I loved the movie O’Brother Where Art Thou. There are a couple of related scenes from that movie that came to mind recently. For those who haven’t seen the movie, it’s set in the south — Mississippi, I think — during the Great Depression. Three escaped convicts, with the authorities in hot pursuit, end up at the farm owned by a cousin of one of the three men. As they are sitting at the kitchen table eating, one of them asks his farmer cousin about where his wife is. The farmer glances at his son sitting across, then back to his cousin. He first says something to the effect that he doesn’t know. Then, in a matter-of-fact manner, he adds, “Mrs. Hogwallop up and r-u-n-n-o-f-t.” We can see that he is trying to protect his son from the devastating truth about the young one’s mother.

A couple of scenes later, when the authorities have the convicts surrounded at the farm, the young boy comes driving the family car and offers to help the convicts escape again. And he says, “Get in boys. I am gonna r-u-n-n-o-f-t!”

Suddenly the audience realizes that the kid knows more than his father thinks he knows.

I am reminded of this scene every time I am with friends and relatives who try to speak of Uzma in hushed tones when the kids are within earshot. They think they are protecting our kids by not making them think of their loss. Like the father in the movie, they are well-intentioned. But they just don’t get it.

Our children saw their mother live with cancer. They saw how she chose to live life fully despite her illness. She made many new friends in her last few years. She wrote a blog. She wrote a book. She was a model for a nationwide beauty store chain. The saw all that.

When Uzma was around, she was the one who first greeted them when they returned home from school. When she was well, it was she who took them clothes’ shopping. She cooked their favorite meals. She arranged their play-dates. She nursed them when they were sick.

Then they saw their mother gradually become weak. She stopped doing most of the things she used to do for them. They saw her become unable to climb stairs, bathe, use the bathroom and even get into her bed on her own. They were next to her when she breathed her last. They lay next to her for several minutes before the funeral home staff came to take her away. They felt her get cold and stiff. The saw and felt her die.

Whispers and hushed tones are for secrets, especially shameful ones. Uzma’s death is not a shameful secret that must be whispered about.

The way she lived it and way she died is burned in my and our kids’ memories. Whether we speak of her every day or not speak of her for months is irrelevant to us missing her. How is it possible that not speaking about her in our kids’ presence will make them feel their loss any less than daily absence does?

There’s no shame in loss, no guilt in grief and no embarrassment in mourning. And let’s not make our kids think so.

 

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