If “Born in the USA” has taught us anything, it’s that people will cheerfully blare any song with a catchy beat regardless of the incongruously depressing lyrics. These days every store you walk into is legally required to play Andy Williams’ “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” at least once an hour. Tucked into that ditty about holiday cheer is this little chestnut:

There’ll be scary ghost stories
and tales of the glories
Of Christmases long, long ago

Wait – what?

Scary ghost stories? Scary Christmas ghost stories!?

On the surface, it seems like a lyric a few months past its Halloween expiration date. But scratch the tinseled surface and Christmas has some weird undertones.

What’s so jolly about a young, panicked woman giving birth in a filthy stable in the dead of night? Or an immortal being who breaks into houses and whose omnipresent gaze is fixed on your every move? Watching. Judging.

Life’s ghosts don’t take a Christmas vacation, and hardships don’t plan around your holiday calendar. So as I sat with my mother in hospice, two days before Christmas a few years back, it was hard not to notice the almost purgatorial nature of her room. At the nurse’s station outside, people flitted by – chatting next to holiday décor. In her room, it was dark and still. There was no longer the need for the expensive machines she had been hooked to for the past 10 months. No beeping or dinging. Just her shallow breath and closed eyes.

Ours had always been a difficult relationship. She was what some would describe as a “formidable woman.” Her superpower was bending reality to justify her actions. On the rare occasion where she owned up to being in the wrong, she would happily tell you why it was really someone else’s fault. Likely yours.

Becoming a father put into relief how differently we were wired. My journey into parenthood has taught me the value of self-reflection – examining why I am where I am, what I’m feeling, and what lessons I have learned. And how am I going to impart that to the two malleable humans who are always learning from me, whether I want them to or not? It’s a rich and rewarding road, but the tradeoff is it doesn’t end until you do. There’s no finish line. And you never get to fold your arms and say, “So there. Checkmate.” Reflection versus justification. My mother and I simply had different approaches to life.

But, oh, how she was loyal. I knew she would pitch a tent and just live in that room if the tables were turned. If half of life is showing up, she showed up – even if you didn’t realize you needed someone there. That’s also how she was wired. I admired that. I wanted to be that kind of person. And she brought me into this world. She deserved someone to stand sentry as her body prepared to leave it. The someone should be me.

Hours later, my thoughts turned to another family. The one I chose to build with the woman I love. A year of managing my mother’s illness had taken me away from them so often – missing moments big and small. They deserved my showing up as well, especially at Christmas. In the dark, I gathered my things and stood over her and said the last words I hoped she would hear. “I love you. … Goodbye.” And I left

The next morning my phone rang. It was the hospice. At 7:30 a.m. On Christmas Eve. They weren’t calling to discuss paperwork.

Christmas Day, my wife and I had to sit down our 6-year-old and tell her grandma died. She had known pets who had passed on, and over the year I kept her up to date as best I could on what was going on with her grandmother, even though she might not make it. All this she handled with surprising grace. But the end hit her hard. Amid the debris of wrapping paper and toys, I held my crying daughter and told her all the things I had researched to say. I spoke honestly about how special their relationship was. We would make a memory book of all the fun times they shared. I also could see her telling a future therapist, “I think it all started when I was 6 and my dad interrupted Christmas to tell me THAT MY FRIGGIN’ GRANDMOTHER WAS DEAD.”

I’ll give my mother this much, she had a flair for the dramatic. Every Christmas Eve from now on I’ll be haunted by her ghost, like Jacob Marley visiting Scrooge. As for my daughter, well, we’ve all changed in this last year. Kids are strong and resilient all right, but you can’t just say that with a shrug and go get a snack. There’ll be checking in, talking, listening, observing. As I said, no finish line.

If you want Christmas “tales of the glories,” you’ll have to take the Christmas “ghost stories.” That’s what relationships leave you with – even at this time of year. Especially at this time of year. Whenever we can celebrate the holidays with people and music again, you’re likely to be visited by a ghost or two as everyone is swaying to a favorite seasonal tune – be it traditional or hip. And if someone is wondering why you aren’t moved like they are, just give them this sage response: “Well, because, I’m listening to the words.”

Christmas ghost stories of photo by © RK1919 / Adobe Stock.

People often ask me about the big age gap between my second and third child. The five-and-a-half-year difference makes people wonder why we began our journey through babyhood once again. When asked, I usually smile and say simply, “The timing was right.”

The truth is there wasn’t supposed to be such a big gap. Several miscarriages lead to the huge age difference.

