My 4-year-old tells me weekly he doesn't want me to die after multiple family tragedies. I talk to my children openly about death.
Courtesy of Dekera Greene Rodriguez
- In the past couple of years, my family has lost several members.
- Two of my grandparents and two of my cousins died, and my children saw my grief.
- I tell my toddler that death is inevitable for all of us.
Within 2 ½ years, my children have seen the deaths of and attended the funerals for four close family members.
Navigating familial tragedy while parenting has been a delicate balance of giving my kids truth and security. We have regular conversations prompted by their fear of death, in which I admit my uncertainty but attempt to assuage their unease through dialogue and the certainty of my love.
I lost 2 grandparents and 2 cousins
My kids saw me fall on my knees, openly weeping when my cousin Brian died. I got the call about his motorbike accident in May 2020. We traveled to South Carolina for his funeral. His was my children's first. On that bright June day, my oldest, who was 6 at the time, hugged and comforted my aunt, mom, and others, reminding them that Brian would always be with us in spirit.
Two weeks later, I received the news that my paternal grandfather had passed away, and we traveled again to South Carolina to say goodbye. At the family viewing, they saw him lying in the casket, this giant in life with his height masked by the coffin and thinner than they'd remembered him. My eldest reminded us that Granddaddy Bub would always be with us.
Nine months later, I was in my third trimester with my third child when my husband received a call from my mother and brother that my youngest cousin, Slick, died in a motorcycle accident. Noises emanated from me as my children tried to hold on to me — my body racked with grief. They hugged me and assured me everything would be OK as I cried in disbelief. My young sons were almost experts in sorrow and burials at ages 7 and 3.
It was a windy day when we said goodbye to Slick on a basketball court at the community center. Gospel medleys accompanied by piano, guitar, and drums joined in singing his soul home. My children leaped up during the service, mimicking adult movement, closed their eyes during prayer, and placed roses on his coffin before he was lowered into the ground.
When my maternal grandmother died in November, my children had already seen the close compression of death. They saw the grieving, abundance of food, and gathering of family and friends; the musicality, somberness, and triumph of a South Carolina Lowcountry homegoing service; and the heavy-heartedness, lingering sadness, and stillness of death. They witnessed the Gullah tradition of passing children over graves. They weighed the enormous void of a loved one's absence against the vast space of their memories.
Grandma Alaphair was our family's matriarch. She brilliantly connected us to our past through stories of her grandparents, the first free generation in our family, and her life lessons. My children feel her death deeply. My toddler points to her "mee-ma's" picture; my now-8-year-old nostalgically plays videos of Grandma dancing.
My toddler tells me he doesn't want me to die
Weekly, my 4-year-old tells me, "Mommy, I don't want you to die," making that connection after my grandma's death.
As much as it breaks my heart, I tell him that he and I, along with every living thing, will perish. I must tell him that death is inevitable because if anything happened to me sooner than I'd hoped, I'd be dead and a liar.
I tell him that if I live as long as Grandma, I'll live at least 50 more years. He will be a grown man with children and maybe grandchildren. Our challenge is to live in these human moments, find joy, contemplate, celebrate, and remember them. That's the only way our spirits, lives, and memories will have meaning to those we leave behind.