There’s been a bit of an existential theme happening with my kids lately, and they’ve wanted to talk about death and dying and the universe.
My older son wrote a poem about a child’s funeral. He came up and read it to me and, naturally, it prompted a conversation. We talked about the sadness of a neat and empty bedroom after someone has died, and I told him about my sister’s room after her death. Every time I saw her bed neatly made up, I longed to see her lying in it, and when I spotted the empty chair at her desk, I wanted her sitting in it.
We talked, too, about how anything belonging to the dead person becomes precious. He laughed when I told him how I didn’t want my sister’s dirty stockings to be washed, because then her smell would be gone.
I told him, too, how I felt her presence around me for a long time after she’d died, as if she’d stayed close until she knew I could cope on my own. After my father’s death, I felt his presence in the same way. Even now, I feel him sometimes, as if he’s in the room with me, just to the side and outside my field vision. The sense of him can be so strong, I believe he’s really there and if I turn and look, I’ll see him. It’s always disappointing when he isn’t.
In the car on the way home from school the next afternoon, my younger son asked me if I’d ever tried to imagine an infinite universe.
I said I had, but couldn’t.
‘No, me either,’ he said. ‘I think it must end. It can’t go on and on. And then I think, what’s at the end? A wall? And then what’s beyond the wall?’
(I love the conversations I have with my kids when I’ve got them to myself in the car.)
And then he moved on to the topic of death. ‘Do you ever try to imagine what it’s like after you’ve died?’
I said I did, but I couldn’t imagine that either.
‘I think it’d be like when I’ve been sent to my room and I have to sit on my own and listen to everyone else outside having fun and I want to join in but I’m not allowed to.’
It brought tears to my eyes, not just because he’d obviously spent considerable time thinking about this, but because I felt so guilty for ever having sent him to his room.
That night my daughter who’s studying Medicine called. She’s been doing Palliative Care and finding it emotionally taxing and very tough.
She told me about a lady on the unit who was about the same age as me. She was a mother of two teenagers and had been recording a video for her children because she knew she wouldn’t live much longer. But she had to stop because the disease had progressed to the point where she’d become confused. The day my daughter called, she’d become unconscious and the doctor had told the family the end wasn’t far away.
On the walls of her room were photos of the lady with her children, when she was healthy and happy.
‘I feel so sorry for her kids,’ she said and started crying. ‘I just keep thinking, what if it was you?’
I was moved by my daughter’s empathy for this lady and her family, and when she’d finished crying, I said, ‘You’d cope if it was me. And this lady’s children will cope without her.’
I told my daughter that I used to be overwhelmed at the thought of a member of my family dying—the fear and anxiety kept me awake at night. It was something I couldn’t imagine ever getting over.
And then it did happen and, almost to my surprise, I didn’t crumble. I survived. What’s more, within a few years I found I could be happy again. Even more than before.
This life doesn’t always deliver what we order, and it sometimes throws us horrible curve balls that we don’t want. We don’t know why, but, I told my daughter, there’s always a reason. It’s not always evident at the time and can take a while to declare itself, but we find it if we look.
The day after my sister was killed, two policemen arrived to formally notify us of her death. As they left, one of them said, ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’
His words didn’t go down very well at the time, as you can imagine, but he was right. Good things did come out of her death, and continue to come from it, even though I couldn’t have conceived it at the time. I’m a better person, I was a better doctor, and I’m a better mother and writer because of that experience.
I now look upon her death as a gift, a very precious gift.
I told my daughter that it would be the same for her if something like that happened to us, even though she can’t imagine that now.
‘Besides,’ I told her. ‘I’d stay close to you, like my Dad did with me, until you were able to cope on your own.’
All life’s experiences make us who we are and who we’re meant to be. I wouldn’t be without any of mine, the good and the bad, especially the bad—they’re the enriching ones.
A beautiful and inspiring post, Louise. Your son’s remarks are so fresh and thoughtful; remind me of a conversation with my 11-year-old grandson last week, who told me his theory about a solar system that preceded ours and exploded, giving birth to ours, and he went on to speculate about what is beyond the edge of the universe, if there is one.
It’s a great mystery. I imagine all life and matter as energy (which it is) which is infinite and eternal (as far as we can know) and when one dies, one’s energy changes (we lose our material form) but we continue in another dimension.
As Hamlet said, there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy.
Thank you, Christina. Your grandson’s theory might not be far from the truth!
