Eight-year-old Sarah Johnson had always been known as "daddy's little girl." The youngest of three children, she loved her father very much. She often waited on the front porch as time neared for Dad to come home from work.
On weekends, Dad and Sarah always guarded what they both called "our special time." Special time was two hours every Saturday afternoon when they shared activities together. Sometimes they would go to the park and feed the ducks, or sometimes they rode bikes together. At other times, they would simply sit and visit.
Just last Saturday, Sarah and Dad had gone to the mountains, where, hand in hand, they hiked trails together. They enjoyed watching deer feed and actually came within only a few feet of a newborn fawn. Sarah and Dad smiled at each other and laughed, both realizing how much fun being together had always been.
After school the following Wednesday afternoon, Sarah's life changed forever. As she approached the house she had always lived in with her mom, dad, and older brothers, she knew something was wrong-terribly wrong. A stream of cars was pulling up to the house, and several neighbors with sad faces were standing in the driveway. With some uncertainty, she slowly moved toward the front door. As they saw her approaching, the neighbors stood quietly, saying nothing and staring with a penetrating and frightening silence.
Her Uncle Bill met her at the door, took her by the hand and led her into the main living area. As Sarah looked across the room she saw her mother, head bowed not saying a word to the half-dozen people surrounding her. When Mrs. Johnson saw Sarah, she broke into tears and reached out to embrace her daughter.
Mom cried and cried as she held Sarah as tightly as she possibly could. Sarah didn't say anything as she began to search the room for her beloved father. After a few minutes, Sarah forced out three words she will always remember: "Where's my daddy?" With the exception of Mom's muffled tears, the room suddenly became totally silent.
Several more minutes had passed when Sarah's favorite grandpa bent down, and while comforting both mother and child, said, "Sarah, we have some very sad news to tell you. Your daddy was in a car accident today and he had died. The ambulance people tried to save him, but they couldn't."
Sarah's mind and body seemed to shut down all at once. She couldn't think, she couldn't feel, she couldn't do. As Mom cried, and Grandpa comforted, not a single tear rolled down Sarah's cheek. Her only way of surviving the moment was to "not feel" right now.
Suddenly, and without hesitation, Sarah announced, "I'm going out in the backyard to play." She slowly pulled herself away from her mother's arms, walked through the kitchen and out the back door. Without knowing why or how, her legs and feet got her there. She walked to a sandbox that she hadn't used for at least a year, sat down right in the middle and started to build a castle. Again, not knowing why, she began to sing "Jingle Bells," her favorite Christmas song. As she played in the sand and sang her song, Sarah thought quietly to herself, "My daddy's not dead, he'll come back."
Within the next hour, more people arrived at the house to offer their care and presence. The phone was beginning to ring continuously as friends and family reached out to help the Johnson family. Food was brought in and family members drove in from throughout the state.
Two hours had passed since Sarah's arrival home from school. Family members kept checking on her out in the backyard as she was joined in play by her brothers and several cousins. Mostly, Sarah sat in the sandbox singing songs and smiling at her playmates.
At one point, Sarah's Aunt Mary looked out the kitchen window to watch the children at play. As she saw Sarah smiling, laughing and playing, she turned to other adults in the room and said, "Look, just as I thought, Sarah is really too young to understand what's happening. Besides, I knew she could be strong. Don't you all just think it would be best if I took her over to my house until the funeral is over? I don't think we should make her go through all that."
Not ten minutes later, Uncle Fred looked out to see Sarah playing in the sandbox. In a quick manner and loud tone, he said to other family members, "Doesn't Sarah realize what's going on?! She shouldn't be playing, she should be crying. Didn't she love her father? I think we should get her in here and sit her down on the couch. Let's make her realize what a tragic day this is."
So, as Sarah plays in the sandbox, some adults observing her decide that she is "too young to understand" and needs to be protected from the experiences surrounding the death. The watchful eyes of other adults tell them that Sarah should almost "be punished" for not having more of an outwardly sad emotional response. As Sarah continues at play, let's look at the naturalness of her apparent lack of response.
