“Maybe we should look it up online and see what experts recommend for explaining this to her,” I said, fighting back tears. “There must be books out there with advice on how to talk to her about it.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of resources,” my partner replied softly, “but Google can’t tell us what we truly want her to understand. That’s up to us.”
The “her” he was referring to was our 3-year-old daughter, Lily. And, unfortunately, he was right.
Earlier that day, he had taken our 14-year-old cat—Lily’s beloved companion—to the vet. While nothing seemed seriously wrong at first, we noticed some troubling changes: she had lost weight, showed less enthusiasm for food, and there was an unsettling shift in her demeanor.
A series of tests revealed the heartbreaking truth: multiple cancerous tumors in her intestines and fluid accumulation around her lungs. A steroid injection could provide temporary relief, allowing us a few more days at home to say goodbye. (And yes, we named her Bella after a character from a favorite childhood show, though she had affectionately morphed into “Bella Boo” over the years.)
How could I determine the right way to explain death to my daughter when I was grappling with my own feelings? I felt overwhelmed with self-doubt.
Though my partner and I didn’t follow any specific religion, he had grown up Catholic, with a mother who taught religious classes and a grandmother who attended mass regularly. My own upbringing was quite different; I still recall my mother’s tale about being ousted from Sunday school for innocently asking about God’s father.
While Santa and the Easter Bunny were annual visitors to our home, any religious teachings came from the whispered warnings of my grandparents, who believed that divine retribution could fall on children for their parents’ misdeeds. I have vivid memories of sitting in church as a child, when my grandmother snuck me a communion wafer, claiming it was a cookie. Surprise—it was not! I gagged in the middle of the ceremony, and my grandfather’s horrified expression is forever etched in my memory.
To honor my partner’s family traditions, we had Lily baptized, but we hadn’t revisited those discussions since then. Now, with Bella nearing her end, I was at a loss.
Lily was so attached to Bella that she often rushed home from preschool, exclaiming, “Hi, Bella Boo!” before even greeting me. Since she was a baby, Bella would curl up beside her, purring contentedly. As a toddler, they loved to snuggle on the couch together. Nowadays, Bella would tolerate Lily dressing her up in tiaras and necklaces, a far cry from the behavior of our other two cats.
A couple of months earlier, we had briefly touched on death when Lily’s betta fish was found lifeless. She was upset, asking what “dead” meant, and we had attempted to explain it in simple terms. She seemed to grasp it but moved on quickly, though it lingered in her thoughts.
When my partner returned from the vet, visibly shaken, we sat down with Lily and Bella. “Sweetheart, Bella isn’t sick like we thought. She has something called cancer. Vets can help with many things, but cancer is very difficult to treat. We’re really sad about this, but Bella will be leaving us soon. We have a few days left to give her extra love.”
I watched as Lily tried to process this information. “Okay. I’m sad about that,” she said, her response both mature and innocent. We reassured her that it was perfectly fine to feel sad. That evening, she unexpectedly became the cheerful one, doing her best to lift my spirits during a tough time.
Later, I overheard her saying to Bella, “I’m sorry you’re a little dead, Bella Boo. The fairies will come and get you soon, okay?” as she hugged her tightly.
After Lily went to bed, we found ourselves discussing how to navigate this emotional challenge. I realized I didn’t have a clear understanding of my own feelings about grief, yet here I was, trying to guide my daughter through hers.
As parents, do we need to have everything figured out before we can help our children? I’m not certain. What I do know is how much we cherished Bella and that she will always remain a part of our family in our hearts. Perhaps we’ll approach this as we have with other parenting hurdles: take a deep breath, hope for the best, and reach out for guidance. After all, when the going gets tough, we can always look for support from those who have been there before.
For more insights on navigating the complexities of parenting, including topics like home insemination, you can check out our other blog posts at Intracervical Insemination. And if you’re looking for expert guidance on family planning, Make a Mom is a great resource to explore. Additionally, the CDC offers excellent information on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, losing a family pet can be incredibly challenging, especially when you’re also trying to support your child through the experience. It’s a journey that requires honesty, empathy, and a willingness to navigate the unknown together. Ultimately, we can cherish the love we shared and honor their memory, helping us grow as a family.