How it started

One morning, the rain poured outside as I walked down the stairs into the basement. A good foot of water welcomed me. As I stepped into it, I realized it wasn’t just water. Our sewer line had backed up into the basement. Our upstairs neighbor called a plumber, but they couldn’t come until late that evening. So from 9 a.m. until then, I carried buckets of sewage out our backdoor and dumped it into our backyard. I yelled and even cried with exhaustion as I fought a losing battle with the rising water.

Then my wife walked into the basement. She hugged my sweaty, tired body, and said, “We’re going to have another baby.”

Suddenly, I didn’t care about the basement anymore; I just wanted to hug my wife. We smiled and kissed. She asked if I was happy and, with raw sewage dripping from my pants and shoes, I said I was. Very happy.

Unfortunately, I never got the opportunity to meet the source of the happiness. We had a miscarriage. It turned out to be the first of several.

‘The silence was backbreaking‘

My wife told me she was miscarrying as she laid on our bed. My stomach dropped. I felt like thousands of pounds were upon my back. It was still morning, so I got the kids dressed, fed, and off to school. I returned to my wife, who was still in the same position. I didn’t say anything and neither did she. We just occupied the same room for a little while. She didn’t want to talk and I’m not sure if I wanted her to. But the silence was backbreaking.

I think I muttered a few words. She may have muttered something back. Nothing real was said. Just murmurings. I wanted to comfort her, but I couldn’t.

Deep inside, I wanted to be comforted, too. But I couldn’t be and I couldn’t ask anyone to. She took a little nap and I left the room. I sat down on the couch with my hands covering my face and wept.

In the days and weeks that followed, we didn’t talk that much about it.

I think we both wanted to forget and, by not talking about it, we thought we could. We hadn’t told anyone about the pregnancy yet so nobody knew. There was nobody to give that sympathetic look. There was nobody for us to talk to. We were alone in our sorrow and we weren’t necessarily talking about it together. So I stuffed it into that place in a man’s soul where things are stored and never let out again.

My wife told me a few months later that she was pregnant again. But, only a few weeks later, that too ended in miscarriage. Two miscarriages in less than six months.

Putting up my guard

When my wife told me that we were expecting once again, I put up a guard. As the baby grew inside my wife, I refused to let myself get too attached. I didn’t want the ultimate disappointment to happen again. I’d go along with my wife for check-ups and ultrasounds, but I continued to wait for and expect bad news. When she was pregnant with our other children, I would stare at the ultrasound pictures and dream of their future in wonder. This time, I barely looked. Every day I battled to put on the face of the supportive husband, but inside I just couldn’t let myself get close.

When our baby entered the world, I finally exhaled. Everything that built up inside of me over the years had been released. There was a beautiful and perfect little boy in my arms and I once again felt joy. The barrier of speaking to my wife about the past miscarriages was gone. And we finally felt like we could talk about the experience with other people.

There are days though that I still can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have four or five children, instead of three. I always wanted a lot of kids and dreamed of a house filled with beautiful family chaos. Time has not been kind to my body and the days of hoisting babies into the air are coming to an end. To say that I’m completely over the miscarriages would be very wrong. I’m not over it and probably never will be.

I’ve talked to a few guys since then and it seems that we all feel the same way. We want to be there for the women in our lives and give encouragement and comfort. To try and make our partners feel better. But inside, we’re breaking.

I’ve also seen what miscarriages can do to women. Not only my wife but other women I’ve known. It’s terrible and difficult to talk about. My heart goes out to any woman who suffers through one. And my heart goes out to their men who aren’t sure how to talk about it, aren’t sure how to relate the feelings of great loss when they barely had anything to begin with.

When dealing with tragedies in life, most of us try to find some closure. When someone near to us dies, we talk about the life they lived and what they meant to us. The moment is heartbreaking and we never fully get over the loss. With miscarriages, closure is hard to find. A beautiful promise was there and now it isn’t. Your hopes were high and then … nothing. For the man, we can only observe the physical and emotional pains of the loss of the woman. Helplessly watch.

I’m not sure what my point in writing this piece was. Maybe I wrote this for my cathartic process. Or maybe I was hoping to have men start a dialogue about this issue. Maybe it was to let others know that nobody is alone when it comes to a miscarriage and there is no shame in it. It isn’t anyone’s fault and a miscarriage is just one of life’s many tragedies.

A version of this was first published here and on One Good Dad in 2013, and has since been updated. Photo by MART PRODUCTION via Pexels.

