‘What Losing My Husband To Cancer At 39 Taught Me About Parenting Through Grief’

— ‘We had to learn to adjust from being a unit of three to a partnership of two’

By Clare Campbell-Cooper

I will hold my hands up and say I headed into parenthood with a healthy dose of naivety. I genuinely believed that my son George would ‘pop out’ (oh yes, I was that naïve), that I would immediately embrace motherhood, complete with the sun shining, lots of floaty linen clothes, a gurgling baby and possibly some soft-focus camera shots.

The reality was less prosaic and mostly consisted of me running five minutes late for everything and leaking from every orifice. It wasn’t a glamourous time and there was definitely no linen nor soft-focused moments.

But to add insult to injury, the month before I found I out I was pregnant, tests had diagnosed that my husband had a brain tumour. And after George was born, further tests showed that the tumour was malignant and David had less than ten years to live. It felt like the rug was being pulled from under our feet time and time again. And each time it took us slightly longer to get back up.

But we were lucky, David defied the odds and we had eleven years of being together as a family unit. We had times to come to terms with the fact that David was going to die. We had time to get used to it, to say our goodbyes, and in that we were so much more fortunate than many.

But watching a child grow up with grief in the depths of their eyes isn’t easy. I think all parents feel like they can’t do right for doing wrong sometimes, and this was exactly the same for me. But suddenly becoming a single parent, grieving and watching my child grieve, heightened this. I made the same mistakes that a lot of parents make, but the ability to bounce back just isn’t there in the same way when you feel so emotionally raw from grief.

When David was alive, I was advised to keep things emotionally stable for both David and George and I did that by being the buffer to their frustration, anger and grief. In reality, these are normal emotions that any household has, but in ours it could result in seizures and hospitalisation. But after David’s death, the wheels came off.

After David’s funeral we entered the dark, dark days of overwhelming waves of grief. George was going to school, I was working, and I stumbled through the days, not really having a clue what was happening. I didn’t seem to be able to get George in the right school uniform (which is never cool). I would be scrabbling around trying to find trousers or a polo shirt that was not wet nor in the washing machine.

Always a competent cook, I didn’t seem able to get food on the table. I could never get the bins out on the right day. And there didn’t seem to be a reason why I couldn’t, as nothing had changed; school was school, food was in the cupboard, bin day was still bin day. But I didn’t seem to be able to join the dots. And George watched me, dry eyed and shell shocked, not sure of anything; but needing continuity and surety, and so I tried my best to give him that.

And over time I adapted. I bought more school uniform so that I had more time to get things through the wash. I signed up to one of those pre-prepared food companies that deliver kits to your door. I tried to finish work at a reasonable time. I took George to his clubs and we saw more of my parents.

We had planned an amazing summer, which we knew would have been David’s last. He died at the end of May, before our summer. But George and I still went to Scotland, Northern Ireland, the Gone Wild Festival, and Center Parcs. We learned to adjust from being a unit of three to a partnership of two: me at 46 and George at 11. We learned how to lean on each other for support. Where I would have told David about my day, I found myself telling George. Where George would have wanted David to play football I donned my trainers and did my worst (and my worst was very bad).

I am not saying that it was easy, it wasn’t, and we still have our moments, but we muddle through. We both have regrets, but who doesn’t? We have regrets of how we have treated each other, those cutting comments that seem harmless at the time but burn into your memory. We have regrets of what we should have done but didn’t – the hours spent away from each other, in front of a computer, when we could have been touching, laughing, feeling. But we also have memories and we have been blessed with so much love. And we still have each other.

And I have learned that everyone has something. No-one’s lot in life is any harder or easier than anyone else’s and we are all doing the best we can to raise our children and to get through life with our heads above water…and that’s just fine. I’m still waiting for the moment when I can float around in linen, looking elegant with a soft-focus lens but I have found that a large gin and tonic and some love and laughter with our friends is much better for the soul – and far more likely to happen!

Complete Article HERE!

Grieving the death of a pet

— Here’s how to help kids cope, according to experts

Involving your children in your pet’s death helps them grieve.

For many kids, the death of a pet is their first experience with grief. Here’s how to help them get through it, according to experts.

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Many parents aren’t sure how to talk about the death of a pet with their kids. Children often have not experienced death and loss before, and many do not have an understanding of permanency yet. Thankfully, there are some experts in pet loss — and a slew of helpful books — that can help families cope with the death of a beloved pet.