It’s the greatest mystery and we’ll never going to know the answer while we’re alive. I’m not sure about life after death—I’d like there to be, but I don’t remember life before life, so I’m not sure.
I like your theory about changing our energy, and Horatio’s right, there are things we cannot conceive and we’ll only know when we get there! Thanks for commenting. x
Brought tears to my eyes, Louise. So important to talk about death and dying and surviving. Stunning, heartfelt post. And I love those unexpected car conversations with my son too. x
Surviving! That’s what I was trying to tell my daughter. That you’re stronger than you think, and can survive things you think you can’t.
Car conversations with kids are the best! x
A thoughtful and tender post, Louise. You could carve a career from these life writings if you chose to, publishing them as a collection.
Thank you, Robyn! Maybe I will one day … (Aren’t you meant to be packing?)
This piece moved me to tears, too, Louise. People used to ask me why I drove my girls to and from school each day. There were a number of reasons: my flexible works hours meant that I could; the bus trip would have taken three times as long, and neither of my girls is an early riser; and the conversations we had during the journey there or back were beyond value. I treasure every opportunity to chat with them both about anything and everything — just as you clearly treasure the conversations you have with your children. Thanks for sharing your thoughts, and those of your clearly very kind-hearted, empathetic and open-minded sons and daughter. xxxx
I bet your girls loved their time with their mum. One son and I have a 40-minutes each way car trip to a piano lesson once a week and it’s something we both treasure. I’m looking for a way to get a drive with my other son, too!
The car seems to bring the voices out of kids, doesn’t it? I wonder if it’s because you’re not looking directly at them and it’s less confronting, or if it’s the steady sound of the engine, or just that they’ve bottled up their thoughts from the day (it doesn’t happen anywhere nearly as much in the mornings).
And I hope your tears were nice ones! x
Thanks for a lovely post, Louise, as ever. What stays with me beyond that struggle to imagine infinity and what happens after we’e dead is the policeman’s comment about every cloud and its silver lining. I’d have wanted to knock his block off, and even when you say in time you could see something of merit in what he said, the timing to me feels all wrong.
I prefer Auden’s poem about stopping all the clocks, at moments like these. Time is the great healer, but even then I imagine grief still comes in waves. It comes for me in that sudden realisation that my mother is no longer there for me to talk to, even as my relationship with her was not the deepest. And I’m with you in that sense that the person who once lived and breathed beside you is still around in your imaginings and spirit.
The dead live on in our memories.
That policeman’s comment—it was so ludicrous and insensitive and coldhearted, I think we were speechless!
When someone close dies, the clocks need to stop, at least for a while. Your mother’s death is still relatively recent, and I can see why it still suddenly hits you that she’s no longer around. I sometimes forget my father’s dead, or wonder if I imagined his death … On the other hand, my sister died twenty-nine years’ ago in November, and in my mind she’s become the opposite—I wonder if she was real or if I just dreamt her.
Particularly in the first few weeks after their deaths, I felt Fran and Dad still around me in a very comforting way. It might have been my mind dreaming them up as a way of coping, a type of ‘placebo effect’, but it helped!
Thanks for your comment, Elisabeth. x
Inspiring Louise. On our own journey with Princess Lizzy your words, experiences and the honest questions from your own beauties brings a tear or two to my eyes!
People often ask how I get through the day thinking of a future without Lizzy, I always say we are still in the land of the living and with that thought I hold on. X
Thank you, Suzy! For what it’s worth, I think you’ve got the right attitude—you *are* still in the land of the living, so why take away from that by worrying about future. I’m in awe of how fantastically you and your family live in the moment and make the most of each day. It’s incredibly inspiring to see, and Princess Lizzie looks so happy.
Best wishes. xx
Thank you for this beautiful post, Louise. And bless your children, aren’t they wonderful?xx
Thank you, Marlish. Bless the wisdom of kids. xx
It hovers around me, death, but hasn’t yet touched down. I see it out there, visiting others, closer than I’m comfortable with. I have no idea how I’ll cope. I’m scared that because I’m so scared I won’t react in the expected ways. That I won’t be able to cry. I’m so used to keeping my ship afloat, I worry I’ll be numb. But I will want and need to feel it. It’s a strange thing to ponder, but one I do.
These are the words of someone who isn’t numb to feelings, but who is incredibly aware of them and can describe them beautifully.
I know what you mean about thinking about death—I think because I’m nearly 5/7 through my three score and ten.
