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The excitement of Christmas overshadows everything for a child, and my children were no different.  "We don't know for sure, but maybe Daddy was on the plane that crashed today,"  was met with blank looks.  Ten year old Andy verbalized what the others were thinking.  "Does this mean Daddy isn't going to bring us any Christmas presents?  Who's going to open HIS presents?"  Initially, their questions rankled me.  I kept them tightly in my heart as I pondered what to tell them.

Larry always spoke fondly of his colleague, Bob, a former pediatrician, who worked at Parke-Davis.  Bob had traveled as far as London with Larry and then changed flights for an earlier return home.  He called me at 10pm to say, "Sue, I am so sorry.  We have confirmed that Larry was on the flight. I am going to go to my bedroom, kneel down, and pray for you and your family."  Truth replaced suspicion.

Tumbling into shock causes everyone to operate on automatic pilot.  Being children in anticipation of Christmas, 'airplane crash and Daddy being dead did not correlate; airplane crash and no presents did.'  A clearer picture of how to explain Christmas and death and presents came into focus.  My prayer of how to tell the children had been answered, and I seized the opportunity.     

Gathering Jim and Andy to the couch, an arena for many family activities, I held their hands firmly.  "Daddy was on the plane that crashed.  Daddy died tonight.  You asked earlier what presents Daddy would bring us.  This is the gift that he gives this Christmas - that he loved Jesus and one day we will see him again in heaven."  We cried.  I chose to let Davy, who had fallen asleep in my bed, have one more night of innocence.  I was sitting on the bed singing him lullaby as he awoke.  I took him on my lap and told him the same story.

The days and weeks following were a crush of arrangements, legalities, people, and condolences - organized chaos.  Activity distracted the pain.  Compassion freely expressed itself.  There evolved, however, a disjointedness in what was expressed to me as opposed or in relation to the boys.  With condolences came statements (many times said in front of the boys) like "What a job it's going to be to raise three boys alone" or "You certainly will have your hands full."  The message sent MOST of the time to them was "You take care of your Mom now."  It's no wonder they took their anger out on me.

'Taking care of Mom' produces problems for both the parent and the child.  It robs the child of his/her childhood and creates role confusion.  It plunders the respect for the parent and denounces their maturity.  If 'taking care of Mom' is taken seriously by the parent, the child becomes the surrogate spouse.  The resulting dysfunction further complicates grief and can have lifetime negative effects.

When said in my presence, I could counteract these statements.  But, by the time I spoke, the damage had been done.  My children were being 'programmed' to take care of their mother.  There seemed to be no answers to the problem until one day...

Adele was seven years old when her father died 45 years ago.  She began to cry as she told me of going back to school shortly after the funeral.  "This one kid was always making fun of me because my Dad was dead.  I knew I couldn't tell my Mom about it because I was supposed to take care of her.  And, 'taking care of Mom' meant that you shouldn't say anything to upset her.  I've ever told anyone this before."  Because of the thoughtless admonitions of adults, this child's pain had been carried for 45 years, and still existed for this 52 year old woman who had finally shared it with someone.

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