Six Year Old

He gets it. He really does. Tonight when I tucked in your six year old son I asked him, “what do you want to talk about tonight?” He said, “Daddy and Hanukkah.” I asked, “what do you want to say about daddy?” He started to cry and said, “it is really hard to talk about daddy – maybe we can skip it and just talk about Hanukkah.” I said, “maybe we should try and talk about daddy a little bit.” He covered his eyes and said, “I wish daddy wasn’t dead and I wish he would come home from work and bring us dinner and I wish I could tell him funny things to make him laugh.”

The tears are just pouring down my face as he talks. I remind him that it is healthy and ok to cry – mostly because I can’t stop. I am not sobbing like I want to – but the tears streaming down my face are just out of my control. I am smiling the whole time he is talking but the tears leak out nevertheless.

I once wondered how much he was grasping at such a young age – and I am painfully aware tonight that he really understands it. Maybe not where you are and certainly not how you died. But six weeks later he most certainly realizes you are never coming back.

Your six year seems to have a better grasp on reality than me. He is dealing much better than I am. I still can’t believe you are gone and he seems to not only believe it, but has accepted it. It is still really hard to admit to myself that this it – the finality of it all. I wish I had his courage and ability to admit what I don’t understand. I am in awe of my child tonight.

I am so angry with you now. As I sit here typing and think about the conversation that just took place. Why your perfect six year old must deal with this pain and grief. His life should be filled with happiness and joy. He has his whole life to deal with grown up shit, and here he is, six years old, dealing with pain some people never have to face. He doesn’t deserve this. He should be thinking about how many toys he will get over the next eight nights, why his sister drives him crazy and how much fun life can be. But no, he is upstairs now, talking to himself, pondering how daddy didn’t come tonight for dinner and how he never will.

I worry about your other children too. I really worry about your nineteen year old. A man is some respects but very much a little boy in others. He is aware of how you died and I can only imagine the inner struggle he deals with – or doesn’t deal with – depending on the day. I wish he lived with us sometimes so I could keep a better eye out on him. So he could spend more time with his younger siblings and we could all get through this together.

Your four year old. She is more like you than any of your children and she will probably forget you over time. It is heartbreaking to think she won’t remember her daddy. It is so unbelievably painful I don’t think I can even write about it now. I am devastated for her beyond words. She doesn’t even realize how much she will miss you yet. She has no concept of how important your relationship once was and how when she is older she will just need her daddy and you won’t be here.

Maybe I am being too melodramatic about this all. Everyone tells me how resilient children are. That they will get through this difficult time and come out stronger in the end. But my heart breaks a little more each day when I think about the pain they have and will have forever. The pain that will someday come when I must tell them the truth about your suicide. Then they will relive your death and wonder if it was something they did and if they could have stopped you. Wonder like I did why just being a family wasn’t enough to keep you happy and alive. Wonder why we have to be sad forever and miss you always.

Then there is me. I beginning to loathe this blog, because I think it essentially worrying people. I am really just writing to get it all out of me. Then my sad thoughts and feeling seem to be left with those reading it. You must know that I have a flair for the dramatic. If you ask my mom she will tell you that when I have written about my life in the past she believes it to be more fiction than real. But it is my opinion after all. So if you are reading and worrying, don’t. I am fine.

Sometimes during the day I have thoughts that come to me and think I want to write about them later. I should be carrying the tape recorder my Nana bought me – but I am too lazy to listen back and write later. I save ideas for when I have the time. Then of course I am kicked in the stomach with bedtime drama and anything I was going to write about gets kicked to the curb – because what my children say to me have much more value than any thoughts I may have had.

So instead of wrapping Hanukkah presents I am writing. Maybe it is part of my denial that tomorrow starts their favorite holiday – after their birthdays of course and their daddy won’t be here to partake. Maybe the presents will replace the sadness – I doubt it but I can dream . . .