As a veterinarian and mom of four, Dr. Stephanie Nelson has had a lot of experience with losing pets — and with how to talk to kids about it. Her kids, who range in age from 2 to 11 years, are used to having several dogs at a time, and many of those dogs joined their family as adults. “My kids have experienced losing many pets. My kids very much understand that dogs don’t live forever, and we are very open in discussion about the fact that they will see all of their pets die at some point,” says Nelson.

While a pet’s death will always be painful, there are some strategies and tips that can help children navigate their feelings. Here, Nelson and others share how to help kids cope with the loss of a pet, including how to talk about their grief and what to do to help them work through those painful and confusing feelings.

Whether you’re preparing kids to say goodbye to a beloved pet or sharing an unexpected loss, there are a few things to keep in mind as you explain the situation.

Be honest about what’s happening

Some of the language adults use to soften the blow of pet death can be confusing for kids, says Cōlleen O’Brien, a licensed social worker and the founder of BLUE dog Counseling. Phrases like “put to sleep” or “cross the rainbow bridge” make sense to adults because we are used to hearing them. To kids, those phrases are confusing and often scary, says O’Brien.

“Start with fewer details. You can always work up from there based on their questions. Young people are great investigative reporters.”
— Cōlleen O’Brien, licensed social worker

“We say they died or they will die, and that means that they won’t ever be awake or their body won’t be working. And they won’t be here with us,” she offers instead. She says to keep it as simple as possible. “Start with fewer details. You can always work up from there based on their questions,” she adds. “Young people are great investigative reporters.”

Help kids understand the process

Jana DeCristofaro, the community response program coordinator at The Dougy Center: The National Grief Center for Children and Families, says that pet euthanasia in particular may be hard for children to understand. “It’s different than when we talk to kids about a human in our life dying. As adults, you’re often making a decision in collaboration with a vet to help end a pet’s life, and we don’t really do that with humans yet.”

There’s a few simple scripts DeCristofaro says are helpful for parents to use:

  • “When our pet can’t get better and is suffering, we need to help end their suffering.”
  • “The doctor will give Franklin a medicine, just for animals, and that medicine will let them die peacefully and painlessly.”

DeCristofaro also recommends The Dougy Center’s guide to helping children cope with pet death, created in conjunction with Debra Lee, the veterinary wellbeing director at the DoveLewis Emergency Animal Hospital.

Offer reassurance

Letting children know that euthanasia is a choice due to suffering helps them process the deliberate act of ending a pet’s life. Clarifying that the medication is only for animals can ease fears. It’s important to reiterate that the pet will not feel anything when they pass away.

Helping kids cope with the death of a pet

While some children experience the loss of a human loved one devastatingly early in life, for most children, a pet’s death is their first experience with grief and loss. The skills they use to navigate the loss of the family dog are part of a foundation that will help them handle other losses throughout their lifetime — think of it as a chance to add to their emotional toolkit.

Viewing pet death as a form of grief is actually a relatively new way to look at it, says O’Brien. “Pet loss only started to be acknowledged in the 80s,” she says. “They were going like, ‘Hey, folks, we’ve missed lots of forms of grief.’” The death of a pet can affect kids — and grown-ups — in the same way that losing a human family member can, so it is important to acknowledge how big this may feel to your kids. Here are some expert suggestions to help them work through it.

1. Make room for complex emotions

It’s important to recognize that kids process grief differently at various ages, says O’Brien. “The question I get a lot is, ‘My little one is totally upset, and then the next minute they’re playing with their dolls. Is there something wrong with them that they’re not registering this properly?’” That compartmentalizing of grief is actually very common for young kids, she says. They may grieve for short periods of time and then appear unfazed.

For older kids, tweens and beyond, parents may see more classic signs of grief. “They’re conscious enough to know death is permanent,” says O’Brien, “but they haven’t had a lot of experience with permanency, so they’re grappling with that.” She says tweens and older kids are the age group that often becomes very quiet or even explosively angry at times while grieving.

2. Let kids take the lead

When kids are dealing with grief and loss, all the experts say it’s better to let them take the lead on processing their feelings. Offer basic information and answer follow-up questions. “As a parent you’ve got your kids in front of you, and your biggest priority is their well-being,” says DeCristofaro. “Our biggest instinct is to protect our kids from pain.” That instinct, though, can also prevent them from getting to say goodbye and feel what it means to grieve. If your pet’s death is not sudden and there’s a chance to say goodbye, offer it to your kids. If they say no, do not push.

