Remember on yesterday's post I told you about my guest Jennifer-bloggers for my time away? Well, here the fist one. Jennifer or as we used to refer to her in the blogosphere, "Sprite's Keeper". She was one of the first bloggers I ever read - like ever - and because of her, I actually started to write my own. Yes lady, its because of you!! I bet you didn't know that did you? So here she is for all of you to enjoy and love as much as I do...
Jen, - thanks for coming out of the woodwork for me. I love you!
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I haven’t written an entry for my blog in 7 months. I’m not
sure how deeply the dust has settled and I’m afraid to log on and look. It’s
not like anyone’s left nasty comments on posts from five years past; I had
circumvented trolls long ago by limiting comment capabilities to two weeks.
So why start writing again now?
Well? Someone asked me nicely. (I always respond well to
flattery.)
I’ve known Krystal for almost as long as I’ve been blogging, and we
played in the same blogosphere playground for a while, visiting each other’s
lives, or, the lives we chose to show to the reading public, celebrating and
grieving with each other depending on the subject matter. So, when she asked me
to submit a post, any subject matter, any length, “Hey, how about a poem for
old time’s sake?”
I agreed.
My site, rhymes included, was mostly about the upbringing of
my own daughter, Sprite; however, as Sprite’s voice grew louder and more
opinionated, my desire to act as her voice ebbed. My imagination was no longer
necessary; she usurped her own throne from me, asking nicely, of course. She
does like to read through my stories once in a while, and get an insider’s outsider’s
(it actually makes sense if you think about it) view of her mind when she was
too young to verbalize it herself, plus it’s vindicating for me to see how I read
her so accurately back then. Anyone who knows her now can match who and how she
is to anything I’ve written.
I’m proud of that.
My story telling has now morphed into thirty second Facebook
status reads. The 140 character limit on Twitter never appealed to me, but the
audience on Facebook consists of family and friends, people I want to tell my
stories to anyway, so I’m at peace with where my once sort of popular blog has
settled.
But that’s not what I want to write about.
I want to write about death. Sorry, if there was a way to
rephrase that, I would, but the word death, such a soft sounding word, is blunt
in its irony.
Sprite, at six years old, (six and a half if you’re asking
her directly) has experienced loss three times now.
The first time, it was our beagle, Blue. Of the two dogs we
had at the time, Blue was the one who loved Sprite wholly from the minute we brought
our infant home. Last October, we found out, literally with no time to process
it, that she was losing the battle to an aggressive tumor. Sprite and I walked
in to the vet’s office, thinking she was dealing with old dog issues, and
walked out two hours later, with just her collar. I was almost inconsolable,
and so worried with how Sprite would respond to the loss, being that she would
tell everyone and anyone how Blue was her best friend.
She barely reacted other than to question how she wouldn’t
have two dogs anymore.
Oh, she claimed to be sad about it, and days later, expressed
her desire for a new puppy since our other dog Harry barely tolerated her,
(they’ve been working on their relationship ever since, he’s now somewhat
accepting of her affections, until she pisses him off..) but I had seen more
tears and sorrow over the loss of a treat due to bad behavior, so I wasn’t sure
how she was really processing it.
A month later, she would break into tears spontaneously,
crying out, “I don’t want to get old! I don’t want to die!” (I do remember
having these exact fears myself when I was her age. Hell, I still do.) My
husband and I did our best to soothe her, while, inevitably admitting, yes, we
all will die eventually. Why lie and tell her she is special, she will never
succumb to the laws of mortality that overrule everyone else’s wishes? I want
to ease her fears, not give her a false rainbow.
After a few weeks of these outbursts, she simply stopped
mentioning it.
In March of this year, we lost a dear family friend, my
adopted grandmother, Ellie. Ellie had been a wonderful presence in Sprite’s
life since John and I announced our pregnancy. In fact, Ellie crocheted her
baby blanket, Sprite’s prized possession and closest naptime ally. As Ellie’s
illness progressed quickly, Sprite grew afraid of visiting, even at her young
age, she knew Ellie wasn’t feeling well. When I got the news early that morning
of her passing, I had to tell her. She bowed her head in sadness, but then
brightened up by saying, “She’ll get to see Blue!”
Not long after we lost Ellie, Ellie’s husband, Sonny, or Papa
Sonny, was diagnosed with Cancer. His own health began fading fast. We weren’t
surprised, he himself would say that every day he lived without Ellie was too
long for him, but still, to lose anyone, no matter how expected, is still
painful.
He passed away last Thursday. I found out at Sprite’s
bedtime, when we were recounting her first day in first grade. Breaking the
news to her, she exclaimed sadness, and hugged me tightly as I cried. When I
pulled back, she asked if I was sad. Confirming this, I asked her the same
question.
“I’m sad because he died, but I know he’s happy. He’s with
Mama Ellie now. That’s what he wanted, right?”
She sounded so mature about it, she actually made me feel
better. How can a six year old be so mature about death?
The funeral is this Friday. She’s repeatedly asked to come
to the funeral. I’m so torn on this.
On one hand, she’s shown a lot of maturity, and even
empathy; she used an offer of holding my tissues for me as a bargaining tool to
gain admittance to this closed (at least to minors) event, saying she would sit quietly, and remember
him for how he was, and how he will always be in her memory.
On the other hand, no other children will be coming. Not
even those children who are of his actual bloodline. Only the adults will be in
attendance. Naturally, she’s invited to the gathering (or Shiva) afterwards,
where all the kids will be in attendance, but she’s not happy with that answer.
She wants to be there to see him off. But is she too young?
Personally, I think so. There’s just something so final
about a funeral, something even a Disney cartoon can’t fix, and I would rather
expose her to the closeness of family at Shiva, when we gather to remember his
values, his virtues, even the stories he probably wouldn’t want repeated, and
of course, the laughter that comes with celebrating someone we love. I was
seven when my paternal grandmother passed away. My maternal grandmother watched
me that day of the funeral. Two years later, I wasn’t at my maternal
grandmother’s funeral, my parents still thought me too young.
The first funeral I went to was at the tender age of
thirteen, when my great grandfather died. I handled it fine. When my maternal
grandfather died the summer of my sixteenth year, I did NOT handle that well.
So, I could make the argument that age is not a factor in dealing with death,
maturity is. So, score one for Sprite’s side of the debate.
Unfortunately, the scorekeeper in this battle of age versus
maturity is time.
