By: Lisa Tanner
“Why does death bother me so much? Perhaps it’s the time we have. Melnick suggests the soul is eternal, living on after the body fades, but if my soul exists without my body, I can’t shake the feeling that all my clothes will be too big. Oh, well…” — Inspired by Woody Allen.
You might think I would have been ready for my 8-year-old son Max’s first—and frankly, profound—existential dilemma. I have a knack for worrying; I could easily win any contest on “Did you remember to grab a jacket?” but grappling with mortality is my forte. After watching Harold and Maude at the tender age of 7, I became a master at glancing around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Death lurking just outside my peripheral vision, tapping his foot impatiently as he monitored my every milestone—from kindergarten graduation to my driver’s test, to that time I almost lost my sight from sulphur smoke atop a volcano in Italy. If it wasn’t Death himself, it was certainly someone ready to wreak havoc.
Becoming a parent didn’t dial down my anxiety; it only amplified it. Now, I was the CEO of worry, tasked with safeguarding two delicate lives. I saw danger everywhere but tried to keep my fears under wraps, letting them play out in silence. I wanted my children to cultivate their own worries, not just inherit mine.
One evening, Max, his younger sister Mia, and I were visiting friends in California. My husband was back in New York. We had just spent five jam-packed days at a family reunion and had gone all out at Disneyland for 14 hours. After three flights and sleeping in three different places within a week, we were exhausted, but thankfully, no planes had crashed, no creepy spiders had emerged from hotel mattresses, and no one had slipped out of their harness on a ride. All was well.
It was way past bedtime, and Mia was fast asleep on the sofa bed in the guest room. I was in the living room trying to catch up with a dear friend I only see every couple of years. Her daughter was also sound asleep. I assumed Max was tucked in bed beside Mia, his limbs tangled in the sheets. Suddenly, the sound of bare feet against hardwood floor interrupted my thoughts.
“Mom, I can’t sleep,” he announced.
“Max, you haven’t even tried,” I replied.
“Yes, I have! I just can’t sleep,” he insisted.
“You’ve only been in bed for five minutes! That’s not ‘trying,’ that’s just waiting to get up!”
“But Mom—”
“Back to bed.”
Another sigh, a stomp, and a few more groans later, he trailed off back down the hall. Five minutes passed before he re-emerged. Then again. For an hour, he paced back and forth between the guest room and the living room. I was frustrated and slammed my wine glass down, giving my friend the classic Mom eye-roll before storming into the bedroom, ready for a showdown.
Max was sitting upright in bed, knees drawn to his chest, eyes wide with a somber expression. I exhaled my irritation, squeezed in beside him, and wrapped my arms around his small shoulders. “What’s going on, buddy?”
Before I dive deeper into our conversation, let me provide some context about my son. Like his father and me, he possesses an old soul. He taught himself to read at 3, devoured Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone at 4, and had been rushed to the emergency room multiple times with breathing issues, describing his asthma as an “electric flying machine with blades in my chest.” He once solemnly officiated a goldfish funeral on our stoop and managed to process the loss of Dumbledore at a young age. Tragically, he had also lost two grandparents before turning six.
When Max was four, we tragically lost his grandfather after a heart attack during their Christmas visit. We took him to a park, sat under the winter sun, and explained that “Grandpa” had passed away. He blinked a few times, then simply asked, “What happened to his body?” We explained about coffins and burials, and he quickly changed the subject to his hunger.
Things went relatively well after that, thanks to his beloved grandmother. I believe Max was closer to her than to either of us. Their bond was precious, filled with snuggles and laughter. So, on his sixth birthday, when I had to tell him that Grandma was going to die due to an inoperable brain tumor, I saw a look in his eyes that I hope to never witness again. It was a blend of sorrow and acceptance, a moment that would stick with me forever.
He asked about her body, and we discussed cremation. He expressed skepticism about her going to Heaven, understanding that she believed in it, but not sharing the same belief. Together, we sprinkled some of her ashes at his grandfather’s grave, and later, he watched his father release some into the serene waters of Lake Tahoe.
Max seemed to grapple with the concept of mortality better than I did. I have enjoyed good health for most of my life (knock on wood), with parents in their late 70s and a grandmother who lived to 87. Yet, I often find myself worrying excessively about the possibility of sudden illness.
That evening, I was curious about what was troubling him. I anticipated typical childhood complaints—perhaps a gaming question or some perceived injustice.
“I don’t know if I should tell you,” he said, glancing at his sister, who was blissfully snoring nearby.
“You can share anything with me, Max. Are you upset about something?” I encouraged him.
He hesitated for a moment. “I’m too embarrassed,” he murmured.
Alarm bells went off in my head; my instincts told me he was about to reveal something serious. I maintained my calm demeanor. “Did something happen that you want to discuss? It’s okay to tell me.”
Tears welled up in his eyes. “I’m just… I guess I’m upset that one day everyone I love will die.”
He paused, looking to me for a response. I couldn’t help but laugh, albeit awkwardly. “That’s what’s bothering you?” I asked, surprised.
He nodded, uncertain about my laughter. I pulled him close, hugging him tightly, the kind of embrace that conveys a depth of love. I acknowledged his concern: “You’re right. Everyone you love will eventually pass away, and there’s nothing we can do to change that.”
“It’s sad, though,” he replied, almost as if seeking affirmation.
“Yes, it is immensely sad,” I said. “It’s tough to accept. But since we can’t change it, we must make the most of our time together—filling our days with fun, love, and happiness.”
Here I was, a mom who lays awake at night worrying about the most unlikely dangers, trying to reassure my son about the inevitable.
I’m not sure why Max’s mind was heavy with this thought that particular night. Did I handle it poorly? Possibly. Did it help him? I can’t say for sure. Yet, speaking the truth aloud made me realize he was right: the hours may stretch long, and our clothes may feel loose in the end, but we must embrace every moment we have.
“Now, get some rest,” I said, spooning with him for a few minutes before kissing his ear. He drifted off to sleep.
I returned to the living room, hugged my friend, and bid her goodnight. When I came back to the bedroom, Max was sprawled out, his hair tousled and limbs askew. I nestled between my kids, listening to their rhythmic breathing, and stared at the ceiling, pondering the complexities of life.
For more insights on parenting and topics like this, check out our post on Cervical Insemination. If you’re considering at-home insemination, Make A Mom offers a great selection of syringe kits. And for further guidance on pregnancy and insemination, Hopkins Medicine is an excellent resource.
In summary, navigating the topic of mortality with young children can be daunting, yet it opens the door to meaningful conversations about love, loss, and cherishing the moments we have together.
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