A few days into the diagnosis process that revealed my husband’s inoperable brain tumor, I sought the advice of a trusted play therapist. I needed help on the best way to explain to our children, then 6 and 2, what was happening to their daddy.
I relied on her advice over and over during Steve’s illness and death. As we continue to grieve, I continue to rely on her words — on how to answer questions, on how to be hopeful yet realistic. And especially on how to take care of Cooper.
She stressed that he should never feel that he has to be strong for me or anyone else. That he shouldn’t be burdened with being “the man of the house.” That he needed to be a child, not a little man.
So I’ve been careful to tell him explicitly that, yes, he is the only male in the house but that he’s not the man of the house. He’s a child and shouldn’t shoulder the weight of adult problems. That’s my job.
I am deliberate in defining his roles as a young son and a brother — not as a replacement father figure for Katie. And while he does chores around the house, they’re age-appropriate and what I think I would have asked him to do had his daddy not developed life-robbing cancer.
And yet, Cooper is developing into a little man.
A couple of weeks ago, the three of us witnessed a small tragedy. The squirrel that hangs out in our flower beds ran from the front yard to the street and into the path of an SUV.
The car drove away, and the small animal stayed on the street. It tried to stand up and wiggle, but its injuries were too great.
Katie didn’t yet understand the squirrel’s fate. “I think it’s going to walk away!” she said.
Cooper saw the pool of blood before I did.
“I think we need to go inside,” he said gently but decisively. Then he helped Katie with her backpack and opened the front door for his little sister.
He helped keep her occupied in the back of the house, away from the windows that offered a view of the freshly dead rodent. It’s the kind of thing his daddy would have done.
Last week, we were in Europe for spring break. We spent most of the time in London, with a quick day trip to Paris.
After a whirlwind tour of the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral and the Louvre, we walked (and walked) until we found a suitable cafe for dinner.
Just as our waiter delivered an orange soda for Katie, I realized she’d fallen asleep at the table. She wasn’t a little asleep, either — she was conked out.
There was no way that I was going to be able to drag this sleeping 5-year-old onto a subway to get back to our train in time for our departure back to London. A taxi was a better option, but I had purposefully spent down my euros and didn’t have enough cash to get us from the restaurant to the train station.
“Cooper, I don’t want to alarm you, and you don’t have to solve this problem, but we’re going to have to get Katie from here to the train station in 90 minutes. I’m going to figure this out — I just thought you should know my concern.”
He thought for a moment, then spouted ideas. He could hold her feet and I could hold her shoulders and we would carry her down the street and to the escalator leading to the subway platform. Then we’d carry her to the train.
Or he could sit in the cafe while I leave to find a cash machine, then we’d carry her outside and hail a cab.
As he continued to brainstorm, she woke up. She was fussy from missing dinner, but at this point a crying Katie was better than an unresponsive, difficult-to-move Katie.
I helped her dput on her coat, and Cooper raised his eyebrows and grinned knowingly — in a way that said, “That was a close one,” without uttering a word.
It’s the kind of thing his daddy would have done.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. E-mail her at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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