When my mother passed away unexpectedly some years back, my sons were still quite young, barely in middle school.
This was their first experience of a death in the family, and at the time, I made a decision quickly: they would have nothing to do with attending services of any sort. I remembered my own first experience of death – it was my grandfather.
And while I was older than both my boys at the time, I recall the hushed chatter, the covered mirrors, relatives milling in and out of the green parlor, and my grandmother’s profound sadness.
She seemed to empty of purpose in the months and years that followed.
I even remember the clothing I wore to the funeral – wide-legged black pants and a soft pink blouse that my mother approved for the occasion. But I don’t remember the funeral itself. I blanked it out.
Teenagers Experiencing Loss
I was seventeen at the time, there was no one to speak to me about the loss of my grandfather. And it wasn’t until much later that I began to realize how deeply I was affected. So I picked my way through missing him as best I could, through an intermittent fog of depression, and an intense period of fearing death.
Looking back, I’m not sure who would’ve spoken to me or what they could have said, but the silence in the aftermath wasn’t helpful. I had no place to put the feelings, and no tools or experience to sort them out.
When my mother passed away, my boys were all I had. They did what they could to comfort me, which – in itself – was distracting and endearing. Their relationship with their grandmother was a mixed bag (as was mine), which was complicated by the divorce which was still fresh.
At What Age Should a Child Attend Memorial Services?
I thought my sons were too young to attend a service, too young to experience more sadness, too young for the imagery that might – or might not – be expunged with time.
I didn’t want them plunged into the same pain and confusion I experienced 30 years earlier.
A week or two back, my elder son called from overseas where he’s working for the summer. It seems a great-uncle died, and he was headed to meet up with my other son and the rest of the family elsewhere in Europe, for the funeral.
I told my son to extend my condolences to his grandparents (my ex-husband’s family), and that I’d talk to him afterwards. That “weekend” was this past weekend; I’ve yet to speak to either of my sons to see how they’re feeling, and try to elicit some sort of response – a sense of what it was like for them, this – their first experience of attending funeral or memorial services.
Talking to Teens About Tough Subjects
Partly, I wish to do this because we’ve never spoken of these topics. I wonder about my own reticence to approach the issue of death, natural though it is, especially in an elderly person. I recognize not only my own sadness triggers, but discomfort with my feelings on the subject of mortality.
To some extent we never dealt with these issues because there was no need – thankfully. And in our post-divorce family life, there was enough to deal with; I wasn’t looking to take on the more exceptional scenarios unless we had to confront them.
The Divorce Black Hole
One of the oddities of divorce, for some of us, is the “black hole” into which our children drop during periods of time they spend with the other parent. Regardless of the frequency of visits, what goes on is only discussed delicately and to the extent that they choose to do so. That means I have no idea if my kids ever discussed these issues with their father, and it never occurred to me – until now – to ask them.
I do recall my mother speaking to me about what she wanted after she was gone. I was in my 30s, still single, and when she spoke of her estate and her wishes I was extremely uncomfortable. My father had passed away a few years earlier; despite our strained relationship, the thought of my mother being gone wasn’t something I could face.
But don’t we all owe our kids age-appropriate conversations about death – just as we do about sex, love, and other topics? If a death in the family occurs, shouldn’t we be on the look-out for teenage depression, in the form of anger, withdrawal, or acting out?
- Have you spoken to your children about grieving?
- Have you allowed your kids to attend funeral services?
- Did you keep an eye for a period of time afterward, in case of depression?
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I went to my great uncle Paul’s funeral when I was about 8. It was strange to see a real dead body, but it seemed normal to be part of the whole family thing. I was 17 when I went to the funeral home with my Dad when his father died. I reported to Mom that my Dad didn’t seem to understand the need to take clothes for Grandpa, he was planning it would be a closed-casket. Mom arranged for some appropriate clothes to go, good thing as far away family requested the casket be opened! I arranged my Dad’s funeral when I was 32 and my Mom’s when I was 34. I felt like an old hand at it by then. No idea about excluding children from funerals other than for most people the service is to help say good-bye. Very young children might disrupt or annoy; on the other hand, they might give comfort by reminding people about the beginnings as well as the end of life. Did your children grieve your Mom’s death less for having not attended? Did they feel left out of the family event? Would they not have learned from seeing people grieve and then recover? One of my sweetest memories is of my 4-year old step-son coming up to comfort me after my Mom’s death. He patted my hand and said, “I’m sorry you’re sad about KayKay.” I think kids are tougher than we give them credit for being.