I sat with my cat, Faith, in the waiting room of the veterinarian. Faith, a rescue, had been in our family for nearly 11 of her 14 years. And I’d strongly suspected this might be our last trip together.

During her physical, the vet started listing what was wrong. After four years of hyperthyroidism, she now had detached retinas (leading to blindness), renal failure, massive dehydration, and a troubling abdominal issue that might be cancerous.

“There’s a lot going on,” the doctor said, “and while we can do more tests, there’s not many treatments we can really offer …”

I grew up with cats. And I’d seen pets die. But I’d never had to make that call. I’d never had to decide to end a life. I’d also never had to break the news to my own kids.

My son, 7, understands death. He knew what I meant when I said Faith wasn’t coming home again. He wasn’t there as I held her, or as I looked on when the doctor added a medicine into a syringe. And he wasn’t there as I killed our pet. Yes, it was the humane thing to do, and yes she’d been suffering for months, but I still felt horrible. Like a twisted murderer.

That night, I held my sobbing son in my arms. Grief overrode him, and while I tried to talk to him about the decision, I couldn’t help but wonder about what I’d done. Who am I to play God? At the same time, how will I feel someday if my son has to make the same call about me?

We all live on borrowed time. Eventually, that time runs out. It’s not a pleasant thought, but I couldn’t help but wonder about my final days. Will I deteriorate and my body collapse issue by issue? Will my son, this same sensitive child I’ve raised, determine what to do with his old man’s body? How can I help him understand the nuances and complexities of this decision when I barely understand them myself?

Yes, she was just a cat. She brought joy to our lives before she crossed the so-called “Rainbow Bridge.” Yes, we made the right choice. And yes, in the grand scheme of things, with wars raging, people suffering, a world pummeled by climate change, racism, violence, political uncertainty and more … well, this all seems kind of minor.

Yet, isn’t this minor brush with death the most important reminder of all? If death is the shadow of life we all ignore, maybe it’s good to occasionally recognize that death is there, and not something to be feared. Maybe it’s good to show my son the tears and fears, and hope that within his small, sensitive heart, he has learned that we are all doing the best we can.

I spent the next day setting aside extra time for the kids. We started decorating the house early for Christmas, singing songs and visiting the playground. Not simply to distract, but to remember that in this borrowed time of ours, every moment counts. And as we said goodbye to a pet, we are reminded of how fortunate we are to have such a loving family.

And together, even with the world seeming to succumb to its many ailments around us, we’ll keep focusing on the joys.

Remember pet photo: © Soloviova Liudmyla / Adobe Stock.

Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our archives for great articles you might have missed over the years. This one about a dad explaining the tragedy of the Boston Marathon bombing to his children comes from 2013.

I was leaving Target, the kids fast asleep in their car seats when I got a cell phone alert about the explosions. I quickly tuned into the local news radio station, figuring it would have the most up-to-date information.

As the day’s events unfolded, traditional media and social media had a hard time keeping up with the news. Confirmed reports. Unconfirmed reports. It was very hard to decipher what was true. I looked back at my two young children, soundlessly napping, and was glad that I wouldn’t have to explain this horror to them. Their preschool teacher certainly wouldn’t be bringing the subject up.

Unfortunately, it’s very likely that this will not be the last act of violence our country and children will see. So one day, my little ones will ask me what’s happening … and I don’t know exactly the best way of explaining tragedy to children. I believe I would try to provide as many hard facts gleaned from reputable sources without confusing or scaring them with hyperbole.

During this day, I spoke with other parents. Opinions on how to handle speaking with kids varied by the age of their child.

Many recommended talking about the brave men and women who ran toward the explosion to save other people.

“I think it’s best to shelter them from it,” said Mike, a father of a 5-year-old son in Northern Virginia. “It will just make them scared to go into public places.”

My wife worried our kids might overhear teachers or older kids at school talking about the attack. She said she would try to reassure them that we are safe and gently explain that “people were hurt but the police, firemen, and hospital people helped them” This would teach them to always remember that the “good guys” such as policemen, firemen, and EMT are there to protect them. They are the real superheroes!

Parents of older children felt they needed to be more direct.

“I simplify the facts to her level of comprehension and allow her to ask as many questions as she likes,” said Christine, a mother of an 8-year-old daughter and an infant son.

“We tell our daughter the truth,” said Suzanne, the mother of a 10-year-old who lives just outside of Philadelphia. She said it’s sad that it is becoming more commonplace to talk to her daughter about violence. However, she uses these teachable moments as a time to talk about being compassionate and empathetic toward others.

