Youth Novels About Loss

I will be adding to this post over time, I have to get it started.

Youth often find direct communication about death and loss overwhelming for many, many reasons. Direct conversations are good, but sprinkle in stories and other kinds of content to help children experience a range of expressiveness. Here is a beginning list of youth titles, I will be adding child titles as well over time. If you know of any child or youth fiction that you would like to see added, please leave a comment or email me. Thanks!

Youth Fiction:

• After by Francis Chalifour Fifteen-year-old Francis struggles to come to terms with his father's suicide.
• The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen The summer following her father's death, Macy plans to work at the library and wait for her brainy boyfriend to return from camp, but instead she goes to work at a catering business where she makes new friends and finally faces her grief.
• Under the Wolf, Under the Dog by Adam Rapp Sixteen-year-old Steve struggles to make sense of his mother's terminal breast cancer and his brother's suicide.
• No Right Turn by Terry Trueman After three years of wanting only to be invisible, sixteen-year-old Jordan begins to recover from his father's suicide and start living again when a neighbor's vintage Corvette Stingray opens up new possibilities for him. 
• Tiger Eyes by Judy Blume Resettled in the "Bomb City" with her mother and brother, Davey Wexler recovers from the shock of her father's death during a holdup of his 7-Eleven store in Atlantic City.
• Eagle Kite by Paula Fox Liam's father has AIDS, and his family cannot talk about it until Liam reveals a secret that he has tried to deny ever since he saw his father embracing another man at the beach.
• The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton The struggle of three brothers to stay together after their parents’ death and their quest for identity among the conflicting values of their society.
• Silver Kiss by Annette Curtis Klause  Only Simon, the young vampire who comes to her house in the middle of the night, can help Zoe overcome her brooding thoughts of her dying mother and her own loneliness.
• Girl Death Left Behind by Lurlene McDaniel  Numb with grief when an accident kills her entire family, fourteen-year-old Beth suddenly finds herself living with her spoiled cousin Terri and trying to make friends at a new school.
• Shizuko’s Daughter by Kyoto Mori  After her mother's suicide when she is twelve years old, Yuki spends years living with her distant father and his resentful new wife, cut off from her mother's family, and relying on her own inner strength to cope with the tragedy.
• Missing May by Cynthia Rylant After the death of the beloved aunt who has raised her, twelve-year-old Summer and her uncle Ob leave their West Virginia trailer in search of the strength to go on living.

Love,
Kim

Carol of the Birds

Brian and I mused cautiously about doing a “surprise installation art” offering at the garden for visitors. Brian was a sound designer. I had a theater background and had done a lot of visuals in my career involving lighting design. We had taken a lighting course together at Angstrom Lighting in Los Angeles, and were well on our way to mixing light and sound together in an alchemy of expression. But we were both highly opinionated and had artisan temperaments. One hopes not to fight to the point of breaking when working with another creative type.

I was in charge of the holiday festival and we had one California winter night in the garden to use. All my other programming for the evening was already set and predictable for a holiday evening in the garden. I asked Brian is he wanted to work with me on something unexpected. OF COURSE, he said yes.

We worked “off the radar,” telling no one on the staff. You can manage to pull this kind of sneaky thing of once in a great while.

There were three reasons that we proceeded in a stealth manner.

One was because we were working with professional lighting equipment that had not been used in several years, and we were unsure what challenges might manifest. Therefore, we did not want to commit in print to something that would require spending unexpected money should some of the gear not work.

Second, we did not want to go through a bureaucratic system of permissions. "Ask for forgiveness, not for permission."

Third, we wanted the serendipity of surprise and discovery for the staff and the visitors.

Brian, being far more strange than I, wanted to do something fantastically bizarre. I had to help him dial that back a bit for this event (smile). We agreed that it needed to have at least a smidgen of familiarity or sentimentality to it and that we wanted the piece to be beautiful and haunting.

I became aware of the history of the Carol of the Bells. When I discussed it with him, we fell in love with the possibilities and decided that this would be the anchor for the work.

