SECTION FOUR: Learning The Precious Child
How to tell a child you love they’re going to die some day.
Dear Recently Bereaved, the author of The Handbook, Cody Jacob, is currently homeless. As The Handbook is free and will always remain free, please consider a donation to help continue the publication as well as help secure Cody and his dogs’ permanent housing. Even $5/mo from each subscriber could cover housing costs, indefinitely, moving forward.
Venmo/CashApp: @/imcodyjacob
Paypal: paypal.me/imcodyjacob
The Handbook wishes for you to know
has been sick and could not record this week’s episode. He is still alive.BAD NEWS, KID.
In third grade, my desk was third-row-center, to the right of the overhead. I enjoyed being close to it because of the heat, and, if I was lucky, Mr. Robbins would let me turn it off when we were done! This particular morning, I was sitting at my desk making shapes with the pegboards—one of my favorite things to do in school. I loved how vibrant the colored elastics looked against the black backboard and how it sounded like running my finger along the tines of a comb. Plus, I’ve always been horrific at math. Little did I know I had dyscalculia, so making the shapes was a great way for me to prove to myself (and Mr. Robbins) that I was somewhat competent. As I was mid-bright-purple-rhombus, the classroom’s phone rang. It was a tan, wall-mounted, corded phone that sounded like hitting a bag of change against the wall whenever you hung it up. It was noisy, ugly, and loud—and rarely did it ring with good news. Even more rarely did it ring with my news. “Codeman, you’re being picked up!” Mr. Robbins gave every student two things every day: a nickname and a wink, both of which I received with the notification. While the others worked on their shapes, he quietly helped me sort my bag and sent me down to the office with his familiar heavy-handed pat on the back. I didn’t feel nervous as I wasn’t the kid to get in trouble, but I did know something had probably happened. My mother had been in the hospital for an abdominal surgery early that morning, so I assumed we were going to take her home. When my mom became visibly sick, I was very young—I say visibly because I know she had become disabled long before it was apparent to me. This would be the day I made the connection that sick could mean dying and what dying actually meant.
When we arrived at the hospital that afternoon, they brought us straight to the ICU to see her. As a boy, I was familiar enough with Cape Cod Hospital to where I could easily navigate my way around. From the cafeteria to the gift shop, up through the Mugar building, and into the ICU, these were halls I had spent a lot of time trying to find where they had hidden my mom. This time, however, was different. We weren’t told where to go but rather were escorted. A nurse hurriedly walked us back to a room and told us to stay by the foot of the bed, saying we needed to be “very careful with Mom.” Extremely confused (and rather bold for eight), I asked the nurse when she’d be coming out of surgery and brought into the room to see us. She put her hand on my back and gently guided me forward, her tone low and serious. “Honey, your mother is right in front of you! She’s just got a buncha’ stuff on her to help us keep her safe.” It was then I realized the mess of tangled wires, tubes, IVs, bags of liquids, screens, and buzzing machines—that was my mom.
During this particular surgery, my mother coded on the operating table four times. When we arrived to see her, they had just completed their fifth Code Blue on her. She had very little cardiac activity, was still in need of a major abdominal surgery, and was now on life support. What I wouldn’t learn for another decade was that we had been brought to the ICU that afternoon to say goodbye. The surgery had gone so poorly that her team was worried even placing life supports would kill her. Something my mother said until the week before she died was, “I’m not going anywhere!” no matter the circumstance. We always joked she had far more than nine lives, and it became routine amongst my friends and me to stay concerned but never worried. Of course she’d survive, because she always did. Nobody took the time to explain to me as a child that Mom was extremely sick, she would never get better, and that she would die. In turn, I had to piece together what was in front of me without having the openness or freedom to bounce my questions off reality. It was an unspoken rule we didn’t speak of what was happening inside the home as my mother couldn’t believe she was dying. Because of this, I came to the unfortunate conclusion that my death would be painful, slow, and agonizing for everybody involved. My mother’s decade-long decline was the only point of reference I had for what it meant to be sick, and my only experiences with death were coupled with emergent situations followed by hardship.
It is every good parent’s duty to explain to their child the concept of their mortality (at every stage of development) and guide them to the resources and spaces to explore it on their own, in and outside of their respective cultures.
EARLY CHILDHOOD
Once your child arrives at an age where they can hold conversations with you, they’re old enough to understand death. You’d be really surprised at how receptive children are to the idea that they’re going to die! If you think about it, they also believe in Santa, so their ability to suspend their disbelief runs pretty fucking deep.
The best way to show children that they, you, and everyone they know and love will die is with examples. Human examples. Young children will not be able to understand that because plants die, their mom will die too. They definitely will not be able to draw the connection to their own inevitable demise, either! You must speak very matter-of-factly and be able to say the same thing in many different ways.
How do I explain to my child that they’re going to die?