“I think that it is good to have rituals with kids when they lose a pet. We scatter some of the ashes in that dog’s favorite place.”
— Dr. Stephanie Nelson, veterinarian

3. Create a goodbye ritual to help ease the pain

When one of their dogs is showing signs of aging or a terminal illness, Nelson says they use truthful language to explain what is happening. If they know when the death will happen, they prepare the kids and follow the same rituals each time.

“We spoil the dog beforehand. Every one of our dogs gets a whole Happy Meal that the kids get to feed to them,” she says. They let the kids say goodbye, but do not let them witness euthanasia. The family also keeps photos of beloved dogs on shelves in their house. The kids often stop by to look at them and share a memory or two, which Nelson thinks is helpful for them. “I think that it is good to have rituals with kids when they lose a pet. We scatter some of the ashes in that dog’s favorite place,” she says.

4. Consider censoring certain parts of your pet’s death

Some kids may ask if they can see the pet be euthanized or see them after they die. “Most people do not bring younger kids to a euthanasia and instead choose to say goodbye at home,” says Nelson of young children. Some tweens and teens do ask to come along, and she advises being honest about what they will see. “Some children do not want the last visual of their pet being after it has passed away; it is often easier on them to remember only the pet alive and at home,” she says.

As for viewing ashes or other remains, that is another decision to let the child make once you’ve provided them with all the information. Explain that their pet will not look like they remember — ashes will look like a small pile of bone shards and dust, and a deceased intact pet will be cold and stiff. O’Brien says it is better to wait until the child asks, rather than to offer.

5. Practice bibliotherapy

All of the experts love bibliotherapy, or the art of using books to process emotions. They recommend the following books to help kids deal with the death of a pet:

Nelson adds that for older kids and teens, any book on grief is helpful, even if it’s not pet-specific — kids are able to make those mental connections as they age.

When to get a new pet after a loss

As to when to get a new pet? That’s another great place to let children lead, though it is important to make sure the whole family is on board with adding another animal. Some families find getting a new pet quickly helps kids shift their focus from the loss, while others need more time to feel ready. Both options are normal and acceptable.

Many kids worry their deceased pet will resent a new pet. “We ask, ‘What would your pet think if you gave another pet a loving home and cared for them?’” says O’Brien. “Most kids say, ‘Well, they would want me to do that.’”

The bottom line

Losing a pet is one of the most difficult experiences a family can go through. But, with the right preparation and openness to discuss big feelings, it can also be a foundational moment in a child’s life where they learn how to navigate grief and loss. As you navigate a loss, don’t forget to talk to your veterinarian, too. Many are experienced in helping families navigate pet death and can be a great source of support.

Complete Article HERE!

A moment that changed me

— My dying father told me he had a secret son. Then my brother got in touch …

Kate Brody, pictured as a child with her father.

I was 14 when I found out in 2006, and Ryan was 16 months older than me. Our lives continued apart and in parallel, until he reached out over social media

By Kate Brody

Until I was 14, I believed I was my father’s eldest child. But in 2006, a month before he died, he sat me down at the kitchen table – alone, my younger sisters asleep – for the kind of talk I knew would involve bad news. “I need to tell you something.” He looked more distressed than when he told me his lung cancer had returned and had spread to his brain. “I have a son.”

My mum stood beside him, silent, as he told me about Ryan, a boy 16 months older than me. Ryan lived in Pennsylvania, driving distance from our house in New Jersey, and my dad explained that he had arranged for them to meet recently, at a local horse farm. Part of his farewell tour.

I felt panic rise in my throat. “How?” I asked. “It was … an accident. An error in judgment. Early in my relationship with your mum,” he replied. “He’s not your family though, right?” My dad nodded, and I hugged him, avoiding the wound on his chest. I promised not to tell my sisters.

Looking back, I don’t know how to explain or excuse my response, other than to say that once I understood our time together was limited, everything felt like a threat. I wanted my dad to myself.

My sisters found out on their own, of course, and in the years after his death, we spoke of Ryan in whispers. One sister to another, relaying what little information we had about “the boy” or “Dad’s son”. Never “our brother”.

I could feel him – my phantom limb – as we marched in lockstep towards adulthood, as we moved from our teens into our 20s. I went to grad school, moved to New York, and started teaching. Ryan graduated from college, joined the military, and started flying planes. I knew because of LinkedIn, the chilliest, most distant form of social media. I sent him a friend request one night when I was drunk and he accepted. And for almost 10 years, we watched each other on our screens, getting only the facts – job histories, current locations, and one photo each. I could see him looking and he could see me. Someone has viewed your profile.

Kate Brody.
‘My sisters and I spoke of Ryan as “the boy” or “Dad’s son”. Never “our brother”’ … Kate Brody.