Here is some background for you:

"Carol of the Bells" is a well-known and recognized holiday song, yet most of us do not know it's origins and that the original folk song had nothing to do with Christmas. The beautiful circular tune was originally a Ukrainian folk song - a "winter well-wishing song."

Anthony Potoczniak, a Rice University anthropology graduate student is studying the song's history: The original folk melody that Ukrainian composer Mykola Leontovich used and titled "Shchedryk," tells the tale of a swallow flying into a household to proclaim the plentiful year that the family will have. The song's title is derived from the Ukrainian word "shchedryj," which means "bountiful." The folk song was one of many well-wishing tunes sung in many Ukrainian villages on Jan. 13 -- New Year's Eve on the Julian calendar -- performed by adolescent girls, visiting house to house in celebration of the new year. As the girls sang the tune predicting good fortune, they were rewarded with baked goods or other treats.

"The swallow is a herald of spring coming," Potoczniak informs us. The original lyrics tell the lofty tale of a swallow calling out to the master of the home and telling him about all the wealth that he will possess -- healthy livestock, money and a beautiful wife.

So sound, in the form of the song, would be the anchor. We had our location – an open-air theater surrounded by a dense grove of oak trees. We had the long-neglected lighting equipment. We knew our intended audience would be people looking to celebrate Christmas communally. We knew that there would be many fantastic wee-ones present.

Brian began designing his audio piece. Our discussions revolved around bringing the birds into the song, and also the dreams of children. He began deconstructing the carol tonally and started mixing bird song and the laughter of children in his soundscape.

I began working with the lighting gear, wiping off cobwebs, checking light bulbs. As well, my challenge was to forecast how to help people interact with the space, not just stand by and look and listen. By procuring what we called “jingle sticks” - sticks with jingle bells and ribbons attached– I hoped to invite people to join in to dance and play on the stage together, enveloped in the sound and light.

We kept an eye on weather reports, praying that it would not rain. The night before the event, we arrived at the garden stage only after everyone was gone and it was pitch dark. At first, we used the Jeep's headlights to see as we drug lighting gear up the 20 foot ladder to the lighting armature. It was freezing cold for us California types, somewhat dangerous in the dark, and a challenge of the wits. It pushed my physicality to the limit, lugging the heavy leko theatrical lights up the ladder and tightening the bolts so that they lights held safely in place. Slowly, the lights went up and the intense colors of the gels cut and sliced into the blackness of the garden. Fusia. Red. Orange. Purple. Teal. Yellow. Instead of only lighting the stage as you would in theater, we tipped many of the leko stage lights to light the surrounding oaks, to make the forest actors in the scene. We fired up the audio gear and started to play Brian's soundscape.

And, I began to believe. Believe that all the work was worth it. Believe that our skill sets could compliment each other and that we could create interesting installation art together. Believe that tomorrow might be tender and magical.

And it was.

We probably had a couple hundred people come through. Some danced. Some hopped. Some skated. Some wiggled. Everyone seemed to love the bathing colors and sounds that took them to an imaginary space. I should have videoed the evening. I should have taken more pictures. When it got busy, I could not take the time to photograph people.

Brian was fussy about audio. He did not like compressed mp3 or mp4s. He would have wanted you to hear this piece on an excellent system, not likely found on your computer. But I have no means to share his soundscape with you, and so I know he might forgive me as I share this less-than high quality version of his work with you. Click the button to watch and listen to my very humble little slide show with audio:

I think this may have been one of the best moments in his creative life, because he got to experience people's direct reaction to his work. I know he was on cloud 9 when the evening ended. I continue to be grateful that I helped make this highpoint of his career happen for him. I think, for me, it may have been my best Christmas season to date.

Side note: Birds usually do not sing at night. We had a very interesting reaction from the native birds in the garden the evening we were setting up and doing our dress rehearsal. The birds came. They sang. And, some of them made angry dives at us as we were there with the audio running. I suspect that they were confused about the sound and the territory that was being invaded by outsider birds! Luckily, the night of the event, there was no dive-bombing birds. Perhaps they had gotten used to the sound or were dissuaded by the crowds, we will never know.

