When my husband died, our daughters were 13 (+1 week) and 10 (+7 months).
Before he died, I would not have bothered counting the weeks or months into their ages, but time stopped when he died, and you take note of these things.
Being the parent who tells them that Daddy is going to die and that it is time to say goodbye is probably the hardest thing I have had to do in my life.
(A close second is telling my mother that her son had died in an accident.)
Holding them both while I held my phone so we could tell their father goodbye on a video call was the best I could do to love them through that awful moment. Up to that point, we had been on video calls with him while he was in an induced coma, but I had not shown them his image. I had not wanted them to be horrified by all the wires, the tube in his mouth, his slack jaw, and the unfamiliar overgrowth of facial hair. But I let them look at him this one last time. So that they could see for themselves the reality of his imminent death. So that they (we) could have some sense of closure, especially because I was told that we would never have access to his body, even after his death.
This was the devastating reality of losing someone to COVID-19.
I prompted them:
“Tell Daddy what you are thankful to him for…”
“Tell Daddy your favorite memories…”
“Tell Daddy how much you love him…”
“Now tell him ‘good night’…”
There are no words to describe how it felt when he flatlined as we bid him “good night”, but surely, God was in this place, this time, with all of us.
It has been over a year now since this traumatizing event, and I am amazed by how far these kids (and I!) have come.
Besides the normal difficulties and awkwardness stemming from hormonal surges (Lord, help me!), I daresay our daughters have come a long way.
When I think back to the strategies I have taken, these are what I know to have worked for us:
Me being authentic in my feelings. I demonstrated to my daughters that it was okay to cry. And okay to say, “This is hard.” Or “I’m sad.” Or even, “I’m angry with your Dad…”
Recognizing that we all grieve differently. Even if I cry, the other may not. And that is okay. We each have to “do you”.
Talking about Daddy and digging into our favorite memories. This has never been forced. More a part of normal conversation, like when one of us would say, “Remember when..?” Or making some kind of reference to a line he often said, or “Mike-isms”.
Getting counseling for all of us individually.
Some journaling, to whatever degree we are individually comfortable with. (I found a very specific workbook that helped them with theirs, here.)
Getting them back to a normal routine, which primarily meant going back to school.
In the early days, sticking to a very predictable schedule to create a sense of stability.
Creating small, new traditions, like ice cream cones from McDonald’s after school on Wednesdays.
Honoring old traditions, as we were comfortable with. ("Yes" to traditional Thanksgiving; "no" to traditional Christmas.)
Pursuing a new interest. For my girls, this meant enrolling in School of Rock and learning to play new instruments and playing with a band. As a musician myself, I have felt, very strongly, that channeling their grief into something constructive was a good thing. This also added to our new routine. (It also honored their rock-and-roll Dad.)
Making new memories and finding ways to honor Mike even as we make these new memories. Sometimes it would be a simple thing, like saying, “I think Daddy would have liked this.” If we were holding drinks (non-alcoholic, thank you very much), we might even toast him. Sometimes we find something of his to bring along to a new adventure.
The thing is, we have to continue moving forward. Gently.
Not moving on, exactly. But definitely forward.
This is not to say that the road to healing our broken hearts has been easy. Not by a long, long shot. But it takes a spirit of intentionality to get back up when you trip and fall down. And you never really know what will cause you to trip, but you learn to get up. Hopefully.
“I am tired of being sad,” says my younger daughter. She speaks truth. Grief is exhausting.
For her, the pursuit of joy is a priority.
On the other hand, my other daughter has seen it as a betrayal to her father to not be sad. And dealing with the changes resulting from the loss of her dad has been challenging. Because being okay with our "new normal" means being okay with him being gone.
Since we lost him, almost any kind of change has generally been upsetting to her. I get it. Like a boat that was capsized in the middle of a storm, she feels overwhelmed by waves pushing against her.
"I just want time to stop so that I can catch up," she has said once.
It's taken a lot of therapy, and a lot of rest, to "catch up." And although she probably does not realize it, the changes resulting from joining the School of Rock -- making connections with like-minded kids, the sense of accomplishment from learning to play as a band -- have all been good changes for her mental health.
I know my kid. Music makes her happy.
We move forward because it is our obligation.
I tell myself often that my kids are at such a critical developmental time in their lives. I could not possibly rob them of this opportunity to grow… and learn… and shine.
In digging through our memories together, we are reminded of how dearly we were loved.
And so I teach my children to keep him close as we attempt to honor the happiness he would have wanted for us.
I emphasize the importance of finding joy again. Actively.
We take Mike with us, even as we are doing new things.
Like learning how to play the ukulele.
And we sing songs to him and to each other. We think he would like that.
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