Topics like death and serious illness can feel tricky to talk about with kids. I understand why parents have the instinct to hide it or avoid the subject with their own kids. I think it comes from wanting to protect your children from worry or anxieties around the loss of their loved ones, including yourself as their parent.
It feels like such a large and overwhelming subject for such a tiny heart. But our kids are more resilient than we often give them credit for.
I have had a few advantages when discussing death with my kids. First, our conversations have been largely theoretical. Two, we have animals like cats and chickens that have died, so it introduces the concept. Thirdly, in my culture, we practice Dia de los Muertos. It’s a day of honoring our loved ones that have passed. We fill the ofrenda with pictures, and we talk about our passed loved ones to the kids often. We talk about the strength and the legacies of perseverance that have come from our ancestors.
They certainly went through the expected fears of realizing that one day I myself would die like every living thing. This came around the time they were four or five years old. My answer was simple but as reassuring as possible. “No one really knows when our time will come, but hopefully when I’m 100 years old.”
I won’t lie to my children and tell them that I won’t die or that I’ll not die until they are old and gray. I phrase it carefully to let them know that I want to be around them for as long as possible and that I am working on what I can control to do that. It seems to have satisfied their curiosities.
They also asked me what happens to us when we die. In our family, we have chosen to say that we go back to the universe, where we all come from. Every family will have their own version of this. Some will call it Heaven, some will say that we don’t know, and some will say that it’s finite but that our loved ones live on in our memories. There is no wrong answer, in my opinion.
After the many questions that I answered patiently and as truthfully as possible, they simply moved on. They don’t fixate on death or talk about it with much anxiety. I was grateful for those conversations with my kids about this because then came the moment I had been dreading. My Saint Bernard named Goliath, who I had cared for and raised since he was only two months old, died at the age of 12 and a half years old. It was a remarkable age for the breed, but it wasn’t enough time.
I had to tell my daughters that just as we had discussed, Goliath’s body was too tired, and he was ready to go back to the universe. They cried and made him artwork. They said their goodbyes and thank yous.
When I thought about this day, I prayed for the chance to say bye. For the opportunity to be home and be with him when his time came, my kids could say bye and have some closure. I got all I prayed for, yet I was completely wrecked.
I took it the hardest. I couldn’t stop crying, and I couldn’t meet my social or work obligations. I couldn’t do anything except mourn the loss of my dog, whom I had loved so fiercely and who had been a part of my life through so much. My kids saw their mom fall apart. I never expected that I would or could ever fall apart about anything in front of my kids, much less saying goodbyes to my senior dog.
My kids were so calm and understanding. They spoke soothingly about how Goliath had been my companion through life and that it was understandable that I was so sad. They repeated words I had myself told them, such as “Goodbyes are hard” and “It’s ok to be sad.”
They made drawings of him and shared memories, organized a memorial in our yard, and said lovely prayers for him. I saw how they understood that he was gone and not coming back and that we could honor his life and the gifts he gave us. They viewed the experience of his passing as an opportunity to be grateful for the time they had with him and the love he shared with them.
I was so proud of their strength, bravery, and perseverance, even in their own grieving and even when I couldn’t help carry their sadness.
Goliath was the ultimate girl dad, the best friend that anyone could hope for, and the backbone of the family, as my sister lovingly joked. I miss him daily, but he’ll live forever in our hearts. And these girls who he welcomed home from their births until they were almost six and eight will never forget him. And what more can any of us hope for? They are already planning his ofrenda treats.
