THE Conversation

While driving home from lunch with the kids yesterday, an ambulance passed us with its sirens wailing.  This prompted an unexpectedly emotional conversation between Ian and myself starting with Ian saying,

“Maybe that ambulance is going to the hospital.”  He has a new understanding of the purpose of ambulances.  This education was provided by a ride in one over the weekend to take him, Granny and his fearless sister to the hospital after Claire fell onto the floor head first from a restaurant booth.  She is fine and, if possible, Ian is even more obsessed with emergency vehicles than ever before.

“Yep.  Maybe that ambulance is going to the hospital,” I said. 

“Maybe someone is sick,” he stated, sounding slightly sympathetic.

“Maybe,” I replied again.  Then for some reason unknown to me, I said, “Do you remember what happened to daddy?” 

“Yes.  Daddy died,” he responded matter-of-factly.  The wind was momentarily knocked out of me.  I only started saying the words, “daddy died” about one month ago.  We have talked about daddy many, many times before and looked at lots of pictures of him.  But until recently, I hadn’t told Ian that Chris died partly because he was so very young when it happened and naturally doesn’t understand what this means.  I hated the thought of bringing Chris up just to tell my little guy that his daddy died.  And, I freely admit, I also took so long to tell him because I knew saying the words out loud would cement the reality of the situation.  No more turning back the clock and pretending you still live your old life once your child knows his father is dead.

“That’s right.  He died in a hospital,” I said after I caught my breath.

“He died in a hospital?  I thought he died at my house.  Was it a tall hospital?” he pondered.  Wow…does he remember being at the hospital the night Chris died?  It was in fact a tall hospital.  What made him ask that question?

“It was a tall hospital, honey.”

“Why?  Why did he die in the hospital?” Ian wanted to know.

“Well, he was in the hospital because he had an operation on his head…because there was something in his head that was making him sick,” I stammered.

“What?  What was making him sick?”  Shit, I thought.  Do I really have to use the words “brain tumor” already?

“He had a brain tumor.”  (Technically, he had two but no need to throw that into the mix yet).

“Why?” Ian said again, posing the million-dollar question.  Wouldn’t we all like to know the answer to that one?

“I don’t know,” I said.  “Sometimes people just get sick.”

“Did daddy like water?” Ian asked, shifting gears a bit.

“Um, he liked water.  He liked to swim.”

“Did the water put that thing in his head?” Ian asked.

“No, honey.  Sometimes people just get sick.  It wasn’t from the water,” I told him.

“He’s my daddy,” Ian said proudly.

“Yes, he is,” I said, just as proudly.

“I need my daddy,” he announced.  And now the tears start.  Not Ian’s but mine.  Shit again.  Why exactly did I start this conversation?  Let’s just go back to pretending daddy is on a very long business trip.

“I know, honey.  I need him too,” I said softly.

“I want to talk to daddy,” he said excitedly, as if he had just come up with a great idea.

“Well, you can talk to daddy.  You can tell him whatever you want.  He just can’t answer,” I said, surprising myself a bit with my creativity in answering these questions.  The websites, books and grief counseling must be doing some good.

“Why not?” he demanded.

“Because daddy died.  When people die, they can’t talk to us anymore and we can’t see them anymore.  But we can still talk to them as much as we want.”

“No!  I want to call daddy.  I want to call him on the phone!” Ian half pleaded, half yelled.

“Um…well, I can give you my phone when we get home and you can call him.  He just won’t be able to answer you,” I said again, hoping he wouldn’t take me up on this offer.

Suddenly...silence from the back seat.  No more questions.  No more demands.  Just a defeated 3-year-old soaking in the harsh facts of life.

Silence and muffled tears from the front seat.  No more answers.  No more creative suggestions.  Just a somber nearly 40-year-old mommy reluctantly soaking in her little boy’s newfound grief and thinking, “THE conversation has happened.”