of what we have and maybe hug are kids a little tighter that night, we try our best to empathize and maybe even try to help with a donation and definitely some heartfelt prayers… then we move on.

There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s how we can all keep on living without being buried under the burdens of the world.

But there are times when something happens, some symbol of an event that just stands out among all the rest. The one that makes you truly take stock of where we’re at and it actually CHANGES us. It may be a very subtle change or in may even be just that a SEED is planted that will eventually push us past our own lives to contemplate what is happening and how it could and should effect us.

Last night, I had just that moment of that tiny seed being planted. An image of a solitary woman. A woman no one knew save for her family and friends… until a few days ago. She was a young woman in the prime of life who was shot down in the midst of a demonstration in Iran. Now, tragically, in death, she is known by the entire world. I read about it when it happened, but yesterday I looked at her pictures – her reality was too intense to let fade in my mind.

This is Neda Agha-Soltan.

Her pictures and the video of her tragic death are easily found on the web. After seeing her pictures last night, I wanted to see the video. I felt like I owed it to her as a human being on this planet of ours. I had to give her horrific death more than a moment in my life. There is nothing more real than that video folks. This is a young, 26 year old, who believed the protests were justified and was standing by, not throwing anything or threatening anyone and she was shot by what is believed to be pro-government militia.

As you all may know, news from the area is sparse and regulated by the government. Foreign journalists have been barred from the streets and most of the pictures and video getting out of Iran are from the people.

The people.

It’s the people that make a country what it is – the government is supposed to represent ALL of the people. If nothing else, this disputed election shows that the people of Iran want FREEDOM, Iranian women want FREEDOM. Many Islamic clerics have been protesting along with the people! Watching these clerics march hand in hand with young Iranians – wow! That was a wonderful image - they also believe strongly in human rights – enough to put themselves in harms way as well.

In this week leading up to America’s Independence Day celebrations, I want to attach more meaning to what “independence” means and how grateful I am for all who fought and stood up to give that to me. Could I EVER be brave enough to do what these protesters are doing? Could I ever stand up and purposefully put myself in that volatile position, in full knowledge of what I’m up against, in full knowledge that weapons are being used against unarmed people, in full knowledge that retribution could be harsh, even possibly deadly? I’d like to think I could, for the sake of my children and the young people of my nation… but I have serious, serious doubts.

I thank God that our government in America allows for all people to believe, practice and proclaim their faiths, beliefs, opinions and convictions. We see playing out before us in Iran, the danger of trying to rule under one belief. No government should ever try to restrict its patrons to one set of opinions. Lets try to make a symbol like Neda real. Let her help us make room in our hearts for EVERYONE – lets try to EMBRACE our differences, rather than brush aside those who don’t believe what we do.

As far as how Neda effects us and our little lives…. Well I guess that is up to each and every one of us. The video of her death is seared into my brain, and as terrible as it is, I want it to stay there. I don’t want to forget her and what she is now becoming a symbol for. Her name “Neda” means “divine calling” in Persian and “the call” in Farsi.

If we take more than a moment and plant the seed of acceptance inside, then the horrific events of June 20th, the day Neda was taken from this earth, will turn evil to good. She will not have died in vain.

A Conversation that Aged Me - Literally and Figuratively

Last night when The Love Fairy was the only one in the tub, she sat back down after I soaped her up and she slipped back slightly and gently bumped her head on the side.  After the little head bump, our conversation went a little something like this:

Love Fairy:  "Our bathtub is not as hard as yours is upstairs, mama , so I won't die when I bump my head on this bathtub, right?"

Me: "Of course you won't die honey, not from bumping your head like that!"

Then I remembered that my dude and I are always telling the kids not to stand up in the tub and to be careful because, "You could slip and fall and...uh, die."  

Okay, I didn't think we said "die" but maybe we had.  I know for a fact we say "You could slip and fall and really really get hurt." Hmmmm.....note to self, the kids ARE listening.

The Love Fairy: "When I die mama will I be able to open my eyes?"

Me:  "Yep I think so.  It's just that when you open your eyes in heaven, things might look a little different."

The Love Fairy:  "Will I see clouds and waterfalls?"

Me:  "Sure..."

The Love Fairy:  "And in heaven I will get to meet the precious God!! Who is God to the entire world!"

From what I know I have never ever referred to God as precious.  So sweet, I thought.

Then she sits back and looks up at me with these peaceful blue eyes and says, "Mama, are you gonna die before I do?"

Oh, how I love death conversations with the kids.  Really gets me spinning.

Me: "I sure hope so!"

The Love Fairy: "NO!  I don't want you to die first!  I don't want to be without you! Maybe I'll die first!"

*gulp, swallow, heart, heart, gulp, breath, the thought, oh please*

Me:  "Oh no sweetie.  That's not gonna happen and don't worry because I'm not gonna die for a long, long time."

From my mouth to precious God's ears.

The Love Fairy: "Really, how long?"

Me:  "Oh, I'm gonna be around for so long.  I'll probably live to be one hundred years old!"  

Okay, maybe NOT from my mouth to precious God's ears.

The Love Fairy:  "One hundred??"

Me:  "Yep."

She pauses, her little wheels spinning.

The Love Fairy:  "How old are you now?"

Me: "41."

The Love Fairy:  "Oh my gosh! That IS almost one hundred!"

Yikes.

