By: Sarah Thompson
“Why does death bother me so much? Probably because it steals away our time. Melnick believes the soul lives on after the body fades, but if my essence exists without my physical form, I just know my clothes will all be baggy. Oh well…” — Inspired by Woody Allen, Selections from the Allen Notebooks
You’d think I would have been ready for my 8-year-old son Charlie’s first existential crisis. I have a PhD in anxiety. I could easily outdo anyone in a “Did you remember your umbrella?” contest, but when it comes to mortality, I take the cake. I watched Harold and Maude at age 7, and ever since, I’ve mastered the skill of glancing around nervously, hoping to catch Death lurking in the shadows. I always felt Him nearby, tapping His foot impatiently, checking His watch at every milestone—kindergarten graduation, my driver’s test, even that time I almost choked on a grape during a picnic in the park. If not Death himself, then certainly someone orchestrating a good scare.
Becoming a parent didn’t awaken any latent carefree spirit within me; it only intensified my worries. Now, I was the CEO of anxiety, responsible for two fragile little humans. I saw danger everywhere but tried to keep my fears hidden, letting them spin a silent loop in my mind. I wanted my children to cultivate their own worries, not simply inherit mine.
One night, while visiting friends in California with Charlie and his little sister, I was still recovering from five days of family reunions and a whirlwind 14 hours at Disneyland. After three flights and multiple hotel stays, we were exhausted. Yet, we had made it through without any travel disasters. All was well.
As bedtime rolled around, my daughter was sound asleep on the sofa bed, while I tried to catch up with my dear friend, whom I rarely saw. I thought Charlie was nestled in bed next to his sister, but the unmistakable sound of bare feet against hardwood announced otherwise.
“Mom, I can’t sleep.”
“Charlie, you haven’t even tried.”
“Yes, I have. I just can’t.”
“You’ve been in bed for five minutes! That doesn’t count as ‘trying.’ You’re just waiting until you can get up again.”
“Mom—”
“Back to bed.”
“Mom—”
“Back. To. Bed.”
Charlie’s frustrated stomps faded as he retreated down the hall. But in five minutes, he was back. And again. For an hour, he paced between the guest room and the living room. My irritation grew. I put down my wine glass, shot my friend a knowing look, and marched into the bedroom, ready to confront him.
Charlie sat upright in bed, knees drawn to his chest, eyes wide with concern. I squeezed in beside him, wrapped my arms around his thin shoulders, and gave him a gentle scalp scratch. “What’s on your mind, buddy?”
Before I delve further into our conversation, it’s worth noting a bit about Charlie. Like my husband and me, he seems to possess a wisdom beyond his years. He taught himself to read at three, devoured Harry Potter by four, and has had more than his fair share of emergency room visits due to asthma, which he describes as an “electric flying machine with blades in my chest.” He has even held a proper goldfish funeral on our front porch and dealt with the loss of two grandparents before turning six.
When he was four, my father-in-law passed away unexpectedly during our Christmas visit. We took Charlie to the park, sat in the winter sun, and gently explained that “Ba” had died and wouldn’t be coming back. He listened, blinked a few times, then simply asked, “What happened to his body?” We explained coffins and burial, and then he announced he was hungry, and we headed home.
Things went smoothly afterward, thanks to his beloved Nana, who was like a second mom to him. Their bond was incredible—she understood him in ways I often envied. So, when I had to explain to him at six that Nana was going to die from a brain tumor, his reaction was one I’ll never forget. His face transformed, showing a depth of sorrow that pierced my heart, yet he quickly masked it, returning to his childhood joys.
He wanted to know where Nana’s body would go, and we discussed cremation. Charlie expressed doubt about her going to Heaven since he didn’t believe in it, but he wished for her sake that she would. He even helped us sprinkle some of her ashes in a grave next to Ba’s, rubbing the gritty bits between his fingers. Later, he watched my husband scatter more into Lake Tahoe’s waters.
Charlie seemed more at ease with the concept of mortality than I am. Despite my good health and my parents still going strong into their late 70s and 80s, I spent an unreasonable amount of time fretting over my mortality.
That night, I waited for Charlie to share why he had been restless, expecting his typical complaints about games or fairness. Instead, he hesitated, saying, “I don’t know if I should tell you.”
My parental instincts kicked in, worried he might reveal something terrible. “Did something happen that you want to discuss? It’s okay to share.”
Tears filled his eyes. “I’m just… I guess I’m upset that one day, everyone I love has to die.”
He looked at me, waiting for a response, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Once I composed myself, I said, “That’s what’s bothering you?”
He nodded, looking relieved yet uncertain about my reaction. I pulled him close and hugged him tightly, as if trying to merge our souls. “You’re right. Everyone you love will eventually pass, and there’s nothing we can do to change that.”
“It’s sad though,” he stated, almost as if seeking confirmation.
“It is. It’s incredibly sad and hard to accept. But it’s the truth, which is why we must cherish every moment together, have fun, and spread as much love as we can.”
This from someone who lies awake at night worrying her kids might tumble off a roof deck.
I have no clue why Charlie’s heart was heavy with this realization that night. Did I mishandle my response? I’m not sure. But verbalizing it made me confront that harsh reality: while life may feel long, our time is fleeting. I felt I had done well in explaining Nana’s passing to Charlie, often reminiscing about her baking skills when he missed her. My husband and I had navigated discussions about death as best we could.
But that night, I acted more like a teenager than a caring parent. Charlie wasn’t fretting over improbable accidents; he was grappling with the undeniable truth that we will one day be separated from those we love. He was staring that reality in the face while I had been so preoccupied with inconsequential worries.
“Now get some rest.” We spooned for a bit, I kissed his ear, and soon he drifted off to sleep.
I returned to the living room, hugged my friend, and said goodnight. When I came back, Charlie was sprawled out like a rag doll, hair tousled and limbs akimbo. I nestled between him and his sister and listened to their steady breathing, staring at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity.
In that moment, everything seemed to crystallize—the fears, the love, and the fleeting nature of our time together.