It was way past bedtime on a Tuesday night when – out of nowhere -my four-year old decided to drop the bomb on me.
“Daddy, am I going to pass away?”
The question kicked me right in the stomach.
Quick, time to do what any tired and clueless parent might do in this situation: Change the subject.
“What’s that buddy? Hey, let’s talk about something fun. Do you want to ride your bike tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but am I going to pass away?”
I found my breath again, but still no good way out of this one. It’s definitely time to start going back to church.
“Buddy, you’re four years old. You don’t need to worry about things like that,” I reasoned.
“Yeah, but am I going to get old and pass away and go to heaven? I don’t want to pass away.”
The way I see it, when the topic won’t budge, dads like me have only three options in a predictament like this: Lie. Tell the truth. Or pass the buck.
“Mumma,” I called out, hoping option three would buy me some time.
Nope, she’s busy with the baby, trying to get him down. I’ll have to navigate these waters on my own for the moment.
“John, why would you ask me that? What’s up?”
“I don’t want to pass away.”
“Neither do I, buddy,” I said selfishly.
Sadly, it’s not the first time the topic has come up. Questions of mortality found their way into my son’s imagination too early when his grandmother -my mom -passed away in 2004. Of course, he was barely conscious of the event then. But in the year and three months that they shared the earth, he and Mary had moments captured on tape and photos that are treasured keepsakes now. They have helped him to know her. And they have raised difficult questions and awkward answers.
Lately, whenever my mom’s name comes up, John stands ready to correct anyone who has declared her dead.
“She’s not dead,” he insists confidently. “She’s alive in heaven.”
This night was different, though. My son was no longer envisioning the mysterious passage of his grandmother -whom he knows chiefly through photographs. For some reason -and I wish I could say why -he had glimpsed his own mortality.
Maybe he’d overheard the news story about the cancer-stricken 8 year-old who didn’t get the proper medicine. Or the 7 year-old caught in the crossfire over by Mission Main. These kids are absolute sponges.
Or, maybe he just had a private moment of anxiety and grief, like we all do from time to time. Just, I didn’t think it would come so soon.
He whimpered a bit into his pillow.
I rubbed his back and tried to find some words that would soothe a sleepy kid.
“It’ll be okay, buddy,” I said. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
A few minutes later, he was fast asleep.
Wish I could say the same for his dad.
