Renee has spent a lot of time talking to family, and family friends, about what’s happening. it’s her way of dealing with it, I suppose. Me? I just sort of type it out here, and see what happens.
Today, I told Ray. Telling a three-and-one-half-year-old about death is not an easy thing, especially since you can expect all sorts of interesting questions.
“Ray, Uncle George died yesterday.”
(Now, at this point, I went with the most direct, honest, and truthful answer I could come up with. As much as it pained me)
“I don’t know.”
“Daddy? Let’s do this puzzle.”
What I wouldn’t give to have the attention span and simplified world view of a three-year-old some days.
There will be questions, I’m sure. Eventually. I really don’t want to get into the circumstances, or have to explain what “suicide” is to a three year old, so we’ll gloss over that bit, right? And I expect there will be extra explanations later, when we have to remind him that his cousins don’t have a daddy any more. We’ll save why for later.
Much, much, later.
I swear by all I know to be holy, I’ll never willingly leave my family that way – with unanswered questions and a dull ache for what should have been for the rest of their lives. Never.
And just touching on the barest slip of what that would feel like…is a grief and sadness and anger so deep I cannot comprehend it. I don’t know if there’s an empath locked up inside me, or what. But what I do know, is that what I can feel for them is the barest shadow of what they will feel when the full realization sets in. Like in about 10 or 15 years. And that’s just not fair. Not to them. Not to their mother, not to us.
I feel old, and tired, and weary. I will sleep now, and see if morning brings anything new.