My daughter, Lily, came into the world in 2011, just a few years after my mother passed away from pancreatic cancer. From the moment I held her, with her fuzzy newborn hair and chubby cheeks, I felt an overwhelming desire for her to know about my mom—who she was, the love she gave, and the impact she had on my life. So, I began sharing stories as soon as I thought Lily could comprehend them. However, I never considered what questions might arise as she grew.
When Lily turned five, I was already feeling like a parenting failure. It was then that my wise friend Clara, a seasoned educator, imparted the best advice I’d ever received: always answer kids’ questions truthfully, but avoid overwhelming them with information before they’re ready.
Then came a moment in the grocery line at Trader Joe’s when Lily casually blurted out, “Your mom is dead!” I nodded, trying to maintain my composure. But she quickly followed up with, “But where is she?” I fumbled with my words, attempting to explain the differing beliefs about heaven held by my in-laws versus my own views. I told her that my mom believed in the laws of nature and that she might find her spirit in the branches of trees, the rays of sunlight, and the fresh green leaves. This was just the first of many challenging discussions.
In my eagerness to share the memory of a woman who would have loved Lily fiercely, I inadvertently created a child who felt comfortable discussing death. “Your grandma isn’t coming back, and you can’t hear her voice,” she declared to the UPS delivery driver one day.
Despite her candid remarks about mortality, it took nearly two years before she posed the question I dreaded: “Mom, how did your mom die?” The question came one day as we drove home from school, her little voice breaking through my thoughts. I replied, “Her body got very sick, but it’s not like a cold. It’s a different kind of sickness, one that mostly affects grown-ups when they’re very old.”
Deep down, I felt the weight of my words, knowing full well the stories I had seen online with hashtags like #FightingCancer. I added, “When someone gets that sick, sometimes their body just stops working.”
But then she hit me with another question: “Is one day your body going to get sick and stop working?” Defeated, I replied, “Probably not.” I couldn’t bring myself to offer false reassurances.
“Will I die?” she asked, her youthful innocence piercing through my heart. “Everything has a beginning, middle, and end,” I explained. “But you’re just at the beginning, and the end won’t come for a long time.”
For a moment, she sat quietly, absorbing my words. Finally, she broke the silence: “Mom? Can I roll down my window?”
I want my children to know all about their grandmother, yet I also wish to reassure them that my fate won’t mirror hers. But as much as I want to shield them from fear, I realize I can only navigate these tough conversations, responding with honesty and providing comfort when needed. Meanwhile, I strive to create lasting memories that will be shared with their future children—even if I’m not around to see it. I might yell a little too loudly when they jump on the couch or surprise them with toys that contribute to consumer culture, but we also splash in puddles during rainy walks in Los Angeles.
We are living—this is what matters most while we’re here.
Emily Harrison
Excerpted from The Lost Mothers Society: Reflections on Grief, Love, and Life’s Uncertainties by Emily Harrison. Copyright © 2023. Available from Modern Family Blog.