Then in September 2023, a message appeared: “How are you? I saw that you wrote a book. I’m in flight school for the navy now after some time in the corporate world. What are your plans for the future? Are there any questions that I can answer?”

“My novel comes out in early January,” I wrote back. “But flight school? Incredible.” I included my phone number and went to bed, aware of what I didn’t say: that my book was a kind of apology, a story in which a deranged and grieving young woman uses social media to reach out to her long-lost brother. One in which the brother is vindicated by the callousness of the family that rejected him.

The next morning, a text: “If you come to Texas on tour, I will need to get a copy.” We texted about my sisters, his job, the climates in Texas and Los Angeles. It was surprisingly easy to talk, even if there was one subject we were avoiding: the man who linked us to one another.

Finally, from him: “I would love to hear any stories you have to share and pictures would be great too. I don’t know what you looked like or did.” That night, I couldn’t stop wondering about Ryan’s childhood. I thought of my own little boys. What would I do if their father chose not to be involved in their lives?

I built an album: pictures of my dad, me and my sisters, my kids – Ryan’s nephews. I wondered if it would all be too painful. Here is the man you were missing. Here he is helping me blow out my birthday candles. Here we are on the beach. Here he is sick, dying. Here I am, holding his hand.

I sent it, feeling obliged to fulfil Ryan’s one, small request. He sent me back a photo: a baby in blue velvet with a four-toothed smile and an upturned nose. Hair, reddish like mine, peeking from under a cap.

“I think we looked similar as little ones,” Ryan said. “I can’t say I have a clear picture of the man.” I tried to fill in the gaps: “Whip-smart. Very intense. Dry sense of humour. Phenomenal dancer. Loved dogs. Very sick for a long time.”

I went to bed that night angry with my dad, who had been dead for 17 years, and angry at myself, for my own cowardice and cruelty. For thinking I was ever the victim of anything, when I had experienced such a relatively charmed childhood.

The next day, Ryan asked for some of my dad’s writing. Looking through the letters my dad left me, I found one I hadn’t read in years. It ended: “Forgive my shortcomings, and your own. Don’t be sad when the acute pain of sorrow grows gratefully more distant. Be glad that life goes on. I’ll always love you.” I cried reading it. In spite of everything, I missed him. I was mad at him, and I loved him.

I sent it to Ryan. I thought once more of my own boys. “He would have been very proud of the man you’ve become. I’m sorry he didn’t give himself the chance to be.”

Our texting tapered off, and we went back to our lives. But every so often, I look up flights from Los Angeles to Houston. I picture us in a coffee shop – him in his military regalia, me in my writerly black. We are so different. Of course we are. We have lived different lives. But even our Texas waiter can see that we are the same. His smile is my smile. His laugh is my laugh. He is the brother, and I am the sister.

Complete Article HERE!

We Learned My Dad Was Dying

— And We Chose Not To Tell Him. Did We Make The Wrong Decision?

The author’s mom and dad in the garden at their home in Johannesburg during the COVID pandemic in 2020. “My dad loved gardening and growing roses,” she writes. “This is the last photo I have of him when he was still mobile.”

“Sometimes I feel pressured to confirm that he’s getting better. I can’t tell him that actually, he won’t.”

By

I walk into my father’s bedroom, and there’s a different man in his bed. I reel in shock but slap a smile on my face because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. It’s still him, but the disease he’s been fighting for the last 10 years is stealing him away from us.

My father’s bedridden, out of breath even at rest. He’s strapped to his rumbling oxygen machine all day and he’s lost so much weight that the bones in his collarbones and cheeks are straining against his skin. He has a barrel-shaped chest because his lungs are overinflated with air that they can’t process. This is what COPD, Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, looks like.

My mother calls me out of the room and into the kitchen where we huddle with the excuse of making tea.

“I asked the doctor for more antibiotics for your father to treat his cough,” she whispers in Italian.

Coughs are common for him and happen every few weeks. If not treated promptly, usually with a round of antibiotics, they can spiral into a full-blown chest infection.

“He said it’s only a matter of time before your father goes.” My mom’s eyes widen and fill with tears. “What does that mean? Where would your father go?”

I swallow hard, but my throat is concrete. We’ve been expecting this — COPD is a progressive disease, and over the last year, it’s been getting worse — but it’s still a shock.

“When’s the doctor coming?” I ask.

She frowns. “Why would he come?”

“To tell Dad that he’s dying.”

“No, we can’t tell him,” my mother says firmly. “It would make him so depressed.”

