I was lucky. I had a really good mother. And I didn't lose either parent until I was in my late 40s. Not that I didn't understand what it would be like. When I was 7 and my brother was 10, after we'd finally gotten back to Seattle after one year in Boston had been stretched to three, so that my mother could do some work that was necessary for her PhD thesis, my parents asked the two of us how we'd feel about getting another sibling.
I told them they were too old. They were nonplussed. But they never asked me why I thought they were too old. Had they asked, I would have told them that the kid might be young when they died, and it would be hard on the kid.
And we did get a baby sister two years and a couple of months later, and four decades later, when the parents got sick, and when they died, it was harder on her than it was on us.
Still, she got through it in one solid piece, and she's truly fine.
I can remember, after learning about mortality, probably at age six, but maybe earlier. The Shulmans, a family I'd known since age 4, as composed of a father and two kids, came over for dinner, with a woman in tow (who I learned years later ultimately married Marshal Shulman) who looked like she was not part of the family, my recollection being that the Shulmans were casually dressed and she had dressed fancy, and felt--to me at least--to be a bit out of place. I don't remember asking questions, but I'm guessing that I did, after they left, and that my questions got answered honestly.
After that, I'm pretty certain, I had a dream, with an odd ditty in it, which I think was more poetic than what I'm able to remember: "She's good and alive and living well/but sometimes it's better to go back to your own shell," the latter being death. The gist of it was that my mother was mortal, but she'd be around for a long time.
OK. I'm beginning to understand. 5. How awful.
I was lucky. I had a really good mother. And I didn't lose either parent until I was in my late 40s. Not that I didn't understand what it would be like. When I was 7 and my brother was 10, after we'd finally gotten back to Seattle after one year in Boston had been stretched to three, so that my mother could do some work that was necessary for her PhD thesis, my parents asked the two of us how we'd feel about getting another sibling.
I told them they were too old. They were nonplussed. But they never asked me why I thought they were too old. Had they asked, I would have told them that the kid might be young when they died, and it would be hard on the kid.
And we did get a baby sister two years and a couple of months later, and four decades later, when the parents got sick, and when they died, it was harder on her than it was on us.
Still, she got through it in one solid piece, and she's truly fine.
I can remember, after learning about mortality, probably at age six, but maybe earlier. The Shulmans, a family I'd known since age 4, as composed of a father and two kids, came over for dinner, with a woman in tow (who I learned years later ultimately married Marshal Shulman) who looked like she was not part of the family, my recollection being that the Shulmans were casually dressed and she had dressed fancy, and felt--to me at least--to be a bit out of place. I don't remember asking questions, but I'm guessing that I did, after they left, and that my questions got answered honestly.
After that, I'm pretty certain, I had a dream, with an odd ditty in it, which I think was more poetic than what I'm able to remember: "She's good and alive and living well/but sometimes it's better to go back to your own shell," the latter being death. The gist of it was that my mother was mortal, but she'd be around for a long time.
Thank you David. I truly appreciate all of your insight and thoughts.
You're welcome, Chris. I'm enjoying our communication even though it's on so serious a subject.
Sending hugs. I give hubby an extra hug every year. He lost his mom when she was 50.
(((((((Chris))))))
😢