Decorating a casket
August 18, 2016
It has been 141 days. For the last two days, I have been scrutinizing the way I handled Mason’s death. More importantly, I have looked closely at what actions I have taken to comfort my children in this confusing time of extreme pain. A friend warned me before leaving the hospital the day Mason died not to exclude my children from grieving. She had a personal experience with the death of a sibling and still had resentment toward her parents because they hid their grieving from her. She tenderly invited me to share my grief with the children. I took that advice and ran with it. Initially, I didn’t know how to approach inviting my children into the grieving process; all I knew was that I needed to show them unwavering, fierce love as they were walking down this dark road. I wanted them to remember the experience and remember how strong they were through the process of losing their baby brother and best friend. I have witnessed my children grow into sweet little bundles of love and empathy, surviving much more than any 5-year-old and 7-year-old should ever have to.
Almost immediately upon telling the kids that Mason was dead, I realized that they wouldn’t understand or couldn’t understand. I told them that Mason was gone, and I explained to them that he was never going to come home. Still they asked me where he was when they woke in the morning. I knew that I was going to have to be bold without being aggressive. I needed them to understand death BEFORE the funeral. I didn’t want them to be blindsided when they showed up at the funeral and witnessed everyone crying. They needed to know who was in the box at the front of the church. So, I made a decision. I decided to bring the casket home, but this decision didn’t go over well; some said that I was potentially traumatizing my children. Against the will of a select few influential people in my life, I proceeded to bring it home. I reminded myself that there is a taught social stigma that surrounds death in this country. We have been taught to fear caskets. I delicately approached, showing my children the “box.” When they looked at it for the first time, they both commented on how beautiful it was. I explained the plans for the casket and asked if they would like to help decorate it. Both of them beamed with pride as I explained the plans for the box that would hold baby Mason forever. Both of them selected some toys for Mason and helped make his bed for the last time. Mikey wanted to paint a rainbow, and Megan wanted to bedazzle it. So we did. With each paint stroke, I could feel the death of Mason sinking in. “Why does he have to stay in this box forever?” and “Can we open the box if we forget to put one of his toys in?” or “Does everyone who dies have to go in a box?” The bottom line is that there is no book on how to walk your children through the death of a sibling. My intuition told me that letting the children touch the box that would forever hold Mason would solidify his passing. It did, and I am proud to say through the blanket of darkness that I made a good decision.
There is a good chance that I will scrutinize the way I handled Mason’s passing for the rest of my life. Today, I decided that I am not ashamed of bringing home the casket. I am thrilled that it helped my children understand what death is. It also showed them that caskets are nothing to be afraid of.
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