What Do We Tell the Children?: Talking to Kids About Death and Dying

Half-Title Page

Title Page

Abingdon Press

Nashville

Copyright Pagee

what do we tell the children?

talking to kids about death and dying

Copyright © 2013 by Abingdon Press

All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission should be addressed to Permissions, The United Methodist Publishing House, P.O. Box 801, 201 Eighth Avenue South, Nashville, TN 37202-0801 or permissions@umpublishing.org.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Primo, Joseph M.

What do we tell the children? : talking to kids about death and dying / by Joseph M. Primo.

pages cm

ISBN 978-1-4267-6049-5 (binding; adhesive; soft black : alk. paper) 1. Children and death. 2. Terminally ill parents. 3. Families of the terminally ill—Services for. 4. Bereavement in children. 5. Church work with the bereaved. 6. Church work with children. I. Title.

BF723.D3P75 2013

259’.6082—dc23

2013023277

Disclaimer: All names and significant details have been changed by the author to protect the identity of clients.

13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22—10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Dedication Page

For Jeanette, my parents and grandparents, Sid, Anne,

and the extraordinary children of Good Grief

Contents

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Introduction: A Caregiver’s Perspective

1. Put On Your Own Oxygen Mask First

2. Kids Feel, Too

3. Myths

4. Components of a Child’s Grief

5. What Do We Tell the Children?

6. Listening without Lollipops

7. On Death and Lying

8. A Cultural Rebirth

Acknowledgments

Acknowledgments

This work is not accomplished in isolation but in community. My colleagues are remarkable people, and they influence my life in so many ways. I am particularly grateful for my staff. I would be lost without them. I am grateful for all my Good Grief colleagues, the Board of Directors, and especially Good Grief facilitators, whose commitment to Good Grief is like no other.

My colleagues and friends at the National Alliance for Grieving Children are true champions for children and families throughout the country. Every day of their lives they tirelessly advocate for children, and their commitment to the cause is most admirable. I am thankful for each of them and the humor, integrity, and joy they bring to every conversation.

I am grateful for my old friends at the Connecticut Hospice, especially Lou Gonzalez, Rev. Charles Woody, and Dr. Scott Long. The entire staff shaped me at a time when death’s presence was so palpable, and at times overwhelming, that I thought I might not make it to thirty. Many thanks to Lenore and Harry, whose last words are a daily reminder.

Many mentors and dear friends supported me over this past decade as I immersed myself in death and dying. Although their love for the topic may have been less than mine, their support of me never wavered: Andrew Nurkin, Kristyn Primo, Dianne Bilyak, Jacqueline Richard, Anne Corron, Barbara Walker, Dr. Ann Blankenship, Dr. Donna Rica, Dr. Margaret Farley, Fr. Jaime Lara, Dr. Kristen Leslie, Dr. Herbert Anderson, and all my pals at Yale Divinity School.

When people ask me if my work is depressing, I tell them that it is filled with fun and authenticity. But every day I walk by Good Grief’s Wall of Remembrance, on which children have tacked images of loved ones who have died. The wall is the worst part of my day. The people in those photos do not experience what I witness: brokenness, struggle, healing, love, rebuilding, and the extraordinary character of their children, oftentimes brought out because of death. I am most saddened for the deceased, and I carry their stories with me. The children and families of Good Grief inspire me each and every day. To witness their growth and grief work is an honor. Many thanks to my Kingda Ka buddies. I’ll remember forever that day and the courage I saw in you. Lastly, some of the stories in this book might sound like yours. In this book I retell stories that are universal in their nature. The details of each story are how I imagine them or remember their retelling, as I was not there when death appeared. All names and details have been changed to protect each family’s privacy.

Good Grief kids are my favorite teachers. I think you will understand why well before you finish reading this book.

For Additional Support and Resources Please Visit:

Good Grief

www.good-grief.org

The National Alliance for Grieving Children

www.childrengrieve.org

What Do We Tell The Children?

www.howkidsgrieve.com

Prologue

Prologue

Be not afraid were the first words Pope John Paul II spoke when he stood at a window overlooking a massive crowd only moments after his election by the College of Cardinals. I first heard these words in 1996 in a video about the papacy, a discounted film I made my parents purchase for me. As a religiously fanatic teen, I thought the pope had a far cooler job than the president and I didn’t understand why all my peers talked about becoming president when, according to Catholic law, any baptized Catholic male could grow up to be the pope.

Bill Clinton did not wear snazzy robes or drive in a white pope-mobile. In my mind, being a world religious leader for an indefinite amount of time totally surpassed the powers of the presidency. Oh, and believers kiss the pope’s ring. That is the epitome of an instant ego boost. You don’t get that in the White House!

While fantasizing about how I would run my papacy, I was hardly aware that those first scriptural words that the newly elected pope spoke would become a mantra for me a few months later when I witnessed my aunt drop dead at the kitchen table.

I was raised Catholic in an Irish-Italian household. Every stereotype about Irish-Italian Catholics applies to me—every single one. For example, my great-grandfather emigrated from Sciacca, Sicily, and brought with him the Feast of Madonna del Soccorso. For the past century, as a result of my great-grandfather and his friends, Bostonians have processed a large statue of the Virgin Mary through the North End of Boston during a three-day religious party called the Fisherman’s Feast.

