GriefNet Library: Children and Grief
GRIEF AND WHO'S WHO IN THE FAMILY
by
Susan Gail Bennett
Four days before Christmas '88 found me baking cookies at the
school. I had only two hours to hustle my 12 year old son, Jim, through
his paper route and drive to church 1/2 hour away. From there I would
deposit three different boys at three different locations at three
different times and then go back and pick them all up while grabbing
hamburgers somewhere in the middle. My body was racing to keep up with
my mind which was racing to stay on top of a schedule which was not
falling into place. Nonetheless the flurry was one of cheer.
I drove 12 year old Jim to the paper drop only to find his papers
were not there. Fortunately, my friend, Carol, lived two doors away
where I used the phone. Waiting for the papers to arrive gave Carol and
me a chance to chat. Casually she mentioned, "We've just been watching
this news flash about a plane that crashed over Scotland. It was
supposed to land in Detroit at midnight." The fear that every wife
dreads must have been written all over my face. I froze with fear.
Hesitantly, she asked, "You weren't expecting anyone in tonight, were
you?" Time stood still. I could barely whisper, "Larry is due to arrive
just after midnight."
The steering wheel steadied my shaking hands. The boys could not
see the terror churning inside me. Not now anyway. The holiday schedule
that had so preoccupied my mind evaporated. My mind that minutes ago
raced to keep on top of a timetable now raced with life and death. "Keep
calm. Get some information first. Go home and call the office. Find
his travel voucher. Carol said it was flight 103." But, the logical
questions in my mind were pursued by others. My heart raced to know, "Is
he dead? Maybe he survived. Is he in pain? I don't want him to die.
How badly is he hurt? I don't want to be alone. Larry, what's happening
to you? Where are you? Talk to me....."
When we arrived home, everything was the same. The house was a
torrent of cookie sheets and wrapping paper. Our family Christmas letter
stood in the typewriter on the kitchen table waiting for its final
salutations. Two sentences jumped off the page. "Larry is in Germany: I
expect him home very late tonight." "Davy is seven years old and in the
second grade." Everything was not the same.
Pushing through the frenzy of my mind and the chaos of the house
and the clutter of my kitchen desk I retrieved the travel voucher. For a
split second the Cinderella in me desperately wished for the fairy tale
ending. I wanted to put the voucher on the bottom of the stack and say,
"Prince Charming is coming home and we are all going to live happily ever
after." So much hope, so much fear in that one piece of paper.
21 DEC 88 - WEDNESDAY
PAN AMERICAN 103 BUSINESS CL
LV: FRANKFURT 450P TWO STOPS CONFIRMED
AR: DETROIT/METRO 1218A ARRIVAL DATE-22 DEC
I wanted to be alone. I wanted to sort out my thoughts. My
heart was frantically trying to connect with the one I feared was dying
or dead. The phone calls then started. My sister-in-law, Sandy, said, "
Grandma is watching the news and is worried about Larry." All I could
answer was, "I think Larry was on that flight." Pan Am 103 had just
become a household word.
Too much was happening at once. "Lord! How do I tell the children?"
The excitement of Christmas overshadows everything for a child,
and my children were no different. "We don't know for sure, but maybe
Daddy was on the plane that crashed today," was met with blank looks.
Ten year old Andy verbalized what the others were thinking. "Does this
mean Daddy isn't going to bring us any Christmas presents? Who's going
to open HIS presents?" Initially, their questions rankled me. I kept
them tightly in my heart as I pondered what to tell them.
Larry always spoke fondly of his colleague, Bob, a former
pediatrician, who worked at Parke-Davis. Bob had travelled as far as
London with Larry and then changed flights for an earlier return home.
He called me at 10pm to say, "Sue, I am so sorry. We have confirmed that
Larry was on the flight. I am going to go to my bedroom, kneel down, and
pray for you and your family." Truth replaced suspicion.
Tumbling into shock causes everyone to operate on automatic
pilot. Being children in anticipation of Christmas, 'airplane crash and
Daddy being dead did not correlate; airplane crash and no presents did.'
A clearer picture of how to explain Christmas and death and presents came
into focus. My prayer of how to tell the children had been answered, and
I seized the opportunity.
Gathering Jim and Andy to the couch, an arena for many family
activities, I held their hands firmly. "Daddy was on the plane that
crashed. Daddy died tonight. You asked earlier what presents Daddy
would bring us. This is the gift that he gives this Christmas - that he
loved Jesus and one day we will see him again in heaven." We cried. I
chose to let Davy, who had fallen asleep in my bed, have one more night
of innocence. I was sitting on the bed singing him lullaby as he awoke.
I took him on my lap and told him the same story.
The days and weeks following were a crush of arrangements,
legalities, people, and condolences - organized chaos. Activity
distracted the pain. Compassion freely expressed itself. There evolved,
however, a disjointedness in what was expressed to me as opposed or in
relation to the boys. With condolences came statements (many times said
in front of the boys) like "What a job it's going to be to raise three
boys alone" or "You certainly will have your hands full." The message
sent MOST of the time to them was "You take care of your Mom now." It's
no wonder they took their anger out on me.
'Taking care of Mom' produces problems for both the parent and
the child. It robs the child of his/her childhood and creates role
confusion. It plunders the respect for the parent and denounces their
maturity. If 'taking care of Mom' is taken seriously by the parent, the
child becomes the surrogate spouse. The resulting dysfunction further
complicates grief and can have lifetime negative effects.
When said in my presence, I could counteract these statements.
But, by the time I spoke, the damage had been done. My children were
being 'programmed' to take care of their mother. There seemed to be no
answers to the problem until one day...
Adele was seven years old when her father died 45 years ago. She
began to cry as she told me of going back to school shortly after the
funeral. "This one kid was always making fun of me because my Dad was
dead. I knew I couldn't tell my Mom about it because I was supposed to
take care of her. And, 'taking care of Mom' meant that you shouldn't say
anything to upset her. I've ever told anyone this before." Because of
the thoughtless admonitions of adults, this child's pain had been carried
for 45 years, and still existed for this 52 year old woman who had
finally shared it with someone.
Daylight broke on the problem. If Pavlov could recondition dogs
and Lamaze laboring mothers, then why not grieving children? Returning
home, I asked my children what it meant to 'take care of Mom.' A wide
variety of answers hesitantly followed. With renewed vigor I explained
again that I was the Mom and they were the kids. "I am here to take care
of you. You are NOT here to take care of me. BUT, I can not take care
of you if you do not tell me when bad things happen so I can help you.
So, from now on, let's make 'taking care of Mom' mean telling her when
bad things happen so she can take care of you better."
Throughout that day, one by one, they came and started telling me
things that had been happening - a kid made fun of him on the bus,
someone yelled it across the lunchroom, etc. Over the next few weeks I
repeated the new meaning so often it echoed off the walls.
Now, when people say, "You take care of your Mom now," I turn and
say to them, "And what does 'taking care of Mom' mean?" They roll their
eyes up. They groan a little. They sigh (perhaps with relief), "Tell
Mom when bad things happen so she can take care of you better."
And my heart smiles for one less load we all have to bear.
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