Children and Grief

by Ashley Weeks Cart

When it comes to death and dying, James and I have been upfront and honest with the girls. We had to decide how we wanted to talk about death when Ursa was sick, and so three years ago we began figuring out how we was a family wanted to explain the inexplicable. To try to help our children understand the incomprehensible. And it isn’t always clear or perfect or the most consistent. We agree to always answer their questions honestly but minimally, giving them answers to what they need but without offering more than they want or can bear. We don’t want death to be scary, but need to navigate the ambiguities and unknowns that all humans carry about the end of life. It is okay if it makes you feel sad, or angry, or confused. Because every person feels all those things about death and loss. We are truthful about its finality. But provide comfort with the idea that through our memories and love, we carry those that have passed with us in our hearts.

Sunny, the evening of T’s death last Monday, reflected, T is now in my heart playing with Ursa.

And oh how our own hearts ached with the beauty and sweetness of that image.

We wrote a book as a family about Ursa’s death, titled “In My Heart,” and it’s provided comfort (and, admittedly, many tears) since her passing. Since T’s death a week ago today, we’ve been re-reading the book and reflecting on our most treasured memories with T and the stories that we’ll each carry with us in his absence.

Courtland was very worked up on Monday night, sobbing and sobbing in bed before she wailed, WHO WILL TAKE CARE OF ZIZI? AND WHO WILL BRING ME MY JUICE BOXES?

Such an unbelievably wise, heartbreaking question followed by such an innocent preschool concern. She, at such a young age, recognized the partnership between her great-grandfather and great-grandmother, forged during 58 years of marriage, and mourned the disruption and end of that mutual care-taking.

She also worried about her juice-box consumption as T was always quick to bring both girls a juice box and English biscuits upon arrival at his house. It’s likely one of the only, and certainly the strongest, memory she’ll hold of her great-grandfather, and in processing his death, she had to process the end of this juice box ritual.

It’s been a sad and humbling but also thoughtful and tender time in our household. Such are the juxtapositions entrenched in life and death.

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