Once we learned that my father’s cancer, which arrived in an unexpected and devastating way about a year ago, was terminal, my husband and I decided that we would be honest with our four year old daughter about the process that was unfolding. How does one explain cancer to a four year old, though? I’m sure there are trained medical professionals and parents of sick children that have had to deftly explain things to children, but as I am neither one of those things, I was a bit at a loss. I am a mental health therapist, though, and I figured that should be enough to help me navigate grand, existential dilemmas with a preschooler.
The day after telling my daughter about her grandfather’s death, she sincerely asked me, “Is Grandpa still dead?” I answered that he was, and reminded her that death is a permanent condition. Developmentally, it makes sense for her not to understand this seemingly obvious fact. On the other hand, do I really understand the idea of someone being gone forever? I know my dad is dead; I was there when he died. But there is still a part of me that wonders where he went. That part of me might still be looking for him, even though I know better.
My dad was not religious, or spiritual, and had no belief in any sort of afterlife. In line with his understanding of such matters, I cannot really allow myself to take comfort in the idea that he is out there somewhere, waiting for us. It would be nice to be able to, but it seems incongruent, somehow. I like to pretend that I am totally fine with the concept of death, that I simply accept that everything is finite, and I have a zenlike relationship with loss. This is, of course, a convenient lie that I enjoy telling myself. I’m like a preteen trying to convince the older kids that the movie we’re watching is totally fine, not too scary at all. I don’t even really believe myself, but I’ll put on a brave face no matter what.
The day of my father’s funeral, my daughter met a lot of extended family members. Living across the country, we don’t see them very often, and it was her first time meeting many of them. My aunt introduced herself to my daughter, saying “Your grandpa was my brother.” My daughter calmly replied to her, in the absolutely devastatingly nonchalant way of young children, “Well, your brother’s dead now.” If she had been older, or if she had been a more devious person, I would have wanted to shrivel up from embarrassment. But my sweet, kindhearted little girl was not trying to wound the great aunt whom she had met only moments earlier. Instead, it seemed that repeatedly pronouncing the factual state of her grandfather’s absence was how she was making sense of it for herself. Grandpa was here, I used to be able to talk to him, now I can’t because he’s dead.
Last year, our dog died. Ruby had been 13 years old and had also had cancer. I think this introduction to the world of grief and loss was helpful for my daughter, as she was able to begin to wrap her head around the concept of death, of someone being here one moment and not here the next. She never asked where Ruby had gone or any of the logistics of what one does with a dead dog. My daughter was sad, but accepted the information with a placidity beyond her years. However, a few months later, she found Ruby’s unicorn-festooned dog pajamas, a way we kept her warm in her old lady era. With true distress, my daughter cried, “Ruby left her pajamas here!” I explained that Ruby didn’t need the pajamas anymore, but my daughter remained concerned.
Do all dogs go to heaven? Do any dogs go to heaven? Is there a heaven to go to, anyway? While I don’t spend much time pondering the immortal soul of my late, beloved mutt, I do wonder if there is any way that the energy of those we have loved remains intact, somehow. Could I ever someday be reunited with a dog? Or a dad? Even in an abstract way? Are our loved ones gone, absolutely gone, when they die? Thousands of generations of theologians and philosophers and dudes on the internet have pondered the possibilities far longer than I have. The truth is that nobody knows, and the people who say they know are lying. So I’m left with tolerating ambiguity, something I don’t do particularly well.
I do believe that there is a wisdom to the frank acceptance with which my four-year-old approaches the subject of death. There is sadness, sure, but beyond that, loss is simply something to be taken in stride. We are here for now, and later we won’t be. We can talk about the people we’ve lost and the losses themselves without censoring ourselves too much. I can move forward after a loss without extensive, painful existential pondering. That can be good enough.