Time to Fly by Eileen Robertson Hamra

Author:Eileen Robertson Hamra
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: City Point Press
Published: 2020-01-22T15:00:10+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Watching the kids grieve felt like watching dominoes fall. There was a strange choreography to their tumbling. Each of them felt sad or bad, but not necessarily all at once. The weight of Brian’s death was heavy, but it was not the same degree of heaviness at the same time. The kids also seemed tuned in—among themselves—regarding me. I can’t be sure, but it seemed that, if they sensed I was in a better than usual space one day, one of the three of them could let their grief loose. One would simply be “in a mood” for a spell, or would rage with all their might, or would cry.

Max’s processing of Brian’s death was the most immediate and visceral. He told me he wanted to kill himself when I denied him ice cream. With three young children, I didn’t have time to read books this time around, as I had after my sister died. I directly sought out real, live experts on children’s grief.

Debbie delaCuesta was another one of my down-to-earth angels. I went seeking guidance for Max, but her first question whenever we walked through her office door was always directed at me: “How are you doing?”

Like a flight attendant, she knew I couldn’t help my kids unless I was breathing. Was my oxygen mask secured and functioning? Okay, then. We could proceed.

With Debbie, I learned much more than I thought I knew about the importance of modeling for our children. She helped me forgive my Scary Mommy moments by confirming that I would screw up at times. I did screw up, still do, always will. Much to my horror, as the kids have grown and made their own less than stellar choices, I’ve used the awful line: “Your Dad would be so disappointed.”

Really, Eileen?

With Debbie, I learned that modeling sadness was not only fine, it was encouraged. I still cried to myself and by myself, but I also told the kids, “I’m really sad. I’m really missing Daddy right now.”

We talked about Brian all the time; we kept his name and spirit alive.

For the most part, Brooke—always the one to care for everyone else first—hid her pain from me. She tried holding it all together during the six months we lived in California immediately following Brian’s death. School support was huge for the girls, but I did have to pick Brooke up once midday because she had gone to the school nurse complaining of not feeling well. I asked, “Is it your stomach? Is it something you ate?” and she said, “Maybe.”

It took her several minutes before she began crying and told me that she had heard an airplane flying over the school and had been thinking about Daddy in his final moments. She was worried sick that he had been scared.

“He thought he was going to get out,” I told her. “He was only scared in the very last second. One second.”

Things would get worse for Brooke after we left California and moved to Maryland.

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