"Mommy, I don't want to die," Melina said, her eyes wide with alarm. She walked from the living room into the kitchen and extended her thin little arms for a hug.
"Melina, I don't want you to die, either." I crouched low and gathered her into my embrace, pulling her body against mine and whispering into her hair. "But everyone has to die at some point. I hope you have a long life ahead of you." My grip tightened for a moment, as I tried to pour all of my love and peace into Melina all at one time.
She pulled back and almost instantaneously ran away, as if the only reason she came over was to extract a hug. Or maybe it was to give one. I'll never know.
The topic of death has, unfortunately, been widespread in our house the last few days. Tim's uncle and a friend's great-grandmother both passed away early in the week. Of course any time someone you know dies, even if you don't see them too often, it makes you reflect on death in general.
I've actually put a lot of thinking into my demise over the last 10 years or so. When I was pregnant with Melina, I feared that something would go wrong and I'd leave 4 little ones without a mother. Irrational fear? Maybe. But the rush of hormones, especially during labor, can cause some very odd moments. I knew I had hit the transition stage of the childbirth process when a need to make sure that everything was taken care of -- whether that was a plan for the next day, the next month, or for a lifetime -- manifested itself in my head.
Since that time, I have come to realize that I am not fearful of death itself, or how I might come to die one day. My fears are not about me, they are about what I will be leaving behind. The people who will presumably suffer from my absence. I fear that if I leave this earth too soon, my kids won't be ready to live without a mother. They won't know how to cope with the minutiae of life, much less the larger problems. They won't remember the little notes I slip into their lunches for field trips or that I made the effort to come volunteer in their classrooms. Too soon, the sound of my laughter, the look of my scowl, and the feel of my arms around them every day will be nothing but fleeting memories, something they try to grasp and pull in with both hands, but find them slipping away all too quickly.
I can only hope that I've taught the kids well. That even if they can't remember what my voice sounds like, that they keep in mind my words on kindness (always, always try to be kind); try to help others out, even without being asked (you'll feel amazing afterwards); try to live life in the best way possible. Be confident in who you are, what you know, and what you can share with other people; don't let anyone make you feel awful about yourself. And don't forget about your siblings: back them up and keep in mind that they are the best friends you'll ever have. They won't let you get away with anything, but they'll also bestow a love on you unlike any other. Plus, they'll remind you that every once in a while I said, "Sure, it's okay to have that brownie at 7:30 in the morning."
If that doesn't put a smile on their faces and make them remember the depth of my love for them, I don't know what would.
"Melina, I don't want you to die, either." I crouched low and gathered her into my embrace, pulling her body against mine and whispering into her hair. "But everyone has to die at some point. I hope you have a long life ahead of you." My grip tightened for a moment, as I tried to pour all of my love and peace into Melina all at one time.
She pulled back and almost instantaneously ran away, as if the only reason she came over was to extract a hug. Or maybe it was to give one. I'll never know.
The topic of death has, unfortunately, been widespread in our house the last few days. Tim's uncle and a friend's great-grandmother both passed away early in the week. Of course any time someone you know dies, even if you don't see them too often, it makes you reflect on death in general.
I've actually put a lot of thinking into my demise over the last 10 years or so. When I was pregnant with Melina, I feared that something would go wrong and I'd leave 4 little ones without a mother. Irrational fear? Maybe. But the rush of hormones, especially during labor, can cause some very odd moments. I knew I had hit the transition stage of the childbirth process when a need to make sure that everything was taken care of -- whether that was a plan for the next day, the next month, or for a lifetime -- manifested itself in my head.
Since that time, I have come to realize that I am not fearful of death itself, or how I might come to die one day. My fears are not about me, they are about what I will be leaving behind. The people who will presumably suffer from my absence. I fear that if I leave this earth too soon, my kids won't be ready to live without a mother. They won't know how to cope with the minutiae of life, much less the larger problems. They won't remember the little notes I slip into their lunches for field trips or that I made the effort to come volunteer in their classrooms. Too soon, the sound of my laughter, the look of my scowl, and the feel of my arms around them every day will be nothing but fleeting memories, something they try to grasp and pull in with both hands, but find them slipping away all too quickly.
I can only hope that I've taught the kids well. That even if they can't remember what my voice sounds like, that they keep in mind my words on kindness (always, always try to be kind); try to help others out, even without being asked (you'll feel amazing afterwards); try to live life in the best way possible. Be confident in who you are, what you know, and what you can share with other people; don't let anyone make you feel awful about yourself. And don't forget about your siblings: back them up and keep in mind that they are the best friends you'll ever have. They won't let you get away with anything, but they'll also bestow a love on you unlike any other. Plus, they'll remind you that every once in a while I said, "Sure, it's okay to have that brownie at 7:30 in the morning."
If that doesn't put a smile on their faces and make them remember the depth of my love for them, I don't know what would.
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