My mother is the person doctors inform about my father’s condition. With English being my father’s second language, he’s relied on her to filter and trickle the information down to him.

Over the years, when my dad was frustrated with his illness, we’d gently remind him that he had lung damage from smoking. But there’s what I call “disease denial” in my family. My parents have always tried to overcome illness by pretending it doesn’t exist. Years previously, when my father had prostate cancer, he didn’t acknowledge it was cancer. He’d call it a “crust” the doctors would remove. (Thankfully, he was fine.) Even when I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer at 35, my parents denied it completely, as though something so scary couldn’t happen. Perhaps this is how they cope.

I wonder what I’d want if I were in his position. Would I want someone to tell me that my time was limited and that I wouldn’t ever be able to step out of bed again? How would I feel if the people around me were lying to me about my condition?

A study published in Supportive Care in Cancer found that not telling a terminally ill patient that they’re dying is quite common in some countries, such as Italy, Spain and Japan — and even doctors struggle with the question of whether or not to inform their patients.

An oncologist interviewed in the study states that although a doctor has the right to inform their patient as long as this knowledge won’t harm the patient’s health, it’s difficult to know what harm could be caused by spilling the beans.

I’m now worried about what harm could be caused to my father — and us — by keeping the information to ourselves.

I’m not sure how to navigate visits with my father when the lie of his death is hanging over me, especially when he says heartbreaking things like, “Why can’t the doctors figure out how to treat me?”

This might sound strange, but my father never learned how to use the internet, so the only information he receives about his condition is from us and his doctors.

I just nod and say stupid things like, “It’s terrible… I’m so sorry…”

Even worse, sometimes I feel pressured to confirm that he’s getting better. Once the antibiotics start to clear up his cough, he says, “I think a few more days in bed, and then I’ll be able to walk around.”

What am I supposed to say to that? I can’t tell him that actually, he won’t. Or that the antibiotics won’t ever completely heal him. Instead, I say, “That’s great, Dad!”

When he begins to wrap up a phone call, I quickly slip in an “I love you lots.” It’s weird because we’ve never had a relaxed, open relationship in which saying such things to each other is no big deal. But, while he doesn’t know he’s dying, I do, and it makes me want to remind him that he’s loved. When I express such emotion, he pauses, sometimes laughs uncomfortably, or says “OK!”

If he knew he was dying, maybe he’d understand why I’ve suddenly turned into a sappy, emotional thing.

A photo of the author’s parents taken when they were dating. “My mom is approximately 20 years old and my dad is 27,” she writes. “They’re pictured at my mom’s parents’ house during the festive season. My dad’s holding a cigarette — he always loved smoking.”
A photo of the author’s parents taken when they were dating. “My mom is approximately 20 years old and my dad is 27,” she writes. “They’re pictured at my mom’s parents’ house during the festive season. My dad’s holding a cigarette — he always loved smoking.”

Lying does strange things to us. Soon, it feels like my mother, sister and I start believing our own lies. Or maybe we’re just in denial about my father dying.

“Dad’s being admitted to the hospital for another one of those chest infections,” my sister breezily tells me on the phone when he’s re-hospitalised a few months later. “Same old stuff, nothing to worry about, I’m sure.”

We’ve been on the flare-up rollercoaster a few times over the last two years and we’ve become used to it. It’s easy to forget that one of those flare-ups could lead to death. My father’s lungs are so damaged from decades of smoking that they can’t handle a mild case of the sniffles.

Denial becomes grim acceptance. I’m constantly waiting for the call that he’s near the end. My heart races and my hands shake every time the phone rings. My anxiety intensifies when doctors say his body’s not absorbing the antibiotics he’s been prescribed for his lung infection.

The fact that my father doesn’t know he’s dying means that I wait for a final conversation with him that might not happen. This deathbed talk isn’t something reserved for Hollywood movies: I’ve heard about it from friends who’ve lost their parents. The general consensus is that there’s a loving conversation between the dying parent and their children, with those last words being meant to emotionally strengthen the surviving family members.

If we’d been honest with my father about his impending death, perhaps he would’ve been in a position to initiate such a conversation, knowing that his time was so limited.

During his life, my father was always a bit of a mystery, holding his deep emotions close to his chest and sometimes choking on them the way he was now choking on air. It was rare for him to hug us or say that he loved us. I hardly ever saw him cry, except when his parents died and Italy lost the World Cup.

He became even more reserved during his last weeks. I would have loved to know what he was thinking or feeling and if he had any fears about dying, but I couldn’t chat to him about any of it.

