In 2010, my daughter Grace entered the world, just three years after I lost my mom to pancreatic cancer. The moment I held her, with her tiny tuft of hair and chubby cheeks, I felt an overwhelming urge to share stories about my mother, to make sure Grace knew she had existed, mattered, and was deeply loved. I started talking about my mom from the moment I thought Grace could understand. However, I never considered the complexities of those conversations.
When Grace was five, I found myself grappling with some profound truths about discussing difficult topics with children. A close friend who had spent years as an educator offered me invaluable advice: if kids have questions, answer them honestly, but don’t overwhelm them with information before they’re ready.
Oops.
At three, Grace casually announced, “Your mom is dead!” while we were waiting in line at the grocery store. I nodded, trying to maintain composure. Then she followed up with, “But where is she?” My attempts to articulate the beliefs of those who find comfort in concepts like heaven (my in-laws) versus those who don’t (myself) felt clumsy. I explained that my mom believed in the natural world and that if Grace looked closely, she might feel her presence in nature — in the rustling leaves and the sunbeams.
In my eagerness to introduce my daughter to my mother, I inadvertently sparked her curiosity about death. “Your mom is never coming back, and you can’t hear her voice,” she stated matter-of-factly in the car. “My grandmother is dead!” she declared to a delivery driver.
Despite all the chatter about death, it took nearly two years for Grace to pose the big question: “Mom, how did your mom die?” This came one day during a drive home from preschool when she was five. “Her body got very sick,” I replied. “Not like a cold. It’s a different type of illness that won’t happen to you.”
“Liar!” my inner voice screamed, recalling the social media posts I followed about kids battling cancer, tagged with hashtags like #FightingTogether. “It mostly happens to grown-ups when they’re very old,” I added, trying to reassure her.
“Because she got sick, her body stopped working,” I concluded.
Just as I hoped for an end to this conversation, she fired another question: “Is one day your body going to get sick and stop working?”
“Probably not,” I said, lacking the courage to outright lie.
“But am I going to die?” she pressed.
I answered, “Everything has a beginning, middle, and end, including our lives. But you’re just at the beginning, and the end won’t come for a long time.”
Grace sat silently, digesting my words, and then asked, “Mom?”
I braced myself for another inquiry. “Yeah?”
“Can I roll down my window?”
I want my children to have a vivid picture of who my mom was, while also assuring them that her fate won’t be theirs. Yet, I can’t guarantee that. All I can do is navigate these conversations as they arise, being honest when they ask questions and providing comfort when needed. In the meantime, I strive to create joyful memories for them that they can share with their own children someday, if I were to leave this world early. I may yell a bit too much when they bounce on the couch; I surprise them with little toys, even if they might promote some outdated notions; and we jump in puddles every time it rains in Los Angeles, splashing around without a care.
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Summary
In this piece, the author reflects on her journey of motherhood after losing her own mother, navigating difficult questions from her daughter about death while trying to honor her mother’s memory. She emphasizes the importance of open communication and creating joyful experiences for her children amidst the challenges of parenting.