Children and Grief: When a Child's Friend Dies

Allison was my best friend growing up as a young child in St. Louis, Missouri. It would be many years before I had another relationship that taught me as much as this one. It was a friendship of many firsts: my first best friend, first compromises, first uncontrollable giggles, first arguments, first make-ups, first embraces, and first adventures. Sadly, a first I wasn't prepared for inserted itself into this innocent, simple relationship.

Allison was a beautiful young girl. She wore lots of beautiful dresses that flowed behind us as we ran from one purposeful mission to another. She always wore a bonnet, in particular a green ginham one that was neatly tied into a fancy bow under her chin. I never saw her without her bonnets, they were just a part of Allison for me. I thought they were beautiful. She was a couple of years younger than I. She, Charlie and I were among the youngest children in our neighborhood. We banned together to form a safe barrier between us and the older kids.

Unlike Charlie and Allison, I played with the big kids, or tried anyway. They liked to taunt and tease me. I took care of Allison, protected her as much as I could from the antics of the older kids. She was younger and had a vulnerability about her I couldn't quite put my finger on. I knew that she would get sick occasionally and I would not be able to see her for a while. I anxiously awaited her return each time.

Everything was an adventure for us. Every tree was a swing or fort, every forest a magical land, every leaf pile a safe place to dive and every walk a treasure hunt.

Our favorite activity was a trek to a nearby market to stock up on Bubs Daddy Gum. It came in a ridiculously long, wide rope, enough for weeks of gum chewing. But, we had contests to see who could successfully shove the most amount of the gum into our mouths. We would shove it into each other's mouths as well. It was quite a scene, the two of us with cheeks like chipmunks overflowing with gum.

We ended up in a fight over said Bubs Daddy Gum. I came home quite upset and growling to my mother about gum, and not wanting to share and how I didn't want to play with Allison the next day. My mother's countenance completely changed. She had a look of complete horror and with a conviction I'd not quite heard before, she said: "March yourself up to Allison's house IMMEDIATELY and apologize, young lady!" I tried to argue with her, she would have none of it. I begrudgingly marched my little 7 year-old legs up to her house and said: "I'm sorry, Allison." We were giggling again in minutes.

It had been a few days since I saw Allison and I was missing her terribly. I'd become accustomed to having her disappear for a while and come back. I went off to school one morning, it was a typical third grade day. I remember singing "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds" for the class that day during show and tell. It was a particularly excellent performance and I was high on my star status. Shortly after lunch, we went out for recess as we always did. On top of the jungle gym I spotted my mother standing in the parking lot. How odd, I wasn't even sick. I ran to see her and she had a strange look on her face. She said: "Honey, we need to go home." Of course, I was subjecting her to the great inquisition as to why, but she wouldn't budge. I could tell she'd been crying.

My father was there when we got home. He was sitting in the living room. Bad things always seemed to emerge from the living room, usually punishments. I sat down on the couch next to my dad and my mother said: "I had to come get you from school early today because you need to hear something from us. Allison died this morning." Allison was just 5 years old when she died. I remember I literally could not comprehend the words. Our cat had died a while back, and that made sense. My first reaction was an overwhelming confusion about the finility of death. I had no schema for this concept, the idea that I would never see Allison again was too much to bear. I asked over and over again: "But, I'll see her again, right?" They were patient and kept answering: "No." I spent a few hours just sitting around trying to understand her death and what it meant for our friendship. I still loved her, so how could she go away forever? She was still very much alive in me. I asked dozens of questions. I finally understood that she had Leukemia and she fought a good fight for many years, but finally succumbed. My mother finally explained the bonnet, that she had no hair from chemotherapy. It was like some great mystery unravelling before me. It wasn't until late that night that I cried incessantly. I could not stop. I remember saying: "But, I'm too sad!" Then I'd start asking whether I'd see her again or not.

I most certainly didn't know how to grieve at seven years of age. But, I did nevertheless. I cried most every night for many, many nights. I became petrified of dying as I began to grasp the finility of it. I'd say to myself: "When I die, I'll be dead forever, and ever, and ever..." It was so frightening.

When I was in fourth grade, in 1977 my friend, Lori Farmer, 8, was murdered at a Girl Scout Camp. We moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma at the end of my third grade year after my parents were divorced. I didn't know anyone, except two neighborhood girls, one of which was Lori. She lived right behind our house, she rode the bus with me to school everyday. We would often play together on her street.

My mother found out about the murders in the morning, three girls were murdered in all. She told me before I went to school that day so I would not hear it from anyone else. I was a little older now than I was when Allison died, but my reaction was similar. Not all of the details were shared with me, naturally, but the fact that someone had killed her made the death quite different. I remember her telling me how excited she was to go on the Girl Scout camping trip, I felt a little jealous. I wasn't sure I could even handle being away from home that long. The move to another state had been very difficult for me.