Oh precious God, let's try and keep these death conversations to a bare minimum.  

 

Death Musings

Oh yeah.  

I got you all psyched with that title, I know it.  

You're cruising around blogtown with your snazzy little handbag and colorful scarf feeling all breezy and cool and all "Hi, how's it going?" and stopping by all of your very closest cyber-friends' places to get a little chuckle and leave a hello and maybe find some little gem along the sidewalk and then...

SLAM!

You're not sure whether you should stop or maybe just pass for today...yeah, why don't you? Just go ahead and click away if you're in no mood.  It's cool.  I feel ya.  I'm not one who likes to be a buzz-kill or anything. 

But if you're just a little bit curious or maybe just feeling a little generous today...

...come on in.

I know it's a little dark in here.  But not pitch dark - there's a few warm candles burning and the couch is still all comfy and welcoming so have a seat. 

So yeah, I got some death thoughts swirling.  I guess that happens when someone you love dies, right? 

I think it should be mandatory for anyone grieving to take a night drive through the desert. The splattering blur of constellations across yes, a pitch pitch black black desert sky, does something for the soul that is well, transcendent. 

I took the same drive just a year ago when my grandma (THE original mom without a blog) died and I felt the same way as I did last night. The souls of the recently departed are all fresh and still searching for their place I think and in the quiet black of that desert starry sky, they speak to me. And it's comforting.

My brain crunches hard on what happens the instant you leave this world and start your journey to the next.   It's not a scary thought for me - just an extremely intriguing one.  

I spoke to my aunt less than five days before she died and it simply trips me out to think I won't hear her voice anymore.  I mean, I'll hear it...it just won't sound the same.

Tonight I sit with my three kiddos finally snoozing and I prepare for the next two days of the formal goodbye.  Tomorrow we will head to one of those fascinating funeral homes where we will hang all day with the body that housed the soul of my aunt.  We'll cry, we'll laugh, we'll tell stories, we'll chase the kids around telling them to be quiet but everyone will be relieved by the distraction of them, we'll eat and eat some more because that would make my aunt happy, we'll pray, we'll do what you do when you take some time to contemplate a life.

I remember it like it was yesterday.  I was 5 years old when my mom's mom died and the viewing of the body was quite a scene.  It was my first look at a real dead person.  I remember both my mom and my dad crying and hugging in front of the coffin - my little 5-year-old brain looking up at them and feeling a little freaked that my dad was crying.  I had never seen that one before.  

My older brother (just 15 months older) encouraged me to touch my grandma's hand.  I did.  It felt hard and cold and that memory has kept me from wanting to touch any more dead people. I prefer to remember the touch filled with warmth and life so I'll forgo any touching tomorrow.  For sure.

Now that I'm the mother - the one guiding my kids' experience when it comes to death and saying goodbye - it puts a different spin on things.  I am thankful my parents were believers in dealing with the pain of goodbyes in a honest, upfront way.   They never acted like death or saying goodbye was anything less than just a part of living.   And with the death of my grandmother a year ago, and now my aunt, my girls at ages 6 1/2 and 4 1/2 have a chance to remember how the concept of death was made real to them.   

And that concept will include hanging out with a body in a coffin all day long, playing with their cousins, eating treats, seeing their mama cry, seeing their grandparents cry, seeing their aunts and uncles cry, finding some cool hide-and-seek spots around the funeral home I'm sure, and maybe, just maybe, it will include touching a dead body.  

Not that I will encourage it, that's for damn sure.

So if you've stuck around this long, any thoughts on kids viewing or touching a dead person?

I'm fried.

Whew.  

I'm so whacked out tired from this whole week of Monday thru Friday.  But I muster up some energy to write a few reflections:

Thanks to all of you who took the time to read the story of Karen and Penni.  As a close friend who observed the journey from Los Angeles, (yes, the lame city that probably would not have rallied around Karen in her time of need and no, I did not take her comment personally), I can say that being a distant witness to such an emotionally-draining situation was difficult.  

I'll never forget what Karen's voice sounded like the night she called me after making "the choice."  Her voice shook from the depths of her soul.  I had never heard a friend sound like that before in all my life and I'm not sure I will hear it again.

If you don't know it already from reading her story, Karen is a special being and an extraordinary mother. I have been blessed with her friendship for almost 20 years and it will last a lifetime I am certain.  Thank you Karen for baring your soul to our lil' community here at MWOB.  

My one and only aunt passed away yesterday which is contributing to my feelings of being fried.  She lost her battle to cancer when it recurred after a twenty-year remission.  She was a lover of life and she fought hard to stay on the planet.   I will be heading to Arizona this week for the funeral and to celebrate her well-lived, generous life.

It was actually appropriate that she died on Thanksgiving.  She owned a catering business and spent her entire life serving others and stuffing their bellies with yummy food.  I said that in my pre-feast prayer yesterday and I think it lifted my dad's heart for a moment.  (She was his only sibling.)

I think I'll take the weekend and mellow out and prepare for the journey to say farewell.  I'm really into doing the death thing with eyes wide open and hearts real and raw.  My kids get to witness more endless crying from their mama - just what they love.

Check ya' later chickies...I'll be cruising around blogtown again soon.  Just not sure exactly when.

P.S.  Remember today is the last day to click that comment section and be entered in our giveaway.    The more, the merrier - isn't that the deal?