Just tell them! Most of us don’t choose how we die; it doesn’t always hurt, it isn’t always fast, and it usually happens when you’re old!
This can be breakfast conversation, car conversation, bath time conversation—anywhere. You want this to be casual, because it should be! Our goal is to foster a feeling of empowerment and confidence around death and dying. Don’t feel you must have these conversations in hushed tones or in private; create a foundation of death positivity that’s strong enough to stand on.
What does it mean to die?
“Being dead means they can’t breathe, speak, smell, hear, think, or move anymore.”
“When someone dies, they are no longer alive. We can’t talk to them, see them, or hear them anymore.”
Avoid saying touching them, as you might find yourself at home with a body, at an open-casket viewing, or in another circumstance where people will be handling the deceased. Please do not instill fear of the dead into your child, and be mindful that (for the most part) dead bodies are not dangerous. Someone they know might even work with them.
“We all have our own lives, and dying is what happens at the end of them.”
This is a great opportunity to open a conversation with your little about what kinds of things they expect from a happy, healthy, and safe life. We can encourage boundaries as behaviors of our own, not ways to control others. This is also a great space to foster dialogue that encourages a strong sense of self.
What happens if the death is unexpected?
Sometimes people die before we’re able to have effective conversations around death and dying with our kids. In these moments, it’s imperative to find somewhere outside of where the child frequents to inform them of the loss. Instead of telling them at home or in the car, take them somewhere different to avoid any conflation between their experience and their space. Again, be honest with them, remind them that not everybody who dies is sick, and allow them to see your emotions too.
What happens if the death is traumatic?
Whether it be a prolonged illness, a tragic event, or suicide, death doesn’t always keep itself folded neatly together. Oftentimes we see our loved ones or community members enter into remission, begin promising new therapies, or have their “turn-around” moment. Children struggle with object permanence as it’s agreed to be a developmental skill, and that also applies to their loved ones’ well-being. As a good and thoughtful parent, it is another one of the many things you will help your child develop over time.
Can I avoid traumatizing my child if someone they know is sick and dying?
Yes! Remind them consistently that they are sick. If they are terminally ill and on hospice, they have been given a diagnosis from a doctor that they have six months or less to live. Sometimes hospice patients remain on hospice for over a year! Remind your child that their life is ending because of their illness and that it will take time. Show them it is not random; it is coming, and time moves both slowly and quickly. Children will understand a “good day” versus a “bad day” and will understand that sometimes the dying may be “more sick” or “less sick” depending on when you see or hear from them.
Is there a way to explain suicide to my child?
SECTION ELEVEN will be exclusively about suicide, but here I will remind you to keep it simple. Teach your child that there is a disorder that makes being alive really difficult. It’s survivable; there is always help, but there is not always prevention, and sometimes our disabilities are invisible. It’s a confusing thing for adults to experience, so don’t expect anything less from a child.
The Rabbit Listened is an excellent book I recommend you read with your recently bereaved child.
MIDDLE & HIGH SCHOOL
By now, your child has probably had some experience with death. If they haven’t lost somebody firsthand, they absolutely know somebody who has. If the deaths they have proximity to are recent, bring them up. Ask how they’re feeling about it, if they’ve given any thought to their own death, or if they have any questions! Remind them that you’ve experienced loss in your own life, know people who’ve also experienced it, and that it’s a totally normal thing to happen. There is no bad time to bring up death or a loved one you’re grieving, and make that known in your home. Whoever it is, from the puppy to the neighbor, it’s never a bad time to reiterate that we often don’t get to choose when or how we die—but we can prepare and plan for afterwards.
ADULT CHILDREN
Do you know what your kids want done after they die? Have you had open conversations with them about what you want done after you die? This can be an extremely difficult conversation to have with anybody—especially your children. Give each other the gift of preparedness so when the time comes, you’re able to experience the death as the beginning of your grieving process rather than the catalyst to it.
If nobody has told you, let me be the first: You may outlive your kid. When is the last time you asked your child how they want their body disposed of? Do you know what kind of, if any, end-of-life gathering they’d like? How do you make sure your child knows what your end-of-life plans are? Can you change your own plans after they’ve been made? What about exes? Who’s NOT allowed to come to the funeral? When my mom was dying, I made a point to ask her what her end-of-life plans and wishes were every few months.
Advance directives include written, legal instructions that state the treatment you want for medical conditions when you're unable to make decisions for yourself. These plans change, and they can change fast! Check in with your kids (even if you don’t get the legal paperwork done), and make sure you’re all on the same page.
Pun intended.
It’s important to know that “recently bereaved” is defined in The Handbook as “having experienced a death in this life or the last.” If you know someone who may be recently bereaved; a new section in The Handbook will appear every Monday, read by
.It is free to subscribe for the living. If you have already died, please know post-mortem subscriptions to The Handbook are processed in San Francisco.