“My father was a mystery even in the days leading up to his death, and I fear we might have had something to do with this because we kept news of his own death from him.”

Hiding the truth about his condition from him causes me to have to censor myself when this time in a person’s life should be the most honest and open.

Despite this, the doctors go along with our wishes of not telling my father the truth.

Bad things always seem to happen on a Monday morning. The call comes in at 8 a.m. The lung specialist finally gives it to us straight: My father won’t make it to the end of the day, and we have to go to the hospital right away.

My husband and I rush to see him for the last time. I’m anxious about what to expect. Will we all cry together? What will he say? How am I going to deal with seeing my father in the last hours of his life?

I push through the doors of the high-care unit and see my father lying in a hospital bed in the room ahead of me. He’s looking straight at me. Relief washes over me at the thought that we’ll be able to speak.

But as I get closer, I realize his eyes aren’t opened – they just appear that way because the non-invasive ventilator strapped so tightly over his head is pulling the skin of his face. A machine is breathing for him.

This isn’t the deathbed conversation I expected. It’s a one-way conversation in which we hope our words give him the comfort he needs to deal with the last few hours of his life and whatever happens next.

But I’m relieved I have the presence of mind to tell him, over and over again, that I love him so much. I recall research that the sense of hearing is the last one to go during the dying process.

My father’s heart is a galloping beast, still trying to ride above his drowning lungs, a superhero flying above a city that’s being destroyed. He’s still trying to cling to life, but when he slips away, it’s peaceful. How can my father, who was larger than life, have such an anticlimactic death?

He’s gone, and now I sit with the anxiety over what he must’ve been feeling or thinking as he neared death’s door. It helps me to think that perhaps he knew he was dying, and there’s some evidence of this. A few days before his death, he told my mother three men he knew from childhood visited him at the hospital. Sometimes, she saw him whispering to someone in the room she couldn’t see, deep in a conversation she couldn’t understand.

The author and her family (pictured from left: the author’s father, her sister, the author, and the author’s mom) during a trip to Italy in 1993. “We’re at my uncle's home in Milan,” she writes. “I was 12.”
The author and her family (pictured from left: the author’s father, her sister, the author, and the author’s mom) during a trip to Italy in 1993. “We’re at my uncle’s home in Milan,” she writes. “I was 12.”

After my father’s death, I try to ease my anxiety over how I can never go back in time to see him again by engaging in talk with my mother about his last days. I want all the details of what he was thinking or feeling because he didn’t tell me.

“Before he went back to the hospital for the last time, he said that he’s had a wonderful life,” my mother says. “He said he had such great daughters and was blessed.”

Hearing this is bittersweet. I wish he’d been in a position to tell me and my sister himself. Sadly, my father was a mystery even in the days leading up to his death, and I fear we might have had something to do with this because we kept news of his own death from him.

A few weeks later, I’m walking through a grocery store and regretting choosing this day to shop. It’s Father’s Day, and all the sappy dad-related songs are playing. I try to fight back the tears and the anxious thoughts that storm into me. What are the last things my father and I said to each other? I can’t remember, and it stresses me out. But then a memory sneaks into my grieving brain, bringing peace.

Two weeks before my father’s death, when he was stuck in a loop of being in and out of the hospital, he was frustrated and unsettled. He couldn’t breathe, even with the oxygen streaming into his nose, and we all took turns fanning his face with a piece of cardboard.

While everyone in the room was chatting, my father reached over and took my hand. He kept it there with him for a good few minutes without saying anything. I can’t remember the last time he held my hand. This is what I should choose to remember as our last interaction. This, more than the words we did or didn’t exchange, is what matters.

I realise that my grieving brain has been trying to hold on to the moment of his death because I’m not ready to deal with it. I find comfort in the words of Elisabeth Kübler Ross in her book “The Stages of Dying”: “There is a time in a patient’s life when the pain ceases to be, when the mind slips off into a dreamless state… It is the hardest time for the next of kin as he either wishes to take off, to get it over with; or he desperately clings to something that he is in the process of losing forever.”

Although I still wonder if my father should have known he was dying, I realise I don’t want to cling to his last hours. I don’t want to remember him being sick, when he stopped looking like himself, but I do want to remember how he held my hand in the hospital that day. I want to remember how he used to make us laugh and how he appeared to me in a dream before his death. With a big smile on his youthful, healthy face, he said, “Thank you for everything.”

Complete Article HERE!

As a death doula and professor who teaches about dying, I see a need for more conversations about death


Students in a death and dying class have the opportunity to become a ‘death ambassador,’ in recognition of their new level of awareness that could help foster healthy conversations about death and dying.

