My Daughter Asked How Daddy Died

Your desire to understand has always been so clear. It's one of your fiercest personality traits, and sometimes you and I butt heads over it. I've always known that you would want to understand this, and while we talked, it was as if I could see the gears working in your mind while you tried to sort it all out.
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My Darling Sophie,

We parents do this thing where we raise our children and teach them things and then we are surprised by how well you learn all of the things we've exposed you to. You and I are no exception to this. You've grown up so quickly. I know all parents say this about their kids, but that's because it's true. It happens in the blink of an eye, and whenever I stop and think about your beautiful heart and your awesomely curious mind, I'm always amazed at how smart and determined and thoughtful you are. I guess I expect you to be little forever, but I know deep down that's just not going to happen.

This last Sunday you asked me a question that you had never asked me before. Do you remember what it was? You asked me how Daddy Sean died.

I knew that you would ask me this question one day. I hadn't even been dreading it. I guess I thought that the setting would be a little bit more formal than just an ordinary Sunday afternoon sitting on the couch watching the NFL playoffs, but there it was, staring me in the face. Even the Seahawk's unbelievable comeback couldn't distract me from your question; you had my full attention and I could tell that I had yours too.

Gosh, you're 4 years old now, and ever since you can remember, we've talked about Daddy Sean. You know that before you were born, Daddy Sean died. You say that you know this means that he stopped moving and didn't wake up anymore. You believe, like I do, in Heaven, and that Daddy Sean lives there with Jesus now. You know that Daddy Sean's mommy and daddy are your Nana and Pop-Pop and that he died when you and your sister were still inside Mommy's tummy. I know you've seen photographs of me with Daddy Sean on vacations, at football games, with family during holidays and at our wedding, but that you've never seen any pictures of Daddy Sean with you, and well, that's because they don't exist. You've asked me before why Daddy Sean isn't here anymore, but until now, my answer of "w\Well, honey, Daddy Sean was very sick for a long time and his body couldn't get better anymore, so he died," had sufficed.

You asked me how Daddy Sean died, so I attempted to explain cancer to you, a child, which you know, feels like an impossible task. I don't understand cancer, sweet girl. I don't understand how it starts or how it spreads or how it smartens up and fights back. I don't understand why some people are more susceptible to it while others are more resilient. I don't understand why young people suffer from it. I don't understand why we can't just make it all go away. Don't get me wrong, I know about cancer. I know as much about it as someone who is a caregiver for three years can know (which is a lot, in case that's not clear), but sweetheart, knowing about something and understanding it aren't always the same thing.

Your desire to understand has always been so clear. It's one of your fiercest personality traits, and sometimes you and I butt heads over it. I've always known that you would want to understand this, and while we talked, it was as if I could see the gears working in your mind while you tried to sort it all out.

"Did he eat it?"

"No, honey."

"Well how did it make him sick?"

At 4 years old, your firsthand experience with illness has mostly been in the form of the stomach flu. As you try to understand why your body is reacting the way it does when you've eaten something that doesn't agree with you, I try to explain to you how food poisoning works.

"You ate something that was yucky and it made your body sick."

I explained to you that Daddy Sean's cancer started inside his body and sometimes people can get better from it, and sometimes they can't.

"Oh. Okay."

That was the end of your questions. Forget a penny, child, I would have paid a million dollars to know what was going on inside your head at that moment. You weren't upset and you didn't ask anything else. You went right back to eating your snack and watching the game with me, just as you had been doing right before curiosity struck.

This was the first time you had asked how. Before this, you had only asked what. Heaven help me when you start to ask why.

As parents, we are faced with a thousand different options and choices on how to raise our kids. You'll understand this someday when you're a mommy. Talking to my children about their dead parent, though, isn't a choice that I feel like I had. It's something that I view as a responsibility because I want you to know everything about what helps make you, you. I hope you know that I want you to be curious about this and that I want you to ask questions.

Sometimes it is hard for me to recognize when you're ready for the conversation to advance, but I so appreciate you coming to me when you have a question you want answered. I will always be willing to go down that path with you. I know that there will be many versions of this same conversation in our future. I know that it will take a long time for you to understand what happened to Daddy Sean. I know that questions will be asked and emotions will be stirred, but I hope that I am prepared enough to provide you with an environment that will encourage your curiosity and that will foster your understanding. Except, I feel that I can't ever really be prepared for my 4-year-old to ask me how her father died. It's just not something you ever get used to hearing or answering, so try to be patient and understanding with your imperfect mother, because I really am trying my best here.

I know that there are probably questions in your mind that you haven't asked me. Maybe that's because you don't know how or maybe because you aren't sure you'll like what the answers are. I want you to know that it's okay to be confused. It's okay to feel scared or sad. A lot of the time, I feel that way too. But don't be confused or afraid too long, sweet girl, because I want you to ask your questions and voice your feelings. I want you to know that I'll always be as honest as possible with you without being frightening. Someday, you will know all of the details about what happened. The details are real, and raw, and it was a very traumatic experience for me. But right now, you're 4, and I'm limited to sharing information with you that you can process. I will share the truth with you, but there is so much more to the story than what you know now. This stepping-stone will eventually lead us down that road and there will be stops along the way for you. You'll learn lots of stories about how our family came to look the way it does now. They will all lead you to a destination of understanding. These experiences that you have no idea about right now are already shaping your life. They are already a large part of your existence and your identity.

Our story is a little bit hairy, but it's the story of our family. We are a strong, loving family and these experiences make up who we are together. I hope that you understand all of this someday because I want you to understand this part of who you are. I want you to understand how loved and treasured you are. I want you to be curious and ask questions about your past. I want you to feel safe and secure when you want to talk to me. I want you to be proud of who you are and what your family looks like, because that's how I feel about you. I hope that I'm doing the best I can for you by keeping Daddy Sean a part of the conversation. I hope that you know that this is a conversation that you are always welcome to start and that I will always be honest with you about.

As much as I don't know what these future conversations will look like or exactly how they will go, I do know that once we have them and you start to fit pieces of your past together, everything will be clear. The overall picture is what is most important, sweetheart, and your picture is beautiful. You are part of a family that loves you. You are needed and wanted. I hope you never stop asking questions about Daddy Sean because every time you do, I get to think about him a little bit harder, and remembering him is always a good thing, so don't be shy. Your thoughtfulness and kindness and your curiosity and your wit will carry you far in life, and I so enjoy watching you find your way. I can't wait to see where you end up, sweetheart. I'll be right here, trying to figure it all out right along with you.

All my love,


To read more about Karen's experience with cancer, visit her blog here.

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