These kinds of tragic events stick with children for a long time. Especially, children with big imaginations. One of the most vivid memories of my childhood was watching the Challenger explode. They had wheeled TVs into the classrooms so we could watch the launch. Then, “IT” happened. I don’t remember exactly how it was explained to us, but I do remember being told not to be scared, to wait for the facts, and to pray for the families of the people who died.

While there are some really bad people in this world, I think if we focus on reassuring our kids that there are also many really good people then they will be all right.

Explaining tragedy to child photo: ©  Satjawat / Adobe Stock.

Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our archives for great articles you might have missed over the years. This article about male depression and suicide comes from 2013.

Men shouldn’t need help.

This is part of an unwritten code and a shameful hypocrisy of our culture.

We lie to ourselves and say we are “fine” when we are not because we have been told since childhood that men must be strong and stoic. Crying, let alone asking, for help is not masculine. So we tell ourselves and each other: “Man up!”

However, when men suffer in private and take their own lives, they – like anyone else – leave loved ones behind to mourn. They harm more than themselves; they hurt those who love them the most.

My male clients usually end up in my office only after they realize they have hit rock bottom. These are the truly fortunate ones whose inner voices yelled loud and long enough to enable them to go against the code; breaking the rule. This realization shows real strength.

Male depression, like any depression, is a state of mind where we feel we are failing. We blame ourselves for our failure, and we believe what we think. As a result, we find ourselves constantly following negative thoughts, repeating our negative mantras like an internal iTunes playlist. We ignore our friends’ and/or family’s warnings or pleas; blind to the exaggeration inherent in our negative thoughts. We now become angry.

Anger can be deafening. It oppresses and creates an isolation that leads us to crave an escape route. Some seek this getaway from our internal negative chatter through various regimens of immersion: in the Internet, the news, the latest reality show/situation comedy, alcohol, drugs, etc.

The relief, though, is often false and fleeting.

Know the signs of male depression

Each time these negative thoughts return, they intensify. Yet we continue to tell anyone who asks that we are ‘fine’ when we feel ‘like shit’ because that has been drilled into our concept of “manliness” since we were young. If we continue to walk down this negative and self-critical path, our destination will be intensively negative and self-critical. We arrive at blackness, at nowhere. This is when we will believe that we have nothing to live for.

When someone takes his life, it is because he has a plan, the means, and the energy. Most attempts that fail are cries for help. You will know that you are approaching or have reached this breaking point; the point where you need to ask for help, when you experience any combination of the following:

• helplessness
• hopelessness
• sleep problems
• poor appetite
• poor self-care habitats
• inability to communicate with the people you love
• any pattern of substance abuse

This is not an exhaustive list, but a list of indicators that you have reached the limit of your private suffering. Remember that suffering is always temporary but only alleviated by transforming it into a path of self-acceptance.

There is no shame in surviving male depression, and only through connection can we survive. If you are becoming concerned – about yourself or someone else – take stock, reach out, speak out, and make that life-saving connection.

Editor’s Note: If you are having a mental health crisis, feel suicidal, or believe a loved one is, call or text 988 to get in touch with the National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

About the author

Alex Stadler is a licensed clinical social worker, a mindfulness-based cognitive behavioral therapist in private practice, and a mental health consultant to numerous NYC human services agencies.

Male depression photo: © Monkey Business / Adobe Stock.

Editor’s Note: If you are having a mental health crisis, call or text 988 to get in touch with the National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

I’m a big fan of the 2000s TV show Gilmore Girls, a show about as manly as the title suggests. It follows a single mother and her daughter living in a small Connecticut town. In this town, there is a diner owner named Luke, a surly guy who seems angry about everything and annoyed by everyone. We eventually learn he is a big softy. His gruff outer demeanor is a façade to protect himself from a world constantly threatening to hurt him. Basically, he’s my spirit animal.

In the Gilmore Girls episode, “But Not as Cute as Pushkin” (season 5, episode 10), Luke has a “dark day.” Once a year, Luke disappears. He flees town. He is cryptic as to why he behaves this way. No one knows where he goes, but everyone in town knows about Luke’s Dark Day (except his girlfriend, which is ridiculous, but never mind). This is an accepted part of Luke’s existence. Without dropping any spoilers (18 years later), Luke uses this day to go off and feel his feelings.

Recently, without me being fully aware of what was happening, my well-managed (or ignored?) feelings had begun to break free from my toxically masculine bulwark of denial. The week prior, I had slowly become a bit of an asshole. Everything made me grumpy. I was short with everyone. I had no patience for my children, and as a stay-at-home dad, I let my daily chores slip. The house was a mess, our diet was garbage, and everything was off.

