Writing About the Death of a Child

Unless one has lost, or is losing, a child to death, one will find it difficult to portray what that experience is really like. I tried and couldn’t do it.

I learned something about myself during the exercise. I couldn’t conjure a meaningful tale. I couldn’t capture the essence. I tried to describe the moment between a dying child and the child’s mother at the instant when conversation turns to the child’s wishes and thoughts about the child’s own death.  I failed.

Maybe it is because I am a mother that I sabotaged the tale-telling. I don’t want to imagine the horror and pain of losing my child. And, worse, I don’t want to imagine being a dying child.

As I am writing this, I am remembering an episode from my early teens. I lost a classmate to cancer. I remember a couple of other kids and I went to visit the dying girl in the hospital. She made it easier on us during the visit by being upbeat.

She and I were not close friends. However, we shared an interest in dodgeball and softball pick-up games on the playground. Often we were the only girls on the field. It was early enough in puberty that we were physically matched to, and sometimes exceeded, the prowess of the boys. Our pride bonded us together.

I forgot–or blocked–that particular experience from my childhood when I was writing. It would have helped to call on my vague memories of those hospital conversations with my friend. I could have used my memories to reconnect to my internal conflict and despair. I could have tapped into the confusion I felt as a child who was getting a premature lesson in death and dying.

Instead, I choked. I went no deeper than re-mixing the song lyrics with a wooden spoon.

Subconsciously, I did tap into the nobility my friend exhibited. She was matter-of-fact about her lot. Like the character in my story, she focused her energies on making those who spent time with her feel better at a time when they felt awful. She lived her last weeks with grace.

In that small way, my story honored my friend. She died too young.

On Being Premature

Copyrighted 2012 by Fay Moore

The temperatures, prematurely warm, dance around the 70 degree mark for weeks. Incredulous, the novice farmer watches weather reports daily, certain that the laws of science will kick in; a reversion to normal is at hand.

Nevertheless, gardens are prepared, last year’s plant corpses tilled in to feed the worms. Manure is spread. Kitchen scraps get buried in holes randomly scattered in the raised beds. Egg shells are crushed. What the chickens don’t eat goes into the ground, a source of calcium for plants and people. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

On week five of early spring, leaf buds swell on the grape vines,  archetypal  slow bloomers to avoid the killing frost.  Tree pollen paints flat surfaces chartreuse. Bluebirds claim post holes and sparrows build nests.  All nature pronounces the danger is past.

On week six, still no low temperatures. Tadpoles squiggle in the fish pond. Spring frogs trill at night.  The woods sing. The farmer relents, planting seeds weeks before the instructions on the seed bag say it’s time.

On week seven, the hens seek roosters. The horses drop hunks of winter hair, rolling vigorously to scratch itchy skin. More seeds go into the ground. The farmer sweats.

On week eight, the flier goes out advertising the pre-sale of garden produce through membership shares. In the field, tender sprouts push out the first set of true leaves.

On week nine, normal prevails: frost bites.