As I was sitting here getting ready to type up a post last night about the things I was grateful for, my way of starting the month off on a positive, I received a phone call from my daughter’s school. It was a Monday evening, and of course, I thought it was just a recording. I almost didn’t answer it. However, when I did pick up the phone it wasn’t a recording. It was the principal who was calling to inform all of the parents in my daughter’s class that a classmate had died over the weekend. And briefly, everything stopped.
“Oh, no.” - “Can you tell me who it was? Do you know if she was a friend of my daughter’s? What can we do?” All of these words stumbled out of my mouth. But due to privacy reasons, they weren’t allowed to say much. Just that the students would be informed in the morning, and that they would have grief counselors available in case they wanted to speak to someone. “Th-thank you. Thank you for letting me know.” I let out before hanging up the phone. I closed the laptop, and quietly stood just outside of Em’s room. I could hear her working on her science kit with the TV on and moving around on her bed. “She’s going to be okay,” I mentally told myself. And instead of returning to my blog draft I just spent the rest of our evening keeping myself busy. Distracted.
Sadly, this is not the first tragedy in our town involving a child. However, this is the first tragedy involving a young child that my daughter personally knew. A little girl that my daughter sat next to and interacted with on a daily basis. Since I didn’t know who the child was I didn’t know exactly how this would affect her. Was it her newly minted BFF of homeroom? Was it a child in another POD that she didn’t really speak to but had to do labs with? Was it someone she played with during recess or had exchanged “back to school” bracelets with on the first day of school? There were so many unanswered questions that I honestly wasn’t sure what to tell her. So, I didn’t. Instead, I let her have an uninterrupted evening of science kits, Raising Hope, a great big bowl of her favorite fruit, and then let her make a “later night” run to the Dollar Store with her dad to grab some craft supplies on a school night. She came back with her "loot" all smiles and giggles. Sleepily she informed me that she was ready for bed; for school the next day. And so, I tucked her in. I watched her fall asleep; her chest rising up slowly.
Then this morning, I became THAT mom. The one who asked to speak with the counselor and teachers before classes started. I asked questions about how this matter would be addressed and whether parents were allowed to be with their children when they were given the news. We weren’t. I let them know that I wasn’t concerned about knowing names or details. I just wanted to make sure that I could be there for my little girl in case she struggled with the news. I wanted her to hear from me, that she could cry or not. That she could feel sad, shocked, or neither. That she could ask for comfort and to speak with any of the grief counselors that were available to her about whatever she needed to get off of her chest. Or, if none of that applied to her, that it was perfectly okay too. “That is absolutely wonderful, and yes we can definitely send her in when we are done giving the news to the children,” the principal told me as I sat down in the office. A second teacher came over and gently squeezed my arm, “I’m so glad that you’re here for Emery.”
About ten minutes later the children all walked out into the hall. Some seemed okay while others were sobbing. Teachers were crying and some kids were hugging each other. As I watched through the glass window that separated the main office from the school I swallowed the lump in my throat. When I stood up, in walked Emery, and she immediately came in for a hug. She let me know who it was, and she sat in my lap quietly. This little girl was a fairly new friend she told me. Someone, she was just barely getting to know. A little girl that she played with because another friend had introduced them, inviting her into their little circle on the second day of school. We talked for a few minutes and I told her that however she was feeling was okay. I told her exactly what I had told the teacher earlier. As she clung to me I gave her a hug and a kiss on the top of her head. I asked her if she felt okay, and she nodded her head. With one last hug, we walked out of the room, and she was led back to her class. Looking back and blowing kisses before rounding the corner.
It wasn’t until later that morning when she finally cried, she told me on our car ride home. “Mom, I still can’t believe that she’s gone. I’m really going to miss her smile. And her laugh. But mostly her smile in the mornings. Momma, I’m really going to miss her.” And I told her to hold onto those memories. I told her to remember all of the good that her new friend had already brought into her life in such a short time. To remember that smile and think happy thoughts when she was feeling sad. "It's okay to feel sad," I said. "We just need to say a little prayer for her, and for her family, my love. And just remember that someday, you'll get to see her again... " --
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