Such a thoughtful response, Shelley. Thank you.
As to my mother’s death, she lived quite far away and the hassle of pulling both kids out of school and taking them, along with the expense of it, also factored into my decision. But even if I could’ve budgeted for it, I don’t think I would’ve done it.
They didn’t feel left out; there was much to arrange in a short time and relatively few people in attendance.
I know what you’re saying about kids being tougher than we realize. Then again, I know my response to my grandfather’s death; I wasn’t tough enough. Yet somehow, I think we should speak of these things, though clearly I didn’t know how to do so with my own children.
Death is a part of life, and we have talked about death with our children. I don’t think we have ever talked about grieving. When my children were younger, no one in our family died and we didn’t have to decide about whether to take them to a funeral service or burial. I think I would have, but only after telling them what to expect. When their grandmother died last year, my daughter brought our grandson to the funeral service. All of the other family members with young children brought them as well.
My first funeral was when I was twelve. I didn’t know what to expect, and it was a little frightening. But, I am glad that my father took me. His cousin had died, and I didn’t really know her, so I didn’t really experience the emotional loss of someone close. In a way, it was a learning experience that I will never forget, and I even appreciate. It prepared me for the future, when I would attend funerals of people I was close to. Then I did know what to expect.
My son-in-law and my daughter used to work as counselors at a camp that was specifically designed to help teenagers through the grieving process after the death of a family member.
I believe that funerals are for the living, not the dead, and that they help us to process the life that is now gone, to connect with others that we love, and to heal. I believe that children need this processing as much as the adults – perhaps moreso.
My daughter is only nine, but she’s been to several (I think four) funerals and memorial services now. As a toddler, she was able to put a shovel-ful of dirt on her great grandmother’s grave and celebrate 100 years of life (my daughter was named after this woman, and I pray she has the same longevity). When my daughter’s best friend’s grandma passed away, we went to the service, and then were one of the last ones to leave the reception, so that Katherine and her bestie were able to play while the bestie’s parents talked to relatives. There have been other services for other people, too. Katherine hand makes cards for people, offering them her wishes and comfort, and I have impressed upon her that when people are sad they need us to reach out to them; when we are sad, they reach out to us. In this way, she is a part of the healing, I think.
It is my belief that we can not protect our children from the pain of death, but we can show them how to manage that pain. She and I have had deep conversations about both the physical nature of death (where does the body go? what happens to it? what does it mean to be dead? does it hurt?) and the spiritual (do you think she can still see me? what is a soul? where is she now?). A lot of my answers to the spiritual questions involve “I don’t know” on my end, but lead to wonderful conversations.
As for watching for depression, well, yes, as I would when anything sad happened. Keeping the lines of communication open, acknowledging that “of course you’re sad – this is sad stuff!”, and allowing whatever feelings arise to show themselves and be acknowledged is the way that we manage it here, and it works for us.
My first funeral was for a beloved cousin, only a year younger than I, who died at seventeen. My world came crashing down with her death, partially because of the intensity of the loss, but also because I’d never really been exposed to death at all, so I had to grapple with the big questions of “why do people die?” at the same time that I had to grapple with losing this particular person. My hope for Katherine is that when she loses a close person, the smaller grieving she’s experienced will help her to know how to move forward.
I am sorry your son is having to cope with loss, and that distance doesn’t allow you to hold his hand through it. Hugs to you, mama. He will be okay.
I don’t have children but I do know that when I lost my Dad just before my 40th birthday, I was utterly unprepared for how to handle so much of the experience. I spoke on behalf of the family at the memorial service and literally didn’t know that I was supposed to walk up to the podium to do so and so spoke from my seat (truth be told my legs were shaking so hard they would not have made it there and back so it was not only about ignorance). I had been very blessed in life never to have lost anyone extremely close up until that point save for my Grandfather when I was very young. I do remember accompanying my Mom and Grandmother to the Funeral Home before his service but was not allowed to go anywhere near the casket, which loomed largely in my imagination and without comprehension. All of those years later with my Father, I did not know what to do with my feelings and I was too old for anyone to have prepared me. What I wouldn’t have given for the kind of talk that PollyAnna mentions when I was young.
