This past weekend was the first that Trinity's spent with me since her Poppi died. Last night, as she played with my iPad, she asked what I was typing. I told her I had a blog, which generated much excitement. She asked what I wrote about, and I told her it was about my life since Poppi died.
"So, it's about Greek?" she asked as she came to perch on the arm of my chair.
"Yes, part of it is about grief," I said with a slight smile. She gave a coy little grin in return.
We talked about other foreign words--widow, widower, doe (in a rabbit, rather than deer context)--and read through my prior posts. One thing I love about kids (and this one in particular) is their natural curiosity and sense of wonder. I've been around children all my life, and I even concentrated on pediatric nursing at one point, so I'm accustomed to the endless questions. One thing I firmly believe is that, if the child is old enough to ask the question, he or she is old enough to hear the answer--explained in an age-appropriate way, of course.
During Bunny's second hospitalization in December, I was taking Trinity and Sarita (her little sister, almost two years old) to my house after they'd visited with Poppi. Less than a mile into the trip, Trinity piped up from the back seat.
"Is Poppi dying?"
"Well, we all die at some point, but I don't think he's dying today."
"Oh, good," she was relieved that this wasn't the last chance she'd have to see him. I didn't think it was fair not to give her some warning about the eventual outcome.
"But you know that Poppi's really sick, right? Out of all of us, he'll probably die first. Just not today."
She knew he had cancer, but was a bit confused about what that meant, exactly. We talked about cancer, and the treatments Poppi was getting, and how sometimes when he was grouchy it was because he just didn't feel good. As usual, she was full of questions and wise observations.
She's held up really well through moving and having her Poppi die all within a month's time. One thing that bothered Bunny a lot was the thought that his grandchildren wouldn't remember him. I assured him to the contrary--Trinity has known him all her life, and they were best buddies. Sarita is probably too young, but we will tell her all about Poppi and show her pictures of the two of them together.
On his last hospitalization, he was reluctant to have the kids visit. He couldn't speak, and didn't want them to be overwhelmed with that and everything else going on--IVs, oxygen and other medical interventions. Once he moved to the hospice house, I convinced him that the kids could handle seeing him.
We weren't worried so much about Sarita, but Trinity was old enough and smart enough to be terrified if she didn't know what to expect. Corey and I prepared her for the things she'd see and the things Poppi couldn't do, like walking and talking. We also explained that he was very much aware of what was going on, and that he'd write notes instead of talking. I told her that sometimes even adults got uncomfortable seeing someone so sick, and not to feel badly if she didn't think she could stay in the room.
"Let's do this--if you feel like you can't stay, we'll have a code word. You say the code word, and I'll find a reason for you to leave, and that way you don't have to worry that Poppi's feelings will be hurt if it's too much for you." The plan was for Joey and Corey to go to my house to get some things, and Trinity and me to stay with Bunny until they got back. Joey would go out to the car and call me after five minutes. If the code word was invoked, I'd find a reason to send Trinity to the house, as well.
After thinking a minute, she found the code word--or code phrase--she wanted: "I know! I'll say I have to powder my nose!" I'd taught her this little nicety years ago, and she always found it funny. Once, we were at a restaurant when we'd excused ourselves with the phrase, and as we were standing to go, she looked at my nephew, Stephen, and said, "That's how ladies say they have to go to the bathroom."
So we entered the room, Joey exited, and we pulled chairs to Bunny's bedside. He smiled at her, and she gave him a little kiss, and then sat next to him. She was a bit timid at first, but once she got the hang of his note-making and his improvised sign language, she was chattering away like old times. By the time Joey called, she was well into one of her stories and I hadn't heard the code word.
"T, I have to powder my nose. Do you need to powder yours?" I wanted to make sure I wasn't misreading her level of comfort.
"No, you go ahead." She seemed to have forgotten all about code words.
"Are you sure?"
"Uh, yeah, I'm sure." Like d'uh! With an eye-roll, for emphasis.
"Watch that tone, iCarly!" I answered, referring to her favorite sitcom geared to tweens. I stepped into the hall to assure Joey that she was fine. In this, as in most areas, Joey is very protective of his little girl.
As it turns out, sometimes the people we worry need the most protection are the strongest of us all.
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