She hadn't passed...yet. But one morning, I stepped out of the shower. I had been crying. Crying for the moments I would never have anymore and crying for the moments and memories my children would never have with their Babci. In that moment I could feel her hug. I could feel her arms around me. I stood in my towel and cried, not wanting the moment to end, not wanting to let go, not wanting her to leave.
Many days, maybe a few weeks later, after she had been admitted to hospice, I was in a rush to get the house clean. The kids has been napping for an hour, and I was running around the house putting away toys, clothes, cleaning dishes, and making sure the house was in order. One of my best friends was coming to visit with her two girls, and she was bringing the dog as well. In the midst of my chaos, my mother called and gave me the news I knew had been coming for weeks.
"Your grandma passed away 10 minutes ago," she said. I knew it was coming.
I had known for a long time.
Grandma had decided to go to Texas before Christmas even though she had been sick from chemotherapy, even though the cancer had started to spread again, even though no one wanted her to go. She had gotten sick while there and was admitted to the hospital for tests and observations. After finding out the cancer had indeed spread to her liver and she had blockages in her intestines (she opted for no surgery), she was out of options and had been moved to hospice at my aunt's house just 8 days prior to passing.
None of this mattered as I asked what I could do and what arrangements were being made.
My friend came, and I put on a brave face while she was here, but two days later the door closed and she pulled out of the driveway. Tired washed over me like a large ocean wave knocking me off my feet. It hit me over and over and over again. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to curl up in my white fluffy, down comforter, turn on the heating pad, and fall asleep for days. I was thankful when my son asked to watch the movie Brave. He and his sister ate lunch and watched the movie. The moment it was over they went down for a nap and I curled up in my bed ready for sleep to take me away to happier dreams.
My kids were 1 and almost 3 at the time. Both of them keenly aware of the world around them. My 3 year old knew all his relatives and talked about them often. We visited Babci ever 4-6 weeks. He knew who she was, remembered her, and could tell you about her house. What was I suppose to tell him? Many people would have not said anything to kids so little. They would have skirted the subject, gone to the funeral (while hiring a babysitter), and that would have been that. Life would move onward. But I couldn't do that to my oldest. I couldn't make up something else or change the subject when her name would come up. So in the days leading up to the funeral I told him the truth.
I asked if he remembered Babci. "Yes," he replied. "What do you remember about her?" I asked. "I play music Babci house," He stated excitedly. "Oh, you play the music boxes?" I inquired. "Yes! I run, run to her bedroom, turn on all the music boxes," he told me. I knew he remembered her. I knew what I had to tell him.
We discussed how Babci had been sick and how she went to heaven. I told him she wasn't in pain anymore (to which he replied "she no sick, we go Babci's house. We see Babci!") We discussed what it means to die and that we could not see her anymore, she would not breathe or play with us. I told her she was all done (for some reason he has equated "all done" to death before so I went with it). I told him we had to say good-bye to her. Over the following days we discussed bits and parts of this conversation, and sometimes all of it. Each time he sat with me, quiet. When I asked what was wrong, he said, "I sad". "Why?" I asked. "Because I miss her," he told me. I knew he got it. I knew he understood. "It's okay to be sad," I would tell him. "We have to remember Babci. We can think of her and talk about her whenever you want."
My husband and I were making arrangements for me to go to the wake, the day before the funeral, and to spend the day with my family. He asked what the plan was and when he should show up with the kids. I told him to be at the church at 9am on Saturday. The final viewing would be for an hour at 9:30 and I wanted Robert to say good-bye. He opened his mouth to speak, but before any words could leave his tongue, I stated that this was not a topic up for discussion. Our son would say good-bye to his great-grandma and there would be no other way about it.
I spent Friday with my family and away from my kids. We discussed and cleaned and made plans. It was a needed day of grieving. When you are a mom, life goes on. Big events happen and you can't stop feeding/watching/running after your kids and grieve. You can't stop doing. Life forces you to keep going, but that doesn't mean you don't need time, time to say good-bye, time to remember, time to do nothing. You just have to find it, somehow. I found it in the little moments- before I would go grocery shopping or when I would pull into my driveway, when I would look in the mirror and put on my makeup. It took me longer that way, grieving did. But it still happened and it hasn't stopped yet. It won't. My friend told me there would be things that would trigger the sadness, things I didn't even think would make me sad. She was right and I know I'm only in the beginning.
On Saturday morning I met my kids at the church. I took my son and we went to see Babci. He wasn't scared, he didn't ask questions. He simply looked on while I spoke quietly in his ear. I told him what we had talked about- that Babci had died and she was not alive. Her life was all done. I told him to say good-bye. He was fine, nothing seemed to phase him. The rest of the hour he was happy to run and socialize and find sweets placed on the counter in the coat room. My daughter walked around and entertained everyone by waving and smiling. Many people said she looked like her great-grandma.
He stayed with us during the funeral, happily crawling across the pew to aunts and uncles and cousins. The woman behind me played finger games with him and within a few minutes the sound of laughter was filling the church. When my husband tried to quiet him the woman stated "I'm playing games with him. It's nice to hear laughter at a funeral."
I bought a book on Monday, The Invisible String (it has yet to arrive). We will read it when it gets here. My daughter will not remember her Babci but maybe my son will know something of her. We will continue to talk about Babci and what a wonderful, loving, selfless woman she was. We will be reminded of her presence in our hearts by her music boxes that we play each night.
I would not have had it any other way. If I had to say weather to bring your children to a funeral of a close relative or not, yes would be my answer. Prepare them. Do your homework. Talk about that person frequently. Let your child say good-bye. Bringing children to a variety of events is how they learn to behave. It's how they learn. Funerals are not an exception to the rule. They are an opportunity to discuss death with your child.
*One word of caution. Do not tell your child that someone who has died has "fallen asleep." This will not lead to smooth bedtimes for you.*
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