All because I was resisting my own Dark Day.

Death, aging leads to depression

I know the main source of my emotional descent. About a year ago, my brother died. My relationship with him was complicated. His passing, while not shocking, hit me far harder than I had anticipated. As the anniversary of his death approached, those feelings came back. All the good. All the bad. I thought I was finished with the pain and trauma, but grief is an insatiable ambush predator.

A few months before the anniversary of my brother’s passing, I visited my parents. They both have serious health issues and live in a nursing home several states away. My dad’s mind is slipping away. Talking with him was tricky, and the view of his diminished body was particularly traumatic. My mom’s mind remains sharp, but she can no longer walk and has lost use of most of her limbs. The nursing home, while seemingly filled with nice people, is gloomy and old. The environment is sad, and so is seeing my parents in that place, but with their increasingly complicated medical requirements, there’s not much else we can do.

After I had spent the day with my parents, my wife asked how I was doing.

I replied earnestly and honestly, “I can’t really deal with it right now. I’ll feel my feelings when we get home.” We were in the middle of a family vacation, and I couldn’t really afford an emotional breakdown. I genuinely had every intention of dealing with the feelings when I got home. I’d cry it out in the shower. That’s what we all do, right?

I could list all the things that happened when we got home. All the excuses to keep avoiding my feelings. I promise I had some good ones. In fact, I deleted a very self-indulgent list from my rough draft. But the reasons don’t matter. I have mine. Other dads will have theirs. There’s always an excuse. Instead, I let my depression and darkness seep out slowly and cloud our home for weeks.

Healthy, right?

When the fire passes, healing begins

Look, I’m not here as a writer because I have all the answers. I’m here because I’m willing to admit I’ve screwed up.

I should have gone from my parents’ place back to the hotel and told my wife I needed 20 minutes. Then, I could have collapsed on the shower floor and had a good cry. I would’ve felt better (secretly I don’t feel I deserve to feel better, but that’s a whole other story). I would’ve saved myself weeks of inner turmoil and spared my family weeks of torture.

It’s true most men want to be seen as strong. Emotions make us feel weak, but it’s weak to pretend to be strong when you’re not. It’s weak to hide from your feelings. If you need your Dark Day, go off and have a Dark Day. Have the strength to face your emotions. Let the emotional fires consume you, knowing that when the fire passes, healing begins.

Everyone reading this has something they aren’t dealing with. I’m the hypocrite typing this with a truckload of my own baggage, but I’ve been making a very real effort to feel the feelings when I need to feel them. I’d encourage you to do the same. Yeah, it sucks, but you’ll feel better, and it’s a really great way to justify an excessively long, hot shower.

Feel the feelings photo: © altanaka / Adobe Stock.

Editor’s Note: June 12 marks the anniversary of the 2016 mass shooting at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando. Forty-nine people died and 53 were wounded when a lone gunman attacked patrons of the gay nightclub. It was the deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history at the time (it’s since been eclipsed). This article originally ran just two days later.

I woke up Sunday morning blissfully unaware. It was a rare opportunity to sleep in, not having to get up and hustle into action. When I did roust myself, I leaned over, kissed my husband good morning, and shuffled into the kitchen to pour my morning cup of coffee. And, of course, I checked my phone.

The first thing I saw: a text from a good friend of mine.

“When I saw the news this morning, I immediately thought of you and Chris, and wanted to express my sadness and outrage that even in the most powerful country in the world, we are so flawed, so full of hatred and fear,” it said.

She went on to let me know that she loves me and my family, and was thinking of us.

I didn’t know what prompted her message.

A quick web search revealed facts about the mass shooting at Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando. Forty-nine people gunned down on a Saturday night. During Gay Pride Month.

And, once again, I had to decide how to discuss evil with my daughter.

Nightclub shooting our latest tough conversation

It’s not the first time. She’s almost 15. Like so many other parents, I’ve been having conversations with her since she was a toddler, with horrifying regularity. Sandy Hook. Virginia Tech. San Bernardino.

When she was little, I consulted books about how to talk about death and violence with children. Do you avoid the topic, and shield them from it altogether? Should you mask real-life tragedies in analogies or fables? Or, should you stay honest, but use gentle language that minimizes the brutality?

