It's 11.00 pm on Sunday evening and Francis and I are cosily apart in separate rooms: he, to lip sync the dialogue to 'Goldfinger' - again; me to do almost anything else.
Then there's the sound of sobbing and Beth appears at the top of the stairs, tears pouring down her cheeks, apparently heart-broken.
"Which one of the others is dead?" I say - never one to over-react. "Leo?" She shakes her head. "Deborah? I knew I should have put arnica on that bruised knee - she's got blood poisoning. No? You're pregant? Addicted to cocaine? Vodka? Fags? Problem pages? Quiz games with yes/no answers? JUST TELL ME!!"
"It's.......death."
"Whose death?"
"Just death. One day.....I'm going to die." She breaks into renewed paroxysms of weeping.
This is a new one on me. At least to begin with. But, searching back, I remember my shocked realisation that, despite my firm conviction that I was in some way indispensible to humankind and thus exempt from death, the universe was not planning to make any exceptions in my case and would one day decide that I was surplus to requirements and delete me.
Most of Beth's problems up till now have come with some sort of solution - albeit one that takes a little teasing out.
But short of compromising all my beliefs and urging that she embrace the notion of life after death, courtesy of one of the major religions, it's hard to know what to say. We're both too old for platitudes, me to deliver them, her to receive them, but somehow I have to make the truth less naked, even if it's only by drawing a joke moustache on it.
"The thing is," I try, fumbling for words, "That you're at the stage in life when you're realising just what it has to offer. And then, just as you start to think that there are no horizons, that the possibilities stretch on for ever, you suddenly also see that it must also come to an end. And it seems terribly unfair."
Am I sounding too much like a well-meaning vicar?
The dog is licking Beth's toes.
"Look at the dog," I continue, drawing inspiration, though pitifully little, from this. "She has no fear of death and that's the result. You could argue that it's only our understanding of mortality that makes us truly human. We accomplish because we're conscious that we have a limited time to achieve things. Without that consciousness, we'd all lie around licking toes."
Ancient memories of the Duchess of York surface, and I hurry on.
"I know it doesn't make it any easier, but everyone feels like this - we all have 3 a.m. moments. It's just very intense at your age. And.....you have got an awful lot of your life left," I finish, with a platitude - despite myself. "Do you feel better?" She nods.
The following morning she seems fine. But then, as I'm driving round and round the major arterial roads to collect and deposit children like a postvan, she calls me.
"Mum. I'm at school. It's death again."
What do I say to her? All advice welcome.
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15 comments:
You know, my eleven year old son is also in this very angst-ridden, existential state. For instance coming home from school today, the two of us were having just this very conversation. Luckily I get to parrot the rhetoric of my kids' church school education and can therefore wax poetry about after-life doctrine with confidence because they've heard this stuff before.
Now whether I'm a believer, that's up for debate ... but I never mention that piece of controversy to my philosophical son.
As far as your daughter goes, what she's experiencing does seem like a normal state that many smart and sensitive adolescents go through -- it's a question of whether their parents can endure the second time around.
Good Luck.
Are you sure she said 'It's death again', and not 'It's Beth again'?
If you're positive, then I think you're on the right lines already. How it's the realisation of our own mortality that makes us achieve, and how if we live each day as if it might be our last, we will never have a regret for a missed opportunity.
That's quite deep for me, I might need a lie down now.
But seeing as I keep stalking your blog and offering you useless advice, would you mind if I linked you on my blog? Then if anyone leaves words of wisdom on mine, I can pass them off here as my own...
Um. Sorry. No bright ideas here. Let's face it, life only works because we all live in a state of denial of that big truth.
Molly gras: So does he believe you when you give him the church line - at least so far?
Tina: Very droll - will clean hearing aids tonight and get back to you. Would be more than delighted for you to link to this blog, and will do the same, if OK.
Iota: I think knowing that functioning women take this truth on board yet get on with their lives has got to be a help. Hasn't it. Beth will probably post something herself, I think.
Even my 4 year old daughter has mentioned it. At first the line 'Don't worry it'll be us who go first' nearly came out. Luckily I swallowed that one.
Everyone gets a bit (a lot) depressed and then goes to college and talks about it and then gets a job and forgets it and then has children and remembers it again and then gets old and stops caring about it. Have you ever heard an eighty year old worrying about it? Strange eh?
SAHD: Honestly, it's like the brains trust out here. Beautifully summed up. Thanks very much.
Tell Beth never fear! You have that "I'm going to die!" moment once - probably when you're about fourteen. After which you become gloriously immortal again for - oh heavens, probably about another seventy years!
That will teach you!
I haven't heard an eighty year old worrying about death, but have heard plenty showing cheerful resignation. My parents used to send my sister and I to almshouses when we were around Beth's age, every Saturday morning, to ask if we could do anything for the occupants (there may be a post in this one, actually...).
Invariably, the answer was no, but it achieved one objective; of making us value our youth (and our sense of smell - I can still remember that now), and just enjoy being out of there when we left to go home. Nowadays of course you wouldn't do that, which is a shame as it would certainly distract her from her original worry - she would be much too busy resenting you for making her do it to worry about death!
I've tried loads of different comments - they all seemed far too insensitive or platitudinal so I deleted them. Just tell her to lighten up. (That was the least insensitive.)I don't think I'd make a very good therapist, do you?
Mya x
Is platitudinal a word? You're a teacher, you should know.
Oh dear, and I thought I had it bad. You are one step ahead of me and I am not sure I can survive much longer, I am not sure it sounds as though it gets any better - would you like ice and sparkling water with your Chablis?
Sorry, Omega Mum. Like Iota, I don't have any advice. But I know you'll find a way to help her. You always sound like such an intelligent, sensitive person, unafraid to question prevailing attitudes. Useful in a mum. Hope things pick up soon. x
IB: Have passed this on. I thought I saw a flicker of understanding, but I could be mistaken.
Casdok: Harsh, but fair.
Potty Mummy: Absolutely brilliant idea and particularly like the bit about resentment for me blocking out fear of death. But where did you grow up that there were almshouses to visit? - all the ones round here were sold off long ago to rich wrinklies who'd smack you with their Prada handbags if you so much as dared cross their thresholds with a home made casserole.
Mya: I think you'd make a cracking therapist. Just one with a lot of time on her hands, owing to short duration of appointments. Passed on your comment and got brief smile.
Dulwich Mum: I'll just take it from the bottle tonight, thanks.
M@L: I love it when you describe me like that. Sooner or later I'll start to believe it, then goodness knows what might happen.
Death can be a bit of a nuisance when you're a kid I suppose. Full of "what are we doing tomorrow?" and "I can't wait for Christmas."
There's no right or wrong answer to approach death because I will happen no matter what. I guess we just have to make our kids realise that after we've gone, it's not all that bad. Not helping am I!
Crystal xx
My daughter is fixated with my death, rather than her own; I'm fixated with my death just lately as my joints are beginning to creak and not fully recover and I have muscle spasms in my back....
Husband announced just recently that when he is dying he couldn't think of anyone he'd rather have holding his hand than me - and that was meant to make me feel cherished!
So we talk about death - seriously, jokingly and fearfully and it seems to work for us.
Daughter consoles herself with the fact that she will inherit my jewellery and Chanel handbags...
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