A friend, a neighbor of my mom’s, died a few weeks ago. Wendell Smith was his name, survived by his wife, Shirley Smith. My kids call them Mr. Wendell and Ms. Shirley.
Wendell was in his eighties, had been ailing with a variety of things for a while – but it was still a bit of a surprise. The kids knew him fairly well – my mom would take them over to their house to visit and to play with their dog. As these things go, most of the attention and talking and treats came from Shirley – she would ask each of them about school, sit and read books with them, give them both candy before they went home. I remember watching her count buttons with my daughter for what seemed hours. But Wendell had perfected that attitude many men of that generation have – he wouldn’t say more than a few words, but you knew he was paying attention and fully engaged the whole time you were there. Their house was a sort of adjunct grandma’s house – not quite grandma’s, but still a place they could go to feel warm, accepted, and had some interesting treats and toys.
When my wife told the kids about Wendell passing away, they were quiet. Then S suggested that she make a card for Ms. Shirley. B was quiet a little, and then said that he thought a card way too small for something like this, that it wouldn’t be enough. Then they were quiet again, for a little, and S started talking about something at school.
Over the course of the kids lifetimes, my grandmother, my father, and my wife’s father have all passed away. After the shock of the event has passed, and as you grieve, we’ve found ourselves asking – what do you tell the kids? How do you tell the kids?
When my wife’s father died, I was on the way to the movies with the kids. She was staying home to do work, I think, and Mom and I were taking the kids to see “How To Train Your Dragon” in the movie theatre. I get a call – “You’ve got to come home.” I send the kids with mom, to watch the movie, and I go home to help, to console, to cry. He was a good man. The kids come home, much later, after the movie, after McDonalds. They sit with mommy, surrounding her, on the couch, and we tell them, as best as we can. How do you explain death to a five year old? B is sad, S doesn’t get it at all – she’s five, after all.
When my father died, they were a bit older. The whole time is just a blur. I remember a phone call from his wife. I remember sitting on the couch, and telling the kids, and being surrounded by them like they surrounded their mother and crying. This time S did get it, more, although neither one really knew Dad. But they hugged me, and just their presence made me feel better.
Both deaths had a huge effect on me and my wife, obviously. But neither one really had an impact on the kids, I don’t think. They were sad, but mostly, both times, they were reacting to seeing their parents crying and upset more than anything else.
This time, though, with Wendell, it’s a bit different. Both my father and Yvette’s dad lived far away, and couldn’t visit as often as they would have liked. But the kids know Wendell, they’ve seen him next door, they’ve seen him at restaurants. It’s not like they’re close, but he’s real, in a way, a part of where they live, that my father wasn’t. S is still too young to really get it – she knows Ms. Shirley will be sad, but it doesn’t affect her much. B, however, is ten, is in fifth grade, and is almost a young man – and you can see the comprehension, the understanding. You can see him putting himself in their shoes, thinking about how he would feel if something like that happened to him.
Death is a part of life. Growing up, I lived too far away from my extended family to go to any funerals. I don’t remember being touched by death as a child. I still struggle to process it, to figure out what it means, to grieve. As parents, we do our best to ride the line between protecting our children and letting them live life, figure things out. We have to let them fall down so they learn how to walk on their own. S took half the day yesterday making a big card for Mrs. Shirley. B was talking with Grandma about Mr. Wendell, and told her that he thought he was a really good man. They are taking this in and learning to cope and growing through the experience.
Goodbye, Mr. Wendell. Thank you for letting my children be a part of your life, and thank you for being a part of my children’s lives. You were a good man, and will be missed.
————————
Illustration by Erin Brown at www.eobrownart.com
Pictures and Stories 