Now that she’s a teenager, we talk about this stuff with more directness and clarity. Real-life violence has yet to touch her life directly, which is a blessing. So we did talk about the Pulse nightclub shooting, and I decided to go with accuracy and less emotion (which is always difficult for me, as someone whose emotions tend to be the boss in my head): Who the shooter was, what he did, what was known/not known about him at the time.

We had our talk, and it was briefer than conversations in the past. She hadn’t seen the news yet so I just filled her in on the latest Horrible Thing that had happened, and that was that.

Her reaction was difficult to read. Whether that’s because we were used to these talks by now, or because she’s at the stage where she’d rather process stuff on her own, it’s hard to say. I did realize, though, that this tragedy in Orlando felt different from other mass shootings for me, and possibly for her as well. Why?

Because the Orlando shooting was the deadliest in American history.

A horrifying loss of human life.

Fueled, in part, by a hatred of gay people.

And, because, I am gay.

How can she not worry?

I have been out for five years, and this is the first time such a violent act has ripped into this community I proudly call my own.

My daughter tends to be a worrier. She’s gotten a handle on it over the years, but she has the double whammy of having a very active imagination and a short anxiety fuse. So when my husband and I go out at night and she stays home, she still gets a bit nervous if I don’t text her to check in at least once. (Total role reversal. In another year or so, I’ll be the one asking her to check in.)

It’s not my teenage daughter’s job to worry about me. It’s supposed to be the other way around. That’s the way the universe is supposed to work.

And while our evenings out are usually pretty benign, my girl knows that every once in a while, we do love to go out dancing. Dancing is deeply important to us. It’s how we find our feelings, connect with the world, and thank the universe for everything that we have. We plan to keep on going out and dancing until we’re in wheelchairs. And hopefully, by then, science will have developed the technology to make robot legs and neural Groove implants so we can not only keep dancing but look even cooler than the young whippersnappers around us.

My daughter, the worrier, sees the news from Orlando about the Pulse nightclub shooting as such: people in a gay club — people there because they love their community, love each other and love dancing — being heartlessly killed. The gears in my girl’s brain turn, and she makes the connection.

Someday her dad and stepdad could be in a club, dancing happily, and be killed by someone evil, simply for being.

I know her. That’s how her brain works.

Evil will not triumph on the dancefloor

It’s not my teenage daughter’s job to worry about me. It’s supposed to be the other way around. That’s the way the universe is supposed to work.

But can I tell my daughter her worry is unfounded?

No.

Because the scary truth of it is, it’s sheer luck that I was never in a club at the same time as a monster with an AK-47. This was the killing of my people, in my house. There is no way to pretend otherwise.

So how do I talk about that with my daughter?

In this strange new world where some members of our nation are zealously clinging to their right to own guns, where any attempt at greater gun safety and regulation is met with an outcry of “You can’t take my guns away from me!”, where someone on an FBI watch list can still own a gun and carry it into a place of safety and sanctuary and act out his dream of being a vengeful god, where being gay can still result in persecution, shame and outright fear …

I don’t know what to say to my daughter about that. She’s afraid for me, and I can’t tell her that fear is unfounded.

All I can tell her is this:

Yes, there is a lot of hatred in the world.

That hatred tends to come from fear and ignorance of those we don’t understand.

That hatred can sometimes result in evil, violent action.

But there are far more people who believe in the value of love, and human life, than not. Evil doesn’t rule. It just gets more press.

Oh, and one other thing:

There’s no way in hell that evil is going to keep me from dancing. Ever.

Pulse nightclub mass shooting photo: ©  Alex / Adobe Stock.

Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our ample archives to find some great articles you might have missed over the years. This one comes from 2014.

I attended my brother’s funeral recently. Cancer took him, just as it’s taken other members of my family and just like it tried to take me.

While I stood there, trying to comfort my family members and reflecting upon my own memories, I couldn’t help but reflect on all that cancer has taken from us – some of the strongest and most vital men and fathers I’ve ever known (right along with our mothers, sisters and children). It’s easy to say that we’ll take a stand right now – to end cancer, and I do believe it’s important to aggressively pursue better diagnostics, treatments and lifelong follow-through for all types of cancer.

But, right now, I’m just thinking about the human factor. All the names (and faces) we’ve lost.

I started blogging as a letter to my son because, given my history (and my family’s history) with cancer, I wanted to give him something that would stay with him, some small consolation. But, I also firmly believe that cancer is NOT all.

