How does a young boy deal with understanding the death of the most important woman in his life?
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Death came home to me at 10 years old.
My mother caught cancer the year previous, and though we were told—and my dad being gently honest with us—she would eventually die, I held hope that mother would always be there.
When I was eight years old, my mother was complaining about a lump in her neck. Sheltered from most of the details, my mom and dad eventually sat my seven-year-old brother and I down to tell us that Mommy was sick.
Honestly, I don’t recall many details. Only confusion. Concern. Loneliness.
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Sick? No biggie. I’ve been sick. Everyone’s been sick. Take a load off, Mommy, I’ve got cereal. Relax. But what was I to know? I’m only eight. I can barely see over the kitchen table, let alone being to help out with good advice.
For one-and-a-half years, my mother was in and out of the hospital, going to doctor’s appointments, sometimes in the ICU or the ER. Sometimes she seemed fine. Honestly, I don’t recall many details. Only confusion. Concern. Loneliness.
I didn’t know what was going on really, nor can I bring to mind the order of events. Just a trickle of memory here and there, in no particular order.
Some things I can recall. Eating alone with just my dad and brother… being pulled out of class for a hospital run. My father having to carry to her to the toilet.
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You can’t really wrap your mind around the concept at a young age because your brain is still developing. Hell, even as an adult, we still don’t fully understand death. Nations go to war and kill each other because we don’t agree on what happens after death.
I don’t remember anyone close to the family dying when I was very little. I did know a couple of classmates who didn’t have a father or mother, and might remember one girl in school going through the loss of a family member.
Some things I can recall: people bringing groceries, friends of the family coming by to visit, eating alone with just my dad and brother, my grandparents always being over (sometimes sleeping over), babysitters being hired, meals not tasting the same, being pulled out of class for a hospital run. My father having to carry her to the toilet.
Time progressed, and I watched my mother wilt. Winter of 1987, she was very frail. Tubes came out of various holes to help her breathe and feed. She had lost her long, straight hair, and now she wore a curly wig.
March 26, 1987
The school day started out fine but felt odd to me. A cloud above sort of thing. Sometime during school, my brother and I were removed from class, brought home; my dad told us we had to go to the hospital to say goodbye to our mother.
All you know is that at one point something is alive. The next, it is not.
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How does a ten-year-old wrap their mind around death? The death of a parent. Seems so damned permanent. Like a divorce, kinda. But more permanent.
At home, everyone as there. More and more people showed. It was a crowded house, and my dad being a quiet guy, I can’t imagine what was going through his head; the loss of a wife, a crowded house, a job to hold, and kids to feed.
Death really means little to you unless you lose a close relative. All you know is that at one point something is alive. The next, it’s not.
I realized as best a 10-year old can, that death will eventually come for us all. It is just a matter of time.
So enjoy yourself. Enjoy your loved ones. Live to simply enjoy.
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Flickr:Photo/alex yosifov