The more I read of your writing, the more I can’t wait to meet you! x
How wonderful this post is & what beautiful thoughts you children have. So good that they can speak like this to you…What a great job you have done .My parents are both now dead & I have had vivid & comforting dreams of them coming to me & also “hearing ” them speak unexpectedly during my day( occasionally.)Because this is all part of the natural cycle of life I keep faith that all I have been will go on for good & there will be a surprise as there was at my birth.
You’ve reminded me of hearing their voices—I do, too! And I love when they visit me in dreams.
Death is part of the natural cycle of life, and we tend to forget that. In the scheme of the universe, we’re here for just a nanosecond and we can only do what we do so we’ll be remembered for a little while at least after we’re gone. Except if you’re Beethoven—then you’ll be remembered forever. x
Oh gosh. I’ve already cried once tonight… over a bloody football game (wouldn’t you know it) and the end of the era for Boomer Harvey, Drew Petrie, Michael Firrito and Nick Dal Santo. And they’re not even from the team I support…
So where do I come for some light reading? Your blog… I should know by now shouldn’t I!?
*reaches for the tissues*
xx lovely post, Louise. Yes, kids say the darnedest things.
Lily, this is why I gave up following sport closely—too many heart-stopping and heart-wrenching moments. I get enough of them in real life!
I’m sorry I didn’t give a tears warning—maybe I should put that at the top of my posts, so readers can arm themselves with a tissue box. Although it might look a bit naff if wrote that about my own writing!
And kids do say the darnedest things, and don’t you just love them for it?! xx
Lovely post, Louise. I lost my sister when we were in our early to mid 30s. The most horrendous experience of my life, one that has changed me forever.
I remember when my son was born and the huge, all-encompassing, love I felt for him – like most parents feel for their newborn child. The love was so immense, I immediately worried about what if something happened to him. I told myself that I’d lived a perfectly good life without him and so of course I could go back to it BUT I didn’t really believe it. Once that child is in your life nothing would ever ever be the same again. My life’s expectations had changed completely. (Of course, I know I’d survive but … it would be with great sadness and a never-ending awareness of those expectations being severed.)
Anyhow, thanks for sharing your thoughts and those of your lovely children.
Thank you for sharing all of this, Sue. I get what you’re saying about how much life changes when you have a child, and you’re expectations change too. You’re no longer #1, and the thought of your own death takes second place to the thought of something happening to your child. I try not to think about it, actually. I know I’d survive, but I don’t want to think about it …
I remember the early days after the death of my sister, when the pain was sometimes so overwhelming it made me double over. Over time, that pain has lessened, and her memory has found its rightful place inside my mind and heart. That place is very special to me, and I like to visit it and remember. It contains my most treasured memories.
Thanks again for stopping by. xx
Oh wow, Louise – this hit straight to the heart. I think it should carry a ’tissues required’ warning 😉
Talking about death is always emotional but so important. Thank you for this beautiful post.
Thanks for reading, Fi. Yes, instead of a language warning, I’ll issue a tissue warning! Death is an emotional topic to discuss, but I need a good cry every now and then. And there’s nothing better than a good old reminisce! Especially about people you’ve loved in your life. Thanks for popping in. xx
I’m sure they stay around us, sometimes for a long time and often they give us little signs they are there.
You get no argument from me about that. I feel them around me, too, and it’s a comforting feeling. It sounds as if you’ve experienced it, too, Kooky—don’t answer if I’m prying or have overstepped the mark. May the people we’ve loved always be with us everywhere we go. x
We have many things happen over the years but most recent are the orbs of light which streak across the kitchen or lounge room when we are all together. Even the kids had to admit that isn’t normal 🙂 I
Wow! Maybe you need to write about this …
A beautiful and thought-provoking post, Louise. I especially loved your son’s thoughts about ‘what’s beyond the wall?’ Wow.
My little one has recently become very upset by the thought that I will die before her (I haven’t even gone into the idea that nothing is guaranteed, because she’s already so upset). But we’ve had lots of chats about what happens after death, and I think it’s so important not to shy away from such conversations with children.
And as for feeling your sister and father around you, I can absolutely relate – I’ve had far too many signs from beyond not to believe. How wonderful and comforting it is 🙂
You’re a lovely mum, Helen, and just being able to talk about your daughter’s worries with her, I’m sure was reassuring. You’re right, nothing is guaranteed, but being listened to and understood counts for so much.
I feel those who have gone before around me often. And I’m reminded of them in the little habits of their descendants and other family members, too. It’s a lovely, comforting feeling.