“You know what really bothers me about death? Probably the time it takes. Melnick believes the soul is eternal and continues on after the body ceases to exist, but if my soul is without its body, I’m convinced my clothes will be all baggy. Oh, well…” — Inspired by Woody Allen, Selections from the Allen Notebooks.
You might think I’d be prepared for my 8-year-old son Oliver’s first—let’s call it a professional-grade—existential crisis. I’m a master at worrying. I could easily win a “Did you remember your jacket?” contest, but grappling with mortality? That’s my forte. Since watching a certain film at age 7, I’ve perfected the art of glancing over my shoulder, anticipating Death lurking just out of sight. I’ve always felt Him nearby, tapping His foot and glancing at His watch during pivotal moments: my kindergarten graduation, passing my driver’s test, dancing at prom, even that one time I was engulfed in sulfur smoke on a volcano in Italy. If not Death himself, definitely someone ready to inflict a good scare.
Becoming a parent didn’t magically instill a carefree attitude in me; it only amplified my anxieties. Now, I was on constant alert, responsible for two delicate beings. I saw danger everywhere but kept my worries to myself, hoping my kids would cultivate their own fears rather than inherit mine.
One evening, Oliver, his little sister, and I were visiting friends in sunny California while my husband stayed back in New York. After a whirlwind family reunion and a marathon at Disneyland, we were exhausted. Thankfully, no planes had crashed, no creepy crawlies had sprung from hotel beds, and no one had flown off the ride at Space Mountain. All was well.
As bedtime crept past, my daughter was fast asleep on the sofa bed, but I was in the living room trying to catch up with my dear friend, whom I see only once every couple of years. I thought Oliver was nestled in bed with his sister, but then I heard the unmistakable sound of bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor.
“Mom, I can’t sleep,” he declared.
“Oliver, you haven’t even tried yet,” I replied.
“Yes, I have! I just can’t sleep,” he insisted.
“You’ve been in bed for five minutes. That’s not trying; that’s just waiting to get up again.”
“But Mom—”
“Back to bed.”
“Mom—”
“Back. To. Bed.”
His sighs and stomps faded down the hall, but within minutes, he was back again. For an hour, he paced between the guest room and the living room, and I was starting to lose patience. I placed my wine glass down, shot my friend a look that only fellow moms would understand, and marched into the bedroom, ready for a showdown.
Oliver was sitting up in bed, his knees hugged to his chest, eyes wide and sad. I took a deep breath, pushed aside my frustration, and sat beside him. “What’s bothering you, buddy?”
To give context, Oliver is a bit of an old soul. He learned to read at three, devoured Harry Potter at four, and has been to the ER for asthma more times than I can count. He’s officiated a goldfish funeral and processed the passing of beloved family members by the age of six.
After we lost my father-in-law during a family Christmas, we sat in the park to explain to Oliver that “Ba” had died. He blinked a few times and simply asked, “What happened to his body?” We explained coffins and burials, and then he said he was hungry.
Things went smoothly until we had to tell him that his cherished Nana had a brain tumor. On his sixth birthday, when I broke the news, I’ll never forget the look on his face—it was a mix of grief and a forced return to childhood innocence.
Oliver had always seemed to handle mortality better than I did. I’m someone who has enjoyed good health, with parents in their 70s and 80s, yet I often find myself worrying about the worst-case scenarios. That night, however, he looked troubled.
“I don’t know if I should tell you,” he said hesitantly while his sister snored beside him.
“You can talk to me about anything. Are you upset?” I prompted.
He hesitated. “I’m too embarrassed,” he mumbled.
My heart sank. Was he a victim of bullying or something worse? I kept my tone steady. “Did something happen? It’s okay to tell me.”
Tears welled in his eyes. “I’m just… I’m upset that one day everyone I love has to die.”
He looked at me, waiting for a response, and I surprised myself by bursting into laughter. “That’s what you’re worried about?” I exclaimed.
He nodded, clearly relieved yet unsure of my reaction. I pulled him close, wrapping my arms around him like I wanted to protect him from the world. “You’re right, buddy. Everyone you love will one day pass, and there’s nothing we can do to change that.”
“It’s sad though,” he said softly, almost as a question.
“Absolutely. It’s the saddest thing. But since we can’t change it, we need to cherish every moment we have, have loads of fun, love each other deeply, and strive for happiness.”
This coming from the mom who lies awake at night worrying about her kids leaping from the roof—something they haven’t done since 2011!
I’m not sure why that particular thought weighed on Oliver’s mind that night. Did I handle it wrong? Maybe. But in voicing that difficult truth, I realized he had pinpointed the one certainty in life: that someday we will be separated from each other. While I was busy concocting wild scenarios to distract myself, he faced the reality head-on.
“Now, get some rest,” I said, spooning with him for a few moments before kissing him goodnight. He quickly drifted off.
I returned to the living room, hugged my friend, and said goodnight. When I went back to the bedroom, Oliver was sprawled out, limbs akimbo, and I curled up beside him, listening to the soothing rhythm of their breathing, pondering the ceiling for what felt like an eternity.
In the end, we all must confront the reality of mortality, but as long as we embrace joy and love in the moments we share, we can find peace in the journey.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Maya Johnson shares her experience of navigating her son Oliver’s existential crisis regarding mortality. As a parent, she struggles with her own fears while attempting to reassure him. The dialogue illustrates the challenge of discussing death with children and highlights the importance of cherishing moments together. In facing this reality, both mother and son learn to embrace life’s joy despite the inevitable.