I know what you mean, Heather. I think I needed PollyAnna to speak with me when I was younger, and PollyAnna to speak with my sons as well.
Both my parents went too soon – my father especially, taken suddenly in an accident 25 years ago. I don’t think I will ever be able to deal with death in a way I wish I could, though strangely, as with many other things, when I am in Europe, I am more able to find the “natural” in all aspects of life and death – the joys and the sorrows.
Thanks to both Heather and BLW for your affirming words. I try to parent in the “what do I wish my parents had done for me” school of thought, and I think that experiencing death in such a catastrophic way when I was eighteen makes me want to buffer that type of experience for Katherine in any way I can. Having cancer forced me to face the possibility that someone else might be comforting Katherine over my death, too, and so I’ve spent perhaps more time than the average person thinking this through.
BLW, it is not too late to talk to your sons when you can. You can’t “fix” this – a death is final – but you can acknowledge what they might be feeling, and create a safe space for them to talk about it.
I think it’s ABSOLUTELY appropriate to say “I don’t know” when that is the truth, and also to say, “I don’t know how to do this. I am not comfortable with death, and I have many of the same questions that remain unanswered, and nobody taught me how to grieve, but I’d like to find a way to be there for you, and my discomfort is so much smaller than my desire to help you.” I think that type of truth, spoken from the heart, is worth so much more of the platitudes of “this too shall pass” and “it was his time” and “it’s all part of God’s plan” that are intended to comfort, but often sound hollow because for many, those statements ARE hollow, just cliches that we turn to when we don’t know the right words to say.
My daughter’s introduction to death was early. My father passed away when she was only three years old. She witnessed a number of moments that probably had her questioning many things. She asks many questions about her grandfather (now that she is six) and often times, I find myself saying, “I don’t know.” And sometimes that is the best and only answer.
I agree, Rudri. Sometimes sharing “I don’t know” is the best we can do. And maybe it’s enough.
I was given the option of attending my father’s funeral when I was eight, but a relative talked me out of it. I’ve never regretted not going. What I most remember of that day was a cousin my age resenting the fact that I would be allowed to go if I wanted while he wouldn’t be. “It’s not fair,” he told his mother. “When your father dies you can go to his funeral,” my aunt told him.
All kidding aside, thank you for the feedback, Wolf. It confirms what I sensed about my own children when my mother passed away. I imagine it’s different in every situation, and with each child. Again, I go with the “parental GPS” method.
I clearly remember my first experience with death, too. It was the mother of a new co-worker and my boss made me attend the service, even though I didn’t want to go. When I saw people draped over the coffin, touching and kissing a dead body, I left the church to hide behind a big old oak tree, as wracking sobs stole the very breath from my own body.
And then, five years later, my son died.
Suddenly, none of it mattered. I wanted to touch him, to recount his fingers and toes, to check out his belly button, and to breathe in his baby scent…
We took our subsequent children to the cemetary with us. It became a tradition that we’d weed around his grave marker, place some celebratory objects around the rectangled plot that was his home, and then we’d fold hands and form a circle around him.
I started everyone off with some message to him, as I stared up into the heavens. It was always anyone’s choice to speak or not to speak. There were years when my living children–usually around the awkward preteen stage–would shake their heads when the turn arrived at their place. And that was okay, with all of us.
And then they began creating some of their own stories, like what type of car their brother was driving in heaven when he turned sixteen. It was a cloud, one of them announced…
That memory was the inspiration for my post, At the Helm of a Shooting Star, a few years after that first conversation, as I pondered what he was doing on that new day of celebration…
I often wondered if I was doing the right thing. Somedays my children seem to accept death, and other days they appear to be a little spooked by it.
But in the end, I hope I have instilled in them the awareness that death is not something to fear, and that our loved ones live on in every single memory, in every single person whose life they touched…
Your boys, too, will develop their own thoughts and emotions around this delicate subject.
And Wolf, I’m sorry for your early losses. You know what I say, “We are neighbors in grief and allies in healing.” You are not alone…
Soon…