“What is it about death that troubles me so much? Probably the hours. Melnick says the soul is immortal and lives on after the body passes, but if my soul exists without my body, I’m convinced all my clothes will be too big. Oh, well…” — Woody Allen
You’d think I would have been more prepared for my 8-year-old son, Noah’s, first serious existential crisis. I have a black belt in anxiety and could easily win any “Did you remember to bring a jacket?” competition, but pondering mortality is my forte. Since watching Harold and Maude at a young age, I’ve become adept at glancing around, hoping to spot Death lurking just out of sight. I’ve always sensed Him nearby, impatiently tapping His foot, glancing at His watch during significant moments—kindergarten graduations, driving tests, and even that time I was disoriented by sulfur fumes atop a volcano in Italy. If not Death himself, then surely whoever is responsible for a good injury.
Becoming a parent didn’t trigger a carefree disposition in me; it intensified my worries. I became the CEO of anxiety, responsible for safeguarding two delicate beings. I perceived danger everywhere but kept my fears largely to myself, allowing them to play on a silent loop in my mind. I wanted my children to forge their own concerns, not simply inherit mine.
One evening, Noah, his younger sister, and I were visiting friends in California while my husband remained in New York. After a full week of family reunions and an exhilarating 14 hours at Disneyland, we were exhausted. Thankfully, everything was fine—no plane crashes, no creepy crawlies from hotel beds, and no accidents on rides. We had made it through the day intact.
It was past bedtime, and my daughter was sound asleep on the sofa bed in the guest room. I was in the living room trying to catch up with a dear friend. I thought Noah was settled in next to his sister, but then I heard the unmistakable sound of bare feet on the wooden floor.
“Mom, I can’t sleep.”
“Noah, you haven’t even tried,” I replied.
“Yes, I have! I just can’t sleep.”
“You’ve been in bed for five minutes. That’s not ‘trying.’ That’s just waiting until you can get up again.”
“But, Mom—”
“Back to bed.”
He sighed and stomped back down the hall. This back-and-forth continued for an hour, with Noah pacing between the guest room and the living room. Frustrated, I put down my glass of wine and shot my friend a knowing look before heading to the bedroom, ready for a showdown.
Noah sat up in bed, knees drawn to his chest, his expression forlorn. I exhaled, squeezed in beside him, and wrapped my arms around his small frame. “What’s bothering you, buddy?”
Before I share our conversation, it’s important to note Noah’s unique personality. He possesses an old soul, having taught himself to read at age 3 and tackled complex topics as young as 4. He has dealt with his share of trauma, including asthma attacks that he humorously describes as an “electric flying machine with blades in my chest.” He even officiated a goldfish funeral and has grieved the loss of two grandparents by age 6.
When Noah was just 4, we experienced a sudden loss when my father-in-law passed away. We explained death to him in simple terms, and after a moment of contemplation, he simply asked, “What happened to his body?” We described burial, and then he quickly stated he was hungry.
Things seemed manageable until we had to tell him about my mother-in-law’s terminal illness. On his sixth birthday, when I explained that Nana had a brain tumor, his expression shifted in a way I’ll never forget. He processed the information maturely, asking where her body would go. We discussed cremation, and Noah shared his thoughts on heaven, which he didn’t believe in, but he hoped for Nana’s sake that it was real.
That night, I waited for Noah to voice his concerns, anticipating the typical childhood complaints about video games or fairness.
“I don’t know if I should tell you,” he finally said, glancing nervously at his sleeping sister.
“You can tell me anything, sweetie. Are you upset about something?”
After a moment of hesitation, he admitted, “I’m too embarrassed.”
My maternal instincts kicked in, and I braced myself for something serious.
“Did something happen that you want to share? It’s okay to talk about it.”
His eyes glistened with tears.
“It’s just that… I’m upset that one day, everyone I love has to die.”
I was taken aback and burst out laughing, then quickly realized I might have misread the situation. “That’s what’s troubling you?” I asked, surprised.
He nodded, looking relieved yet unsure about my reaction. I hugged him tightly, conveying how much I cherished him, and confirmed that yes, everyone he loves will eventually pass away, and there’s nothing we can do about it.
“It’s sad though,” he said, almost as if seeking confirmation.
“Yes, it is. It’s incredibly sad and difficult to accept. But it’s a part of life, and we should focus on making the most of our time together. We need to create joy, love one another, and strive to be happy.”
This from someone who often lies awake, fearing that her children might tumble from the roof deck—one that they haven’t lived in since 2011.
I’m not sure what prompted Noah’s heavy heart that night. Did I mishandle the situation? Perhaps. Did it help him? I don’t know. But voicing the truth made me realize the inevitability of loss. Life can be long, and our clothes might not fit, but we must embrace every moment. I hope I handled Noah’s grief surrounding Nana well. I believe my husband and I managed discussions about reincarnation and cremation as best we could.
As we settled down, Noah fell into a deep sleep, and I joined my children, listening to their gentle breathing while contemplating the ceiling for what felt like an eternity.
In moments of reflection like these, understanding the complexities of life and death can help us navigate our family journeys. For more insights on home insemination and fertility, check out resources at Make a Mom and March of Dimes for invaluable support.
Summary
This article explores the poignant moment when a child confronts the reality of mortality and how a parent navigates that conversation. Through a heartfelt exchange, the mother reflects on her own anxieties and the importance of cherishing every moment with loved ones while acknowledging life’s inevitable challenges.
Keyphrase: mortality and parenting
Tags: [“home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”]