Understanding Sarah's Response
As is often the situation with children, Sarah's initial response to the death of her father is emotional shock and apparent lack of feelings. The child often reasons, "If I pretend that isn't happening, then maybe it won't be."
This sense of disbelief and numbness is nature's way of caring for the child. After all, there is a real difference between one's head level of thinking and one's heart level of feeling. Many children grow to discover that there are no adequate words to describe this initial period of intense grief.
Sometimes those adults observing the child from the outside are quick to conclude that shock, disbelief, numbness, and apparent lack of feeling, mean total and complete denial of the death. However, with responsive guidance, children like Sarah are able to allow enough reality through to pace their journey into grief. According to their own needs, they move toward their grief instead of away from it. As the emotional reality begins to be approached, children will often do some "catch-up grieving" as thoughts and feelings surface that previously had been blocked from full consciousness.
Adults frequently have difficulty understanding how the child can be out in the backyard playing only moments after learning of a loved person's death. Yet, what may seem to be a lack of feeling, is frequently the child's attempt to protect self in the only way known.
What is often so confusing to children like Sarah is that in some respects this apparent lack of feeling is viewed as a positive, long-term response by some in our culture who advocate facing trauma without showing feeling. As Aunt Mary said, "I knew she could be strong." The person who does not cry when someone dies is most often the one whom others believe "took things so well."
So, while some adults give the child a message to "be strong," or, "you are too young to understand," others simply cannot understand why the child is not mourning. They ask themselves if the child really loved the person who died. As Uncle Fred said, "didn't she love her father?" The result is that many children, Sarah included, frequently get stuck in the middle not knowing what to think, feel or do.
Suggestions on Helping at this Time
The major role of the "helping-healing-adult" during this time of disbelief and apparent lack of feeling is to simply keep the child in touch with a supportive, caring part of the world. The acceptance of the naturalness of this temporary protective mechanism is an important step in the child's movement toward healing.
You may find yourself talking "at the child" at this time in an effort to "make things better." The tendency to "talk at" instead of "with" the bereaved child is often a reflection of the adult's sense of helplessness. Recognition of this natural tendency can help prevent this from occurring. Your quiet and stabilizing presence is frequently more comforting than the content of any words you speak.
As loving adults, we must learn to respect children's needs to move in and out of their grief. Most bereaved children will provide you with cues as to when they feel comfortable and safe in talking about the person who has died. They will often test you to see if you, as the adult, feel comfortable in confronting their thoughts and feelings with them.
In other words, just as you receive cues from them, they will be looking for cues from you. As we learn to bring a relationship of sensitivity and warmth, communication of acceptance, and desire to understand, the child will sense this and gain comfort in knowing this is someone with whom they can share their grief.
Obviously, children cannot be forced to mourn; however, they can be permitted and encouraged as timing and pacing allow. Should you discover yourself wanting more from the child early in the experience of a new loss, you may be attempting to meet your own needs as opposed to those of the child.
Perhaps we would all do well to remember: Provide opportunities for children to mourn in healthy ways, but never force children to feel something before their hearts are ready to be open to the pan that precedes healing. Just as we put band-aids on fresh physical wounds, we must respect children's needs to temporarily cover up emotional wounds!
Sarah continued to play, sing, even smile. Inside herself, she began to wonder when Daddy would come home from work. After all, she reasoned, all our friends and family are here-Daddy should be here too. She paused to catch her breath, and as she exhaled, a single tear slowly rolled down her cheek. She didn't understand her tear, but she knew something was wrong-terribly wrong!
NEXT ISSUE: Sarah's experience with grief continues.
A Note to Parents reading this article: This is the first of a series of articles that Dr. Alan D. Wolfelt, Ph.D. penned about Sarah Johnson and her grief experience. The series appears in Bereavement: A Magazine of Hope and Healing, with this one appearing in May 1988's issue. We will run the entire series in the funeral home's quarterly newsletter, New Horizons, starting with our Fall 2021 issue.