Widowed With Children

     One hot California afternoon, my two oldest daughters noticed an unusual silence from the living room.  Daddy stopped snoring. More subtle than the flip of a switch, my husband Bob quietly slipped away.  

     The girls darted into my bedroom to wake me up and told me what they saw – their father sleeping, but not making a sound.  I bounded into the living room, called 911, thrust open the front door, and began CPR on my husband.  But it was too late. Feverishly, many uniformed helpers descended upon our little house. 

     Overcome with shock, four little girls: witnessed the death of their father; my frantic, ineffectual lifesaving attempts; and a flurry of confusing paramedic interventions.  A hush fell over the house.  Voices turned to murmurs.  Sounds of straining men and clanking metal echoed from the living room.  Daddy left the house inside a big, black bag on a gurney. 

     My girls were 1, 3, 5, and 8 years old the day my husband Bob died.  He never walked back into our home again.

     Their last glimpses of their father’s body occurred while hovering over a wooden casket near the altar of our church. He didn’t look like his typical self, or smell like his typical self, and wasn’t animated like his typical self. The girls didn’t understand why Daddy wasn’t moving and were a whole mixture of emotions. Scared and curious. Confused and sad. And a ton of not comprehending. It would take years for them to understand the concept of death and make sense of what happened to their father that summer day.

     How do you explain death to young children?  It’s such a heart-heavy duty.

     Understandably, because of how Bob died, my girls feared sleep. My second oldest put the concept together very quickly. She was scared when any of us fell asleep, unsure if we would wake up. After my husband died, she would try to wake up her older sister, who was a very deep sleeper. When the oldest would not respond to imploring shakes and encouraging nudges, in a fit of panic, my second oldest would rip out her hair by the fistful, terrified.  

     Not only did the girls have to adjust to the absence of their father, but our lives also had to substantially change without him in it. A year later, we had to relocate to cold and rainy Washington, a very foreign land to them. Most everything that was familiar and stable was left behind.  Adjusting to a new life in a new city was another level of a topsy turvy upside down for them.

     When children grieve, they do so in a very different way than adults.  The abstract concept of death is difficult for adults to comprehend, let alone little children who don’t have the benefit of fully developed brains yet. Understanding unfolds in time.  Adapting takes time, too.

     While grieving, children may not even act sad, even though inside things are very confusing and absolutely awful. They may laugh.  They may act as if nothing ever happened.  This doesn’t mean that they are alright. Do not interpret these reactions as a lack of connection or concern to their loved one. Realize that their comprehension has limitations; they’re not as capable as adults in putting all the pieces together. Apply compassion liberally and do not project your expectations for what grief should look like onto others. Everyone’s grief experience is uniquely their own and should not be judged.

     Some of the best healing happens for children when they can talk to other kids who have also experienced the death of a close relative. Finding someone who can empathize can be a great comfort.  

     I enrolled my daughters in an eight-week hospice-sponsored children’s grief therapy group about six months after Bob passed.  Run by professionals trained in grief education, the group provided the children with an emotionally supportive and safe place to talk and learn about death.   The children were encouraged to ask their questions.  Their tears were honored with compassion alongside other children who could understand their sorrow.  Lots of arts and crafts projects were done and they each came home with a “Daddy box” to put mementos and pictures in about their father. The therapy group emphasized processing emotions through fun activities rather than trying to directly scrape out the trauma in their little hearts. 

     Two years after Bob’s death, my daughters also attended a grief camp for a weekend in Gig Harbor.  The Moyer Foundation sponsors a free one-time opportunity for grieving children at an outdoor camp themed around loss. Camp Erin is held at various camps throughout the country.  Every attendee and volunteer has lost someone close to them.  At Camp Erin, kids are free and away from their homes - a respite from their day-to-day lives.  Rock climbing, canoeing, archery, swimming and hiking were so good for my girls to get some energy out in new and fun ways. And intermingled with the play were some grief conversations, songs, and grief rituals. Camp Erin gave them another chance to be around others who understood what if felt like to lose someone they love.

     This was very important. Thankfully not many other people understand the death of a parent first hand. None of my daughters’ new friends at their new school had the same misfortune. Consequently, they couldn’t empathize. When she was 7 years old, my second oldest started to talk about her feelings with a friend at recess one day.  At the point of exasperation, her young friend, incapable of being the caliber of confidant that my daughter desperately wanted, harshly set a boundary: “I’m sick of hearing about your dumb, dead dad!”  Devastated, my daughter cried in my arms that night.  Marginalized and disenfranchised, her feelings ran primarily underground outside of our home from then on.

     I attempted to foster a sense of emotional safety in our home about Bob. Death was not a taboo subject in our house. I did not hide my grief tears from them, but instead used my mourning as an example to show them that it’s OK to cry.  (I saved them from the ugly cries, though.  They needed to see me strong.)  My girls found consolation and comfort at home where there’s an endless supply of hugs, holding and snuggling.  We shared our loss and compassionately held space for one another.

     As the girls grew up, I would recall stories about funny things their father did. Scrapbooks and photographs were also available to look at. Pictures of Bob were hung on the upstairs wall and each girl received mini photo albums filled with his pictures. Bob’s huge T-shirts (size 4XLT) became their night shirts.  His birthday was recognized every year.  Bob’s legacy was lovingly and delicately woven into our lives.

     Eventually, it was time to spread some of Bob’s ashes in the Idaho wilderness.  This experience gave us another opportunity to revisit the concept of death.  My husband's family was present at the memorial and recounted more tales of Bob’s life.  It was important for them to see how their father was deeply loved and sorely missed.  It was a testament to Bob.

     Even later, it was time to inter the remains of Bob’s remains at the family cemetery back in my hometown.  Fourteen years after his death, it was still poignant and brought us all to tears.  Burying his ashes felt like losing him all over again; emotions washed over us as harsh as the day we saw him in the casket.  This time, my girls had older brains with older questions, and a deeper understanding about the reality and permanency of death.  It was important for Bob and I to have a grave stone in the family cemetery.  It would provide the girls a place to go to in the future, a sacred place of honor and acknowledgment. 

     Risk factors for children who have lost a parent are increased. They have a higher incidence of drug and alcohol abuse, school dropout, and suicide.  Negotiating grief in a family system is multifaceted.  As a parent of children who have lost a father and as a mental health therapist who specializes in children’s mental health, I cannot emphasize enough that children need support in dealing with the loss of a parent.  Not just at the time of death, but throughout their childhood as they grow into an understanding of death and living the life of a half-orphan – a term one of my daughters uses.

     If you are a widowed parent raising children, please give me a call. You’re not alone.  Therapy can help you along your grief journey.