Someone wise told me that having kids will help move the grieving process along. Not easier, but along. She is absolutely right. Your kids force you to face the reality. They are your reality. Your present. Can’t dwell on the sadness when your kids demand that you be there for them. There are responsibilities. Things to be done. Life does carry on.
Of course, having kids also gives you a different perspective because of the unique, innocent way in which they understand it, talk about it.
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I showed Mr. Monk, my 7-year-old boy, the pictures of my aunt and me.
“Is this your aunt?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Who is that? Oh, is it you? You look….”
“… Like a boy?” I volunteered.
“Yes… But you are so adorable!”
Then he asked whether he could have one of these for his picture frame because he wanted to have a picture of my aunt in his room. When I asked him which picture he’d choose, he said he couldn’t decide because he “likes both of them so much!” I suggested the one with me waving,
“Ok. I like this one too. But maybe I should show it when you die because it is like you are waving goodbye.” He said matter-of-factly.
This was before I have found a chance to tell him that my aunt has passed away.
I laughed. In a way, it made perfect sense!
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Different people grieved differently. I wonder whether for the littlest people, strong emotions like this actually may take a long while for them to process as the concept of death is quite abstract, until you have a chance to figure out what it means “materially”.
We told our kids on Saturday that my aunt has passed away. Mr. Monk who had cried with me when my aunt was unconscious in ICU did not say anything. Not a single tear. His older brother actually got upset at him for being cold-hearted.
Last night, Mr. Monk came up to me with tears streaming down his face, hiccuping,
“I am so sad your aunt died. That means I will never get to see her again!”
He cried himself to sleep while I hugged him.
Today on the phone (I am out of town on a business trip) he found out that I will be going home for the funeral. After the initial crying bout about how he also wanted to go to the funeral, to say goodbye, he asked,
“But you will take pictures, right?”
“Hmmm. Ok. I can take pictures of my family.” Fully aware that’s not what he meant.
“No. I want you to take a picture of your aunt.”
“Hmm. I don’t think I can.”
“Why?”
“Hmmm. Because she is… she is not alive any more?”
“Oh. You mean you don’t show her in front of the church there?”
“No. Honey. I am sorry. We don’t do that in Taiwan.”
“Well, will you take a picture of the funeral then?”
“…. I will take pictures of my families when we get together, ok?”
“Ok.”
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My cousin told me that it is actually kind of a silver lining that because of her mother’s passing, family members have been stopping by to my aunt’s house to pay their respect which becomes a great opportunity for families of different generations and relations to catch up, and even for some of them to meet and greet each other for the first time now that the baby is no longer a baby, the young man no longer a young man. The house is now filled with people at all hours, exactly how my aunt would have liked it before she fell ill. My cousin and my other “like-sisters” have been keeping vigil, catching up, consoling each other, and even sometimes joking and laughing, remembering things that my aunt said or did.
We both agreed that my aunt would have liked that. She would like that.