My name is Georgina, and I have a nearly 5-year-old daughter named Kitty who is trying to understand what happens when we die. This is deeply personal for us because her brother, my son Osian, passed away when he was just 16 months old.
Since she was three and a half, Kitty has been grappling with the concepts of death and loss. I want to share our journey with you, one that is both heartbreaking and sometimes hysterical, as we navigate this difficult terrain together.
Please don’t feel bad if you find yourself laughing at parts of this story. It’s not meant to be purely sad. I've both laughed and cried at the things Kitty has said, and I will NEVER not answer her questions. We maintain an open conversation about death in our house, welcoming all questions and challenges. This approach is healthy and necessary. Unresolved grief can cause lasting trauma, so we delve into the details, no matter the time of day or the state of our emotions.
Here are some of the rollercoaster moments Kitty has taken us on:
Kitty has an uncanny ability to ask about her brother Osian at the most challenging times. After a long day, at bedtime, or right after I’ve had a private cry, with bloodshot eyes, she will choose these moments for her thought-provoking questions. “So mummy, so why did Osian die?”
While tidying up toys, she might ask if Osian wants them to play with his "dead friend" She'll ask if she can have his blankets for her baby dolls since Osian doesn’t need them anymore.
Sometimes, Kitty will ask when we are going to pick Osian up from the hospital. I then have to explain again that Osian has died, and we won’t be picking him up. This conversation happens repeatedly, like grief Groundhog Day.
One memorable time was when we were introducing ourselves to our new neighbours who had a baby girl. Kitty quickly announced that she had a brother, but he is dead. Very clear, very loud, leaving all of us scrambling to explain something that is not a typical “first meet” topic.
Kitty often says something heartbreaking and then changes the subject abruptly. For instance, she might say, “Oh mummy, I miss Osian so much,” and in the next breath, “Can I have a chocolate biscuit?” before marching off to the cookie jar.
Kitty’s grief will take many forms, and she will continue to navigate this for years to come, through various stages of understanding. I will face a lifetime of questions, some of which I won’t have firm answers for. Regardless of my emotional state, I will always answer her and encourage her to think through her thoughts. Together, we will muddle through—because we have to.
I see Kitty as my grief resilience coach. She has helped me confront my grief head-on. Her questions and needs force me to face the pain and madness daily, providing tools and strength to deal with this enormous task.
Most adults struggle to talk to me about losing my son, but not Kitty. She never shies away from the topic. Can we learn something from her? Absolutely. While adults might exercise more tact and timing, having the confidence to sit in the pain is crucial for someone grieving. It’s not about saying the right thing but sharing the experience together.
Writing this piece has given me the realization that Kitty and her questions are my therapy. I’ll always be grateful to her, even on days when I don’t feel it. She is my grief resilience coach, and I’ll always be thankful for her presence in my journey.
If you’d like to read more about our story and how we are making a positive difference to Children in hospitals in the UK in Osian’s memory, check out our page.
Georgina Jones
Author