Love,

LOCK YOURSELF OUT FOR THE HOLIDAYS

I know that sounds outrageous. It just may have worked for me in the winter of 2008. Let me explain.

My beloved soul mate and partner, Brian, died in June of 2008. I made a trip from sunny California to blustery New England for the wintering months. Do not ask me why. Maybe to have the exterior world match my interior. I felt so cold, barren and isolated. And nothing will match that feeling like scaling 3 foot snow drifts and slipping on black ice. A hard winter is similar to grief and sorrow, to be sure.

I was house sitting in a traditional small New England town – Easthampton, MA. I had several invitations to spend Christmas Day with people, however, the idea did not sit well with me. I was despondent and heavy with grief. Attending Christmas gatherings with people, some of whom I did not know, all who exuded positive energy... seemed wrong. I did not want to spoil their holiday or shift my energy to accommodate their festive spirits. I made several people confused and angry regarding my decline of their kind invitations. I chose to be alone in a snow drift on Christmas Day.

I isolated to work out my sorrow over my absent husband and children. The children were the hardest part. They, after all, were still alive and on the planet... but inaccessible. Our shared custody of his three wonderful children vanished after Brian died, since their birth mom was a problem that I could not solve. And so it was that my entire village had been bombed and nothing was left. I had no money to throw at my problems. Nor the desire to fight. So, I isolated and licked my many wounds.

I looked for a Christmas Day volunteer assignment. No homeless shelters were serving Christmas Day, having already served on Christmas Eve. My attempts to be of service on that day had no channels or outlets.

It was to be my first Christmas Day without Brian or the kids in years and years. And, frankly, I was mortified.

Forward to Christmas Day Evening. For some reason, that I cannot recall, I decided to take a drive in my car. Maybe my intention was to see the Christmas lights? I cannot remember.

I bundled up in miles of sweaters and coats and scarves and hats. So unlike my California clothing. I ventured out onto the darkening, slippery sidewalk toward my car. The wind pressed against me, as if to dare me to continue. I escaped the wind inside my frigid, small economy car. Started the engine. Looked up to see an icy windshield. And then, I made my mistake – or my best decision that day – depending on your viewpoint.

I turned off the car, opened the door and got out to address the icy windshield with the lack of acumen that one might expect of a Cali girl. As I leaned over the passenger side of the car to scrape – a wind rose out of the bowels of Antarctica – and slammed my driver's door shut.

I am an urban girl. I have a habit firmly planted in the reptilian part of my brain of ALWAYS taking my keys and ALWAYS hitting the button to lock the doors.

This time I had NOT taken my keys but HAD hit the button to lock the doors. So when the door slammed shut – I was locked out. Locked out of both the car AND the house.

The car door was ajar, but closed enough that it was locked. I tried cramming sticks in to pry the door open (the scratches are still there today), to no avail. I looked at the car and the house – my only shelters in this wintry world – and both were firmly locked. The chill of the frigid air was moving inside my coat.

Cell phone? Inside the car. AAA membership card? Inside the car.

I surveyed the perimeter of the house, leaping through snow drifts to see if there were any places where I could force entry. Of course there were not, the house was lashed up like a tight drum against the howling work of winter.

Therefore, my only solution was to seek a person who would allow me to use a phone. I started to walk.

It was amazing how few houses had any signs of life. As I went door to door, no one answered the doorbell. I suspect they all had taken flight to winter in the sunny state of CALIFORNIA. Of course. The irony was not lost on me.

Finally, I found an elderly woman at home. She was hard of hearing and extremely suspicious of me as an intruder. When I asked to use her phone, she said, “NO.” When I asked if she would be willing to call AAA for me as I waited outside, she said, “What is the phone number?”. When I said that she would have to call information to get it because, after all, I did not have my card with me, it was locked in the car - she said, “NO.”

No room at the inn.

I cannot blame her. In a world that is so predatory, it is hard to be old and alone.

So I kept walking. Dark house after dark house. Shivering. At one point I started crying, not because I thought there was no solution, but just because I was ANGRY. ANGRY that this is the sum total of my life now. Locked out in a two-dog night. That was me in December 2008.

