In my family, there has never been a policy of hiding any sort of bad news from anyone. Sometimes that information may not be volunteered, depending on what the nature of the news is, but is never denied if asked about. News of an impending death from whatever cause was never withheld from anyone for any reason. I think part of that stems from the fact that historically, in the US anyway, my family were mostly farmers and miners, sometimes wealthy and rich, most times not. Grieving was done openly, especially by the menfolk in our family. The grieving needed to be started and done with because as quickly as possible, there were things that needed doing and the financial success or failure of the household that year might rest on getting those things done
45 Years Ago (wrritten a few weeks ago) or When Should a Parent Tell Offspring That Parent is Dying?
When I was 12 my father committed suicide. The family had had no conversations about what was going wrong, except for a very weird conversation my father had with me alone, which made me extremely sad and confused at the time but which now (48 years later) I easily recognize as his saying goodbye.
I think I would have done much better if there had been more conversation about what was going on at the time. In this particular case, it’s possible that would also have actually prevented the death itself, though that’s hard to say now. It would have been upsetting and difficult to have had those conversations – but life was upsetting and difficult without them, all the same.
Did he have similar conversations with adults? If he did and they did nothing there were people who were derelict.
Do not judge then by the standards of now. That’s a trap regardless of the topic. By and large when faced with the large questions in life, people do what everyone else around them is doing. All the more so if the topic is taboo or generally avoided.
That sort of behavior would be ignorant and/or derelict if done today. 50 years ago was a different society with different knowledge and different expectations.
Choosing to judge an era by later, more enlightened standards is simply choosing to make evil cold-hearted monsters out of ordinary generally well-meaning people. That’s unhelpful to everyone.
Whether the subject is sex, death, Santa Claus or anything else, my philosophy is "As soon as a kid is old enough to ask questions, he’s old enough to hear the truth.
You were plenty old enough to be told the truth. If any serious illness struck me or my wife, I’d never try to hide that from my son.
That said, I wouldn’t be hard on your mother, who was almost certainly acting in what she THOUGHT was your best interest.
Even in 1972 there was about an even split as to what to tell. My father flat out asked the doctor, in the July liver scan what it showed. The doctor responsible for the test answered with a lie. And he asked again in October whether certain pains could relate to a recurrence. His regular doctor, another lie. When I asked my mother about why they were riding a friend’s policy as an “employee,” (which he only was in some mystical sense) my mother mentioned the term “pre-existing conditions.” I didn’t know that term then and I asked what it meant. When she pretended she didn’t hear me I asked if the “cancer came back.” She again pretended not to hear me.
I would like to be that charitable, and my relationship with my mother from then on was, on balance, good. But sorry, I don’t think she gave my interests even remote consideration. She knew that I would break the secret and tell my father. She was waiting until he was safely in the hospital, wasn’t coming back out, and I would never be alone with her.
I know it used to be the norm to not have children attend funerals, but that’s just horrifying. :eek: I know it was a different time, but I still can’t conceive how anyone could possibly think surprising a child with her father’s corpse was the right thing to do.
Funerals may be a different story. Sometimes you don’t know what the preacher or speakers are going to say and it can get weird. But still the child has to know.
When should an offspring tell their parents?
Mom’s regular physician was probably not answering any question my 61 y/o mother didn’t ask. Not long after Mom’s brain surgery (tumor) I met with her doctor to discuss a referral for a related issue. I’m straightforward to the point of rudeness (don’t mean it!) and fortunately her doctor was just as capable. As I began to ask about the referral, the doctor stopped me mid-sentence to tell me that cancer had spread to her pancreas, there was nothing more that could be done; her life is ending. “She’s croaking” was the reinforcing statement he used to spare us both any lack of clarity (before folks go all aghast, “she’s croaking” was perfect attenuation to our personalities in the moment. You had to be there.)
Later that day I brought up the fact that her care had just become hospice to which Mom replied with the almost angry statement “that means I’m dying then”; the best I could do was a shoulder shrug and an apologetic “yes”. The day I learned of it was the day I told Mom she was going to die in a matter of days or weeks.
About ten days later I had to ask my mom “what she wanted to wear” (for her funeral). Mom semi-humorously commented “that was a helluva question”. I had set my lifetime bar for awkward inquiries.
My younger sister stayed with us during the actual dying process and we calmly participated in the whole thing. We were bedside to close her eyes.
We would’ve cheated her if we pretended.
Shrug, I know quite a few families which also had that all set up beforehand; at least one case where it was the dying man who brought it up (“don’t dress me up willya” “your corduroys and a white shirt?” “yes please”). My father’s side of the family generally picks the kind of clothing that person would wear comfortably. My mother insisted in dressing Dad in a “best suit” that he’d worn only once (for my brother’s wedding) and which had never fit (she’d insisted in buying it in Dad’s pre-cancer size). That suit was him like I am Nefertiti.
My grandmother had advanced Alzheimer’s when she died (of pancreatic cancer). No outfit or casket was preselected so naturally we ended up bringing a couple different outfits to the funeral home to see what went best with which casket lining. It was very surreal Thanksgiving weekend.
…in the wee hours of the morning, my father passed away after his battle with cancer. The trip to the Jewish funeral home was beyond disgusting. Seeing my mother and I, both red heads (coincidence) sitting there the guy said “you know, this is a Jewish funeral home.” Then he tried to convince us to buy a casket that was more expensive than we needed, for a cremation. Flatly against Jewish custom if not law. Now lets stop with the bad things.
28 years ago tomorrow, I met my (now) wife for the first time. She is the love of my life. The moral of the story; good things follow bad things.
My ex-husband was, I think, 11 when his dad died after a second stroke in 1967. He had become fairly disabled after his first, but apparently nothing was discussed in the family in front of the ex and his sister about the possibility of impending death. So when the ex came home from school and found the house empty and the recliner his dad always sat in fully reclined but also empty, it was more than a shock. He did not forgive his mother for not telling him his dad might die at any time, and did not really speak much to her for almost eight years until we started dating. I think I finally got him to grudgingly agree that while she had made a mistake in not telling him, her intentions were good. I’ve just now realized I have no idea how his older sister reacted. Despite finally having a relationship with his mom again, the whole experience is one of those defining moments that shaped him into the miserable person he continues to be.
I assume that despite your best efforts you could not make him any less miserable.
I was 7 years old when my father passed. He lived a state away from us and I had only seen him twice before since the divorce (I was 4 when that happened). My mother took us up to see him in the hospital about a month before he died. I remember being shocked and scared at how bad he looked (cancer).
I’m glad my mother took me to his funeral and I got to kiss him good-bye. I’m mad I did not get to go to the burial. It took place at Ft. Snelling National Cemetery with full honors. Instead I got sent home with cousins I did not know.
In that regard your mother was a class act.
Burials are a close call. Judaism does not use open caskets so it’s not as much of a problem.
Mmm, well, he had conversations about it with my mother, who wanted him dead and talked with him for hours while he ate arsenic and died. She said she was glad. I do wish she had called the police or an ambulance (he was at his workplace an hour from the house, so that would certainly have been possible and from her point of view safe). She went to bed knowing he had died, or at least deteriorated beyond speech, and he was found by coworkers in the morning who called police.
She was much more than derelict. She shared responsibility for the death, in my view. Ordinarily I’d say that a suicide is not the fault of people around the person who might have said or done something different, but in the case of somebody important who spent hours encouraging suicide, it’s not the same.
I mean any other adults were derelict if they were aware of his psychological condition and did nothing.
Ah. Well, then, his girlfriend was, unless she did something that didn’t show up in the police report.