• Cancer can’t take family. Yes, we’ve experienced loss, but at times like this, we see family come together. We realize – perhaps more than ever – what we mean to one another. And, we see how precious our community of family and friends really is.
• Cancer can’t take experience. We still have the memories of what we’ve shared. Those we’ve lost have left marks on our lives. We will never be the same.
• Cancer can’t take hope. I know the idea of hope is such an elusive concept. How do we define that thing that (for some) is the very reason for carrying on? Hope that things will get better … that the loss will mean something … and that (somehow) tomorrow will be a better day.

I’m still figuring it out as I go along. I’m a newbie as a father, and I often feel that my son is teaching me more than I ever could impart to him.

I want him to know, though, that he’s stronger than he knows, and he can survive any losses that he will experience though I will fight to the death to protect him from any pain I can spare him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

St. Louis native Don Jackson is co-founder of the Albuquerque Dads Group. The three-time cancer survivor is a father of two. A version of this first appeared on his blog, Daddy Newbie.

Main photo: © Vasyl / Adobe Stock.

Coping with the loss of a pet is difficult for parents and children alike, as Christian Lemon wrote about in his recent column for City Dads. So what’s the best way to deal with the death of a pet, be it furry, feathered, finned or what have you?

The internet is filled with many great tips and resources on the subject. We’ve distilled the most common advice on coping with pet loss to help you and your children get through grieving and mourning.

It’s OK to be upset about a pet’s death

“It’s just an animal,” some will say upon learning of the death of a pet. “Don’t let it bother you. You can just get another, right?” Chances are these people have never owned a pet.

Pets become beloved family members and best friends to many. They pass no judgment on us, and offer constant companionship and even unconditional love. We confide in them. We seek comfort from them. Often, we pamper them as we physically and emotionally care for them. It’s no wonder that 85% of the 400 U.S. adults surveyed by Veterinarians.org in 2021, said the loss of a pet was harder than or as hard to deal with as the loss of a family member or friend.

Therefore, feeling sad, remorseful, and even anger are all natural grieving responses to the loss of a pet just as they would be to the death of a relative or friend. Talk about your feelings with a trusted person who will understand. Encourage your children to express their feelings, too.

Talking to your children about the loss of a pet

Experts agree a direct and honest approach is the best way to talk to children about a family pet’s death:

• Find a quiet, familiar place and a time without distraction. Avoid these talks right before school, an activity or bedtime.
• Speak calmly and use simple, concise language. Don’t overexplain or make up tales about pets “going away.” If a pet is old or ill, for example, explain that its body stopped working properly and even all the veterinarian’s skills and medicines could no longer fix it. If a pet must be euthanized, explain that it is the kindest way to stop the pain and suffering of the animal.
• Avoid euphemisms. These might confuse or frighten a child. For example, saying a pet is being “put to sleep” or “going to sleep forever” may create worries about a child’s own bedtime.
• Share your feelings with your child about your pet’s passing. Showing your vulnerability lets your child know it is OK for them to do the same.

Being with your pet at death

Whether you should be present when a pet is euthanized is a personal choice. Some think being there to comfort their pet in its last moments is a final gift to their companion; others find the pain of witnessing their loss and death too great. One thing to consider is how you think you will feel after. Guilt and regret for not being present are common.

Children, just like their parents, should also be given a choice. While parents naturally want to shield their children from pain, their being present can also help them grieve and mourn later.

Consider the child’s age and temperament. Talk about the euthanasia process beforehand. Read an age-appropriate book about pet death with them, such as Goodbye, Mousie or The Tenth Good Thing About Barney (ages 3 to 8).

Honor your pet’s memory, express your feelings

Burying your pet in the backyard or spreading its ashes at its favorite play spot is sometimes not enough to bring closure. Hold a small candlelit ceremony where each family member shares a brief favorite memory of their pet. Children can choose one of the pet’s toys to bury with it or have them decorate a stone for a grave marker. They can also help plant a tree in the pet’s honor.

Afterward, use creativity to help yourself or your children through grief together. Write a letter to or a poem/story about your deceased pet. Make a scrapbook or box of memories/mementos of your pet. Have your kids draw pictures of themselves and their pets times together.

Coping with pet loss takes time

While believe getting a new pet right away will help take away the pain, that’s not always the case. Make sure you can physically and emotionally handle those duties again. Practice self-care. Join a pet loss bereavement group or find a friend who has undergone a similar loss to talk to.

RESOURCES:

• An Age-by-Age Guide to Explaining the Death of a Pet to Children – Family Education
• Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement – They have a comprehensive list of books for adults and children to help with understanding the loss of a pet.
• Best Friends: Pet Loss Grief Resources – Includes a list of books for adults, teens and young children
• How to Talk to Kids About the Death of a Pet – Child Development Institutes
• Managing Grief: A Guide to Mourning and Memorializing Your Companion Animal – Michigan State University Veterinary Medical Center
• Grief Support Center – RainbowBridge.com

Coping with pet loss photo: © Soloviova Liudmyla / Adobe Stock.

