My kids’ great grandmother passed away at the age of 97 last month. Though her memory was sparse and undependable, the faces of my children were never lost on her. Great grandma always lit up when she saw my kids, 5 and 3 years old.
“You’re here!” she’d squeal with delight, even if she couldn’t remember their names.
Great grandma was mostly confined to her bed the last few years of her life. She often refused to even sit up and eat. Not even the sharpest diatribe could get her out of bed. But the persistent yet gentle coaxing of my 3-year-old often did. Their impact on great grandma’s life was big; bigger than the impact she had on them, I wrongly assumed.
Even though we visited her every Sunday for as long as my children have been alive, she slept most of the time and her interaction with my kids were not more than five words a week. When we were at her retirement home, a 700-square-foot space with no toys, all my kids ever did was complain that they wanted to go home. But the loss of great grandma had a profound effect on them, especially my 3-year-old, who seemed to be great grandma’s favorite. She was the baby of the family.
It’s been several weeks since she passed away, and my 3-year-old will sporadically tell me she misses great grandma while grocery shopping with me, doting on her dolls or brushing her teeth. And great grandma is in every single prayer, sometimes she is the only topic of her prayers.
“Dear God, I don’t know where great grandma is, but she’s with you in heaven. Please be with her and make her feel better. Amen.” She’ll pray.
“Mommy, if I want to talk to her, I can talk to her through my heart right?” She has asked.
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Nor, is the concept of death easy for her 3-year-old mind to grasp. When great grandma passed away, my husband and I explained to her that she went to heaven. (It’s important not to use euphemisms, like ‘fallen asleep’ or ‘taken away.’ But life after death in heaven is our belief so we don’t consider reference to heaven a euphemism). The morning of the funeral, we explained that we were going to say good-bye to grandma for the last time.
When we drove up to the wrought iron gates of Forrest Lawn with sprawling green lawns that stretched upwards for miles, my youngest daughter looked at me quizzically and asked, “This is heaven?”
Her little, or rather big mind, has been working over time lately to connect disconnected dots. She hasn’t been able to verbalize all of her fears, doubts or confusions, but they’ve manifested in visible ways.
For the past few weeks, she’s been refusing to go to school, saying she will miss me, becoming frantic when I leave. I’ve wondered if perhaps this was her way of expressing the fear that I, too, may not come back.
One particular morning, I stayed with her a while in class and held up her face while looking into her tear-filled eyes. She didn’t want me to leave. I took her outside and walked with her. I took her back in class and held her hand while the teacher read a story. I helped them distribute the crafts for class. Afterwards, she looked at me and reluctantly told me I could go now but to be sure to come back to pick her up after nap time.
It has since become a routine we’ve repeated for two weeks now. While I am concerned I may be disrupting class, or setting a bad precedent for future good-byes, the inkling that she may be grappling with a concept too complicated to dissect makes me stay.
I’ve read many articles and books - and even written about how to help children cope with loss. But none of it is that comforting, to be honest. We can’t promise our children that we will always be around. No guarantee that one day mommy and daddy won’t be gone too. No way to video-chat with great grandma and tell her it’s time to eat.
The only thing I can do is to hold her a little more, be patient with her, answer questions, and listen to her as she copes with the bewildering reality that is loss.
I figure if time heals all wounds then it’s more time I need to give her.