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A growing number of folks may have heard of the death-positive movement, death cafés or death-friendly communities — each of which are animated by the understanding that welcoming our own mortality could improve the quality of our lives.

There is truth to these claims. Both as a person who has taught courses on death, dying, and spirituality for more than 20 years, and as a death doula, thinking about dying and working closely with the dying has fostered in me a deep appreciation for what it means to live well and meaningfully.

However, my university students have often told a different story. Both informally in class discussions, and also in a public presentation about why death education matters, for the online Lifting The Lid International Festival of Death and Dying, many have expressed how their learning with me signals their first times talking about death.

When I hear this, I am aware of how our society needs to do a better job at nurturing more conversations about death, and building communities that support people navigating questions surrounding death and dying.

Denying death

The easiest way to exile death from our conversations is to label it “morbid,” ensuring we never need speak of it.

My first lecture in every death class begins with a discussion of the pervasiveness of death denial in dominant modern western culture.

I ask my students: “How do people react when you tell them you’re taking a course on death?” Invariably they have heard things like:

“That’s so morbid!”

“How depressing/dark/strange/weird!”

“Why would you want to study that!?”

My courses are designed to introduce students to the study of death through history, culture, religion and spirituality, ritual, literature, ethics and social justice

We explore social and cultural barriers affecting how services are structured and the implications for end-of-life care. For example, racism and inequities in health care and other institutions contributes to dangerous disparities in treatment and life outcomes, influencing Black, Indigenous and racialized communities’ collective trauma surrounding dying and death.

Students read and learn about how humans have understood and interpreted death, as well as some of the pressing social issues that we face in contemporary death care and practices.

Inspired by the work of Dr. Naheed Dosani, palliative care physician and health justice activist, I now include a class on palliative care for people experiencing homelessness and dying in the streets.

Anishinaabe death doula Chrystal Toop, a Member of Pikwàkanagàn First Nation, also visits my class to speak about compounded trauma of death and collective grief experienced by Indigenous Peoples, and why she created her own Indigenous death doula training to reclaim cultural teachings.

I also bring what I have learned as an end-of-life companion from hours sitting with and listening to people who are facing their own death or the death of those they love.

The gentle skills learned there are discernment, attention and compassion. As students reflect on what they will take with them from the course, they perceive the value in this kind of experience I bring to the classroom as much as in an article on palliative care and its history.

Negative consequences of denying death

My courses on dying and death have always drawn students from other humanities programs like English, fine arts and history. But over the years, more students from the professional programs, such as nursing, criminal justice and social work are enrolling.

While students’ professional programs — for example, in nursing or social work — seek to address various topics surrounding aging, trauma, death or end-of-life care in varying ways, students also need opportunities to think about their own mortality and, to cultivate some self-awareness in order to be present for others experiencing death and dying.

Some of my nursing students raise questions like: How do they talk to the loved ones of patients who are dying? What should they say?

These questions are hard enough when death is expected. They are exceptionally difficult when it isn’t, when the death is of a young person, a child or a baby.

New level of awareness

Students also express their disappointment and confusion because what they face in the aftermath of death and loss is often isolation and solitude.

While research about how to support children and young people navigating death amplifies the need for open and sensitive discussion, some students, especially white, middle-class students, speak of experiences of having been shielded from death by those who thought shielding them was the best way to protect them from fear and anxiety.

Simply providing the safe space to begin to have these conversations goes a very long way towards assuaging their fear and grief.

In part this is because supporting the passage of life to death, and supporting grief, is (or should be) a collective experience.

Community death care is everyone’s business, and while awareness of our own mortality is an important part of that, awareness and activism around racism, violence and injustice in end-of-life care is essential.

Image showing cards with a crow that say 'death ambassadors.'
Some of my students have also created their own death-awareness social media accounts as part of being a ‘death ambassador.’

Death ambassadors

Figures like Dosani are making social media outreach part of their teaching and care practices. In recognition of the importance of creating death supportive communities, I also started an Instagram account, @death.ambassadors, to chronicle my death teaching.

At the end of each death course, I offer students the opportunity to be a “death ambassador,” in recognition of their new level of death awareness that could help to foster healthy conversations about death and dying in our culture.

Some of my students have also created their own death-awareness social media accounts, and found themselves supported by a death-positive community of educators, end-of-life companions, funeral directors and death doulas.

It is a universal truth that one day we are all going to die and that means we all have a serious stake in death education.