Of course, over the course of a few days I found out more and more about her murder. I became extraordinarily frightened. I pictured how scared Lori must have been. I played out the whole scene in my head. I remembered our bike rides, bus rides, playing in a construction site, and again couldn't believe she would never walk the face of the earth again. I didn't know what to ask my mom. I'd been through it before, so I figured there were no more questions to ask. I clammed up.

Just before school was about to start last year, my daughter's friend was killed in a tragic car accident. They were not close friends, but the emotions were there nevertheless. She experienced the same confusion as I did.  She had questions, repeated the same questions, and later became scared.  She was worried people around her would die, specifically us, her parents.  She was frightened of the car for the first few days.  She had vivid mental images of what it was like for her friend that tragic day.

Naturally, this was all very intense for me.  I re-lived my childhood losses during this time.  I would cry in the car alone, or up in my bedroom when I knew my daughter couldn't see.  I grieved alone.

It finally dawned on me that I was not only doing a disservice to myself, but also to my daughter.  Grieving is natural, expected, normal, and necessary.  I realized it would help her if I shared my own experiences with losing a friend. 

My mother did a great job at making sure I found out about the deaths from her and not someone else. If an interception is possible, make it happen. Tell your child as soon as possible after the death.

Be honest and direct with your child. He or she will ask: "How did she die?" or "What happened?" Avoid euphemisms. Don't say: "It was her time and God needed his Angel." Children must know the age appropriate truth about the death. For a suicide, one might say: "He chose to have his body stop working." For an illness/disease related death, one might say: "His body wasn't able to work anymore. There was no medicine that could help." For a murder, one could say: "Someone else chose to have her body not work anymore." Death can be defined as "the body doesn't work anymore."

Fear produces many questions as well. My daughter (and our younger twins) asked: "What will happen to us when you die?" Again, be honest and straightforward. Explain the plans for who will take care of them. Reassure the child you are not sick.

The child might ask: "Am I going to die, too?" or "Can I die in my sleep?" Again, this is normal. Suddenly death doesn't seem so remote and a feeling of vulnerability sets in. You can reassure the child her body isn't sick. You can tell her she's protected and safe.

We were asked if her friend was in Heaven now. We wanted to know what she thought, how she reconciled it in her own head and asked "What do you think?" She'd come up with her own conception of the after-life and was comfortable with that. That was our goal.

She did get angry fairly soon after. She was mad at cars, at death, even at her friend's body for not surviving. Again, this is normal. Spend time listening and telling her you don't blame her for feeling angry, in fact it makes you angry also. Be there if she needs to cry, her seeing you cry isn't something to avoid, it helps her understand sadness and grief are normal and expected emotions. It's okay to share in her grief! In fact, she will feel less alone this way.

Bear in mind, grief is different for each child and isn't necessarily linear. Emotions may come out of the blue weeks, months, even years later. A song on the radio may set off tears. Anger may revisit after it's seemingly gone. And, more questions may pop up after the child has had time to process and wonder about the death. It's even normal for a child to feel angry the friend has left her. A sense of "How could she do this to me?" explodes. Again, meet the feelings with understanding and normalization. Don't say: "How can you be angry with your friend?"

Some kids will retreat and not want to discuss the death. This is okay, you can't force the child to grieve, it will happen in its own time.  Many children immediately delve into denial and simply cannot accept the death.  I remember this with Allison.  I kept thinking it was a terrible lie, or a dream, or at least a mistake.  My feelings were all over the place and I really didn't know what I was feeling from one minute to the next.  I definitely wanted to create a sense of normalcy, I wanted to play, I wanted to go on forest walks.  Don't expect your child to isolate and spend days on end grieving.  Grief has its own time-frame. 

Lacebark Perches

You’re still with me, Allison

as if you’re five and still alive.

Racing home in patent-leather shoes,

never caring who’d win or lose.

I thought it was for your fair skin

you tied that green, gingham bonnet

surreptitiously under your chin.

Perhaps you were blond, perhaps brunette?

Each boundless, sacrosanct amble

weaving out our next adventure,

passing by the barren, bald bramble;

our blackberry winter.

Swings of white willow ropes,

slides of sinuous birches, seats of slopes,

magnolia tree ladders, and lacebark perches;

our ivory tower of hopes.

Anger made us part for just a flash.

Mother marched me up that fructiferous path

to say: “I’m very sorry, Allison.”

I’m forever grateful, mom.

After five meteoric years her bonnet was removed,

or is it still with you, Allison?

I like to picture it hung up in some tree

with your auburn hair dancing in the breeze.