EDITOR’S NOTE: If you or someone you know needs help coping with a pet’s death, we suggest visiting the Grief Support Center at RainbowsBridge.com.

My cat is dead.

It’s no big deal. Just a shelter cat some woman I didn’t know bought for a 5-year-old I didn’t know. I’m married to that woman now, and that 5-year-old now is in high school, and my stepson.

The cat, Xander, came before my marriage. Xander was there before any of my three children were born. He had moved across the country a couple of times. He dropped poop in inconvenient places, and despite living in homes with solid flooring surfaces, he always found a few strips of carpet to drop a hairball. Xander was way too patient with my kids. His gentle demeanor created some very unrealistic expectations within my children regarding how the average cat responds to being violently accosted.

When we received Xander’s terminal diagnosis, I was a stoic: “Well, we gotta put ’em down. It’s the right thing.” I felt good about our decision. The vet came to our home to usher our warrior feline to the great hunting fields in the sky.

Then, when she announced Xander was dead, I became overwhelmed with grief.

Pet’s death comes in different forms

My wife had insisted on including the children during Xander’s euthanizing. I didn’t push back, but I wasn’t sure if it was the right decision. Perhaps I didn’t want to face the inevitably difficult “afterlife” questions that would follow. Your religious beliefs aside, no one knows exactly what happens after death, and I wanted to keep that from my children for as long as possible.

But it’s common for my wife to have more faith in my children than I do. I’m not proud of that. In many ways, it brings a healthy balance to our relationship. And, in moments like this, I marvel at her wisdom.

So the entire family gathered for that moment Xander fell asleep, and then slowly passed. My 3-year-old was confused. She was sure the vet was there to make Xander better. Her pleas for Xander to wake up sent me fleeing to another room.

That emotional response to our pet’s death from my youngest daughter made the whole thing more painful for me. On the other hand, the complete lack of emotions from my other two kids made me wonder if I’m raising future serial killers who may star in their own Netflix documentary.

My son, who is 5, was cuddly, quiet, and deeply introspective, but mostly seemed unphased by watching our cat die. My daughter, at 7 going on 30, seemed to delight in not having any emotions at all. She kept checking to see if I was crying and behaved as if she was winning the “I’m not crying” competition. When we had her play the flute after we lowered Xander’s lifeless body into his backyard grave, she behaved as if it was a fun curiosity, not a sad ceremony. As Hurricane Ian’s first angry clouds swirled above (it had been a stressful week), my son solemnly tossed flowers over Xander’s body. He did so respectfully, but my daughter was laughing and joking, definitely not taking it seriously.

Hard lessons at a young age

I wanted to get mad. I wanted to force them to feel what I felt. For some reason, I felt it was my duty to make them conform to my idea of what mourning should look like, but I possessed just enough wisdom to let it go.

It took a couple of days, but eventually, my eldest daughter broke down. She confessed she was sad she hadn’t spent more time with Xander before he died. That’s when she began making really sweet drawings and artwork devoted to the cat. She had found her feelings, and she had found a way to mourn.

As parents, sometimes we feel pressure to act. We feel we need to be correcting, teaching, or guiding. But parenting, as in life, is all about balance. There’s a time to push our kids, and a time to let them alone. There’s a time to be a strong hand of guidance, but sometimes distance and time is the answer. None of us will get it right all the time, but it’s important we remember to work toward balance. It’s crucial we never forget our children are people, and people are wildly complicated. Kids are just tiny humans with all the big feelings you and I feel, and they are just learning how to deal with it. If we’re honest, how great are us adults with our feelings?

Ultimately, having the children be a part of Xander’s death was the right decision for us. The children fully understand he is gone and never coming back. They each dealt with his passing in their own way, and it feels good not deceiving them along the way. No story about a farm. No mysterious disappearance. They faced it like champs, and they matured a little along the way. What more can we ask of our kids?

Me? Well, I’m grumpy about being the saddest of the lot. I should be writing about something else, but this is all I can think about. I’m grateful for the opportunity to see my children grow and continue to impress me, but it did come at a high cost – now they want more pets.

I shall end with a final thought I feel Xander, the mighty feline warrior, killer of lizards, slayer of frogs, would appreciate: Cats rule and dogs drool.