“What is it about death that troubles me so much? Perhaps it’s the hours. Melnick suggests that the soul is eternal and continues to exist after the body fades away, but if my soul is to exist without my body, I can’t help but think all my clothes will be baggy. Oh well…” — Woody Allen, Selections from the Allen Notebooks, Without Feathers.
You might assume I’d be more equipped to handle my 8-year-old son Leo’s first—and frankly, very serious—existential crisis. I have a PhD in worrying. I could easily win any “Did you bring a jacket?” competition, but when it comes to mortality, I excel. I watched Harold and Maude at age 7, and since then I’ve perfected the art of darting my gaze around, hoping to catch Death lurking just out of sight. I always sensed Him there, tapping His foot impatiently, peering at His watch during my kindergarten ceremony, as I took my driver’s test, or even when I was enveloped in sulphur smoke atop a volcano in Italy. If it wasn’t Death himself, then surely whoever is in charge of a good maiming.
Becoming a parent didn’t awaken a carefree spirit within me; it only amplified my fears. Suddenly, I was the head honcho of anxiety, tasked with overseeing two delicate beings. Danger lurked everywhere, but I tried to keep it bottled up inside, hoping my children would cultivate their own worries instead of adopting mine.
That evening, Leo, his younger sister Mia, and I were visiting friends in sunny California while my husband remained back in New York. We had just wrapped up a family reunion and spent an exhilarating 14 hours at Disneyland. Three flights and three different sleeping arrangements in a week had us worn out, but still, no planes had gone down, no creepy spiders had emerged from hotel beds, and no one had fallen out of their harness on Space Mountain. All was well.
As bedtime crept in, my daughter was deep in slumber on the sofa bed in the guest room. I was in the living room attempting to enjoy a rare chat with my dear friend, whom I see once every couple of years if luck is on our side. Her daughter was sound asleep, and I thought Leo was nestled beside Mia, his legs intertwined in the sheets. But then came the unmistakable sound of bare feet on hardwood.
“Mom, I can’t sleep.”
“Leo, 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 to get up again.”
“But Mom—”
“Back to bed.”
“But Mom—”
“Back. To. Bed.”
Leo’s sighs, stomps, and dramatic groans faded as he retreated down the hall and into the dark room. Five minutes later, he emerged again. And again. For an hour, he created a well-worn path between the guest room and the living room. My irritation grew. I set my wine glass down, exchanged a knowing look with my friend, and marched to the bedroom, ready for a showdown.
Leo was sitting up in bed, knees drawn to his chest, wide-eyed and forlorn. He let out a sigh that seemed to belong to a weary adult. I took a breath, squeezed in next to him, wrapped my arms around his slight shoulders, and gave him a gentle scratch on the scalp. “What’s bothering you, buddy?”
Before diving into our conversation, it’s important to note that Leo has always been wise beyond his years. Much like his father and me, he possesses a mature outlook on life. He learned to read at 3, devoured Harry Potter by age 4, and has faced health challenges more times than I can count. He even conducted a solemn fish funeral on our stoop and processed Dumbledore’s fate with remarkable clarity. By age 6, he had already lost two cherished grandparents.
When Leo was 4, we lost his grandfather unexpectedly. After a family Christmas, we sat with him in Prospect Park, explaining that “Ba” had died and wouldn’t be coming back. He blinked, then asked, “What happened to his body?” We explained burial, and after a brief pause, he said he was hungry, and we went home.
Things seemed manageable after that because he still had Nana. Their bond was something special, filled with laughter and joy. So, when I had to tell him on his sixth birthday that Nana wouldn’t be with us much longer due to a brain tumor, his expression changed in a way I never want to witness again. It was as if sorrow hit him all at once, but he quickly gathered himself and returned to childhood.
He asked where Nana’s body would go, and we talked about cremation. He expressed doubt about her going to Heaven since he didn’t believe in it, but he hoped for her sake she would, given her strong belief. He even helped us sprinkle some of her ashes at Ba’s grave. Later, he watched as my husband released some into Lake Tahoe’s waters.
Leo seemed to handle mortality better than I did. I have enjoyed good health for most of my life, while my parents are still going strong in their late 70s and early 80s. Yet, I spend an inordinate amount of time worrying that today might be the day I receive terrible news about my health.
That night, as I tried to unwind, I waited for Leo to share what had him tossing and turning. I expected complaints about games or perceived unfairness.
“I don’t know if I should tell you,” he said, glancing at his sister, who was snoring peacefully.
“You can tell me anything, bud. Are you upset about something?”
After a brief pause, he muttered, “I’m too embarrassed.”
My parental instincts kicked in. My son was about to disclose something truly troubling, and I steeled myself for bad news.
“Did something happen that you want to talk about? You can tell me,” I reassured him.
Tears welled up in his eyes.
“It’s just that… I don’t know. I’m upset that one day everyone I love has to die.”
He paused, looking at me as if waiting for a response. I couldn’t help but chuckle, my laughter startling even me. “That’s what you’re worried about?” I exclaimed.
He nodded solemnly, clearly unsure of my reaction. I pulled him close, enveloping him in a big hug, the kind that feels like trying to merge into one being because of the love I felt for him. “You’re right, buddy. Everyone you love will eventually die, and there’s nothing we can do to change that.”
“It’s sad though,” he said, almost as if seeking confirmation.
“Yes, it truly is. It’s sad, and it’s hard to accept. But since it’s a reality we can’t alter, it’s even more important to savor every moment together. We need to love each other deeply and enjoy life.”
This from the woman who lies awake at night fearing her children might leap from the edge of a rooftop deck they haven’t lived on since 2011.
I’m still unsure why Leo’s heart weighed heavy with that particular concern that night. Did I say the wrong thing? Most likely. Did it help him? I can’t say. But saying it out loud made me acknowledge a hard truth: The hours may stretch long, our clothes may feel ill-fitting, but that’s just how life goes. I like to think I did a decent job explaining Nana’s situation to Leo. I believe I also managed well when he missed her, six months or even a year later, when we’d share memories of her incredible chocolate chip cookies. My husband and I did our best discussing reincarnation and how some prefer cremation.
But that night, I reacted like a teenager—awkward and a bit of a jerk—because Leo wasn’t worried about the improbable dangers that plagued my mind. He was confronting the undeniable reality we all face: that one day, we will be apart. He stared squarely at that truth while I sought to dodge it from every angle. Leo had pinpointed the one certainty in life, the one thing we can’t shield each other from.
“Now, get some rest.” We cuddled for a while, I kissed his ear, and he soon drifted off to sleep.
I tiptoed back to the living room, gave my friend a hug, and bid her goodnight. When I returned to the bedroom, Leo was sprawled out, his hair a tousled mess. I nestled between my children, listening to the soothing rhythm of their breaths, staring at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity.
In summary, this experience with my son highlighted the importance of being present and cherishing our time together, despite my deep-seated worries about mortality. While we may not have control over life’s inevitable truths, we can focus on creating joyful moments and strengthening our bonds.
Keyphrase: My Son Came to Terms with Mortality
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