My people, these feisty Italians, strap an eight-year-old girl to a crane, dress her like an angel, and swing her from a balcony as they toss confetti, pray in Italian, and rile up the crowd. I attended this feast every August until I was an adult. The only year I missed was 1996.

That summer I missed the Fisherman’s Feast because of an invitation from my Irish grandparents, who encouraged my sister and me to spend a week with them. I loved spending time at their home in Maine. It was a fairly secluded house in the woods. My grandfather knew the dirtiest jokes, which he would share with me when we went fishing. It was the only time I got to hear those jokes, because my grandmother was not around to yell at him for telling them. Our fishing trips captured the quintessential nature of our grandfather-grandson relationship. My grandmother, however, admittedly wished she had become a nun and was determined to make me a priest. When Gramps and I finished fishing and telling jokes, I would return home, where Grandma was waiting. She and I would pray, which naturally made me feel less guilty about all the dirty jokes.

This back-and-forth game of baiting the hook, telling a joke, and repenting in prayer went on for a few days, until my aunts and uncles arrived. They drove up from Massachusetts in time for lunch. My sister and I were thrilled because we knew the adults would spoil us. We also loved the stories they shared about their youth. I suppose it made them more relatable. And, of course, their fake Irish brogue somehow made them great storytellers.

This lunch quickly became an unforgettable moment in my life. Once everyone arrived we got down to business. Tuna melts were made. The fruit salad was tossed, and we debated whether to eat pie then or save it for dinner.

The adults sat around the table eating their lunch and complaining about the increase in toll rates on the turnpike. My sister and I sat at the counter, eavesdropping and plotting how we could get pie for lunch and dinner.

Not long after we sat down to eat, we were startled by a frantic scream. My Aunt Barbara looked on in horror as my Aunt Jeanette slouched over the table.

There are only a few moments in my life that I remember with such painful clarity. This is probably the clearest.

Within moments of Barbara’s yelp, chairs were flung across the room, the table was pushed against the wall, and my grandmother and uncle were lowering Jeanette to the floor to begin resuscitating her. They would remain in that position, in chase of her fleeting life, for the next forty-five minutes. My Uncle Charlie, Jeanette’s husband, was responsible for chest compressions as my grandmother counted and pushed breath into Jeanette’s lungs.

My sister Kristyn and I stood there. We just stood there watching Jeanette’s color change and the faces of the adults turn to unforgiving fear.

My grandfather was a stoic man, but he fumbled with each word as he spoke with the 911 operator. He couldn’t tie his shoelaces as he prepared to go to the hospital. Kristyn and I stared at the unfolding scene until I decided I had to do something. Pushing my way through the adults with Kristyn in tow, I grabbed my grandmother’s rosaries to prepare for some fierce praying. I looked at Kristyn and saw her distress.

What was I supposed to do with my little sister? I paused, looked around my grandparents’ bedroom where I had rushed to get the rosaries, and noticed that the closet had a lock. Tossing my sister into the closet, I shouted, Be not afraid! and locked her in. Running out of the room, I kept shouting, Be not afraid! I was trying to convince her that it was OK; but I was also trying to convince myself as my chest pounded harder and harder and as I stood in the corner crying while I prayed—prayed and watched my grandmother count to ten and breathe into Jeanette.

Forty-five minutes after CPR began, the volunteer EMTs arrived. Charlie and my grandmother stepped back from Jeanette. Their work was done. Some device was hooked up to Jeanette, and I was shooed from the room. From around the corner, I heard the device’s robotic voice counting and instructing. I listened to the whimpers of the adults and shouted up the stairwell to my sister, Be not afraid! I said, ‘Be not afraid!’ I could hear the crowds, like those gathered for the election of John Paul II in Saint Peter’s Square, cheering and shouting, Good advice, boy. Good advice!

Jeanette was loaded onto a stretcher and ushered down the lawn to the ambulance. The ambulance sat in the driveway for another ten minutes as the medics attempted to resuscitate her while my grandparents and Charlie waited to follow behind in their car. The tension was growing as the rest of us waited on the stoop. What are they waiting for? we asked one another every few minutes. Drive already! And then, almost in a demonic voice, I began cursing at the paramedics. I shouted unholy and bad words that my grandfather would use only if the fishhook caught his finger or the big bass got away. No one stopped me. My fear turned to rage, and so too did the grief that followed in the days and months ahead.

Be not afraid. All these years later it is still an expression I say to myself often in tense situations. When I was a hospice chaplain, I frequently walked into rooms that contained sobbing family members or a terrified patient. Be not afraid, I’d tell myself.

Now as a director of two children’s bereavement centers, when a dad calls me to ask how he should tell his three- and seven-year-old children that Mom died this morning, I still tell myself, Be not afraid. Fear is usually present in my work, and each time I experience it I come to better understand why I felt so alone and isolated after Jeanette died. It’s easy to look away but a lot harder to reach out and touch the flame.

I started high school two weeks after Jeanette’s death. The experience of going to high school was scary enough, but now my mind was clogged with images of my dead aunt. What had I witnessed? What is this thing we call death? How was she hugging me