When it’s your turn, or the turn of someone you love, don’t we all need people who have considered how to support us in navigating dying and death? Let’s do the work to make that a reality for everyone.

Complete Article HERE!

Children in mourning are curious about death, grief and afterlife, study finds

New Curtin University–led research has found that children who have experienced the death of a loved one will benefit from gaining a better understanding about why and how people die and how to make sense of this.

The research, published in the Journal of Child and Family Studies, asked 220 bereaved children aged between 5 and 12 who attended one of 10 Lionheart Camp for Kids to submit questions about and to better understand their curiosity and feelings about these important life events and changes. The paper is titled “What children want to know about death and grief.”

The research identified that children were most curious about why and how people die, how death can be prevented or delayed, how to make sense of death, understanding and managing grief, understanding life and death, how medical interventions work, and what happens after you die.

Lead researcher Professor Lauren Breen, from the Curtin School of Population Health, said the children’s questions in this study offered important insights into their thoughts and feelings, as well as their curiosity about death following the loss of a loved one.

Children in Mourning

“Approximately 5% to 7% of children in Western countries will experience the death of a parent or sibling before the age of 18, increasing to 50% when including the loss of a close family member or friend. Bereaved children are also at a higher risk of developing anxiety, depression, poor academic performance, and engaging in substance use,” Professor Breen said.

“These statistics are alarming and have only increased following the rise of COVID-19, where an estimated 1.1 million children worldwide experienced the death of a parent in the first 14 months of the pandemic. It is critical to ensure effective and appropriate strategies are in place, such as camps like Lionheart Camp for Kids, to support grieving children, while also ensuring parents have the best tools to help them cope with the death of a loved one.

“Our study was able to show that children who are experiencing the death of a loved one are curious about death and may want to openly discuss their feelings and ask questions to better understand why someone close to them is no longer around and how they can best cope with this major life change.”

Some of the questions asked by children included: Why did he leave me? How does the body actually die? Why do kids bully me at school now? What type of sicknesses can people die from? How does a pacemaker work? What is the meaning of life? What does it feel like to be in heaven?

Professor Breen explained that a lot of the information provided to grieving children by and in school is based on their age and their development, but it may be more appropriate to base these decisions on the child’s curiosity and own level of understanding.

“Ensuring there is adequate support in place for grieving children is important to helping them manage their emotions, process the grief and provide them with a set of coping skills that will help them through the next stages of life,” Professor Breen said.

“It is very challenging for many adults to openly discuss grief with their children when they are also experiencing the same grief and loss. Our research shows that instead of shielding children which may be the natural instinct, it may be more beneficial for caregivers who are anticipating a death of a loved one to have open discussions with their children about what is happening and what this means for them.

“Further research is needed to better understand the experiences and perspectives of grieving children. By understanding this, more appropriate strategies could be set in place to provide the right level of support in a . This study shows that may benefit from considering not just what children need to know, but what they want to know about death and grief.”

Lionheart Camp for Kids CEO and Founder Shelly Skinner said adults are often awkward when talking about death and grief, while children are curious and tend to have both general and in-depth questions about illness, the of dying, what it feels like to die and what happens after we die.

“Lionheart not only offers children a safe space to explore their grief, but we also educate and support adults to have appropriate, connecting and healthy conversations with children. When find their voice and can articulate and understand their personal experience of death and grief, they better understand their thoughts and feelings, allowing them to build resilience, connect with others and better prepare for future life challenges,” Skinner said.

More information: Caitlin Joy et al, What Bereaved Children Want to Know About Death and Grief, Journal of Child and Family Studies (2023). DOI: 10.1007/s10826-023-02694-x

How To Say Goodbye to Your Pet

— Dog dad Zak Rosen on preparing for the inevitable.

Vanessa Gangadyal consoles her son, Ian, 8, while her husband, Michael Gangadyal, pets their dog, Ally, shortly after its passing.

Like many pet parents, Zak Rosen and his wife lived for years in a state of denial about their beloved dog, Rumi. Then they learned that Rottweilers only tend to live about eight to 12 years, and there was no denying it: Rumi is already in her twilight years. In the not-so-distant future, they’ll have to make some truly tough decisions.

On this episode of How To!, Zak seeks out advice about end-of-life pet care from Dr. Ellen LaFramboise, owner of Crossroads Veterinary Hospice, and fellow pet parent Gabby Santos, who shares how she prepared for the death of her 18-year-old miniature pinscher, Bob’i. Their conversation might change the way you think about your furry pal’s final days (and maybe even your own).

Complete Article HERE!