Finally, a block or so away I saw a man smoking on the porch of a house and the Christmas lights were on. I moved with intention – partly because the cold was reaching a critical point and partly because if he was outside my approach might seem less odd.

I was on the sidewalk when I called out to him - “Excuse me... Would you be kind enough to help me?”

And he responded, “What's the problem?”

“I am locked out of my car and my house. My cell phone and AAA card are locked in the car. I need to use a phone to call information and then call AAA. Could you help me?”

“Sure, come on,” he said.

I hesitated at the screen door. The house was brimming with decorations and people – lots of people. There was a constant low roar of arguing and laughter enveloped in the family tale-telling. There was the smell of an ample table of food pouring out the screen.

I wanted to wait outside so as not to disturb them, but when he invited me in – I jumped at the chance because I was frigid to the bone. I felt my face flush and I did not know if it was the cold OR the embarrassment to be so messed up and alone and barren in the midst of people bursting with family and “having.”

The man told everyone that I needed to make some calls, so they left me alone for those few minutes while I was calling, but when I hung up and turned to say that I would go wait by my car for the AAA truck - they would have none of it. Their argument was that on Christmas Day that it would take the truck a while to arrive and that it was too cold out there. Of course, they were right.

They were extremely curious. I tried to be inconspicuous and be a shadow in the corner. They would not let me. What was I doing here? Where was I from? Where was I staying? Had I eaten? Here, have a plate of food. Have a warm drink.

I conceded to wait thirty minutes indoors before moving back outdoors to wait by my car for AAA. They asked me all of the typical questions – and when my brief answers were so bleak – they were full of respectful compassion. There was no misplaced pity. There was no trying to roust me out of any sadness. They just were with the stranger who arrived on their doorstep. All thirty five of them (give or take). All of us crammed in the kitchen. I felt sick that I was in such a bereft state in contrast to their dinner party.

They talked with me about a few of their family members that had died, and the stories percolated into a richer and stronger conversation that poured out into other related topics. I could see that they were such a large family that their losses were absorbed into a larger landscape of churning life. It would have literally taken a nuclear warhead going off to take their large family down to just one individual.

I silently contrasted their burgeoning family to my little family of five that had now become a tribe of one – me.

Soon it was time to go out and wait for AAA. As I waited, the darkness enfolded me. Finally a very kind man arrived and in short order had my car door open. When I tried to tip him for coming out on Christmas Day, he refused.

So what conclusions can be drawn from this event? Probably more than I know today, but here are some reflections.

First, I think I can give Karl Jung a run for his money on the symbolism latent in my experience.

I had intended to insulate myself in a solitary space on Christmas Day. But the metaphorical door had slammed shut by the winds of circumstance, blocking me. I had sought a volunteer position to help other people, but was thwarted – and more to the point, I ended up being the one needing and receiving help. I became painfully aware of my pride and embarrassment. I saw that my level of “poverty” - my lack of family, the needy state I was in - was actually humiliating to me. I had tried to isolate, but was cast out in the cold, forced to seek human support and care to correct my situation.

Even though I wanted to be alone - I needed community.

As temporary as it was, there was enough kindness through accidental community to restore me to my car and a warm house. Apparently, I needed circumstances to lead me where I did not have the courage or strength to go. Perhaps I am one of the many who have equated status with privacy and self-sufficiency, negating the need to call on friends, neighbors and strangers now and then. Perhaps I am one of the many who have accepted the societal message that my grief should never interrupt anyone's light and happy day. Perhaps I am one of the many who have an underlying fear that my catastrophic losses really mean that I hold an an inferior status in some wretched cosmic roll of the dice.

Maybe I needed to look at how I had exiled myself. And become compassionate to the exiled places in me where I had colluded with the world's view of grief and loss.

Perhaps I needed to learn trust - that opportunities for supportive community in my grieving will manifest like going from door to door ringing metaphorical doorbells. I will go from one door to the next, looking for someone to finally answer and provide help, looking again and again for the help that I need.

Maybe that was, after all, the largest gift I received that first Christmas Day after Brian died.

The knowledge that I need community.

Love,