On Dying Young: How to Help Your Teens Cope with the Death of a Friend

It happened again this past weekend. On Friday evening, my youngest daughter carefully picked out her clothes to go out: a long, dark green dress, long sleeved sweater, her hair carefully pulled back with a headband. She wasn't heading to a party or a movie or a date. She was going, with two of her best friends, to the wake of a young man who had died at the age of 22. Eric had been killed instantly in a car crash that had taken place the day before.

This wasn't the first time that she'd been to a wake, or a viewing. My uncle, who was also the godfather to all of my girls, had died as the result of a stroke two years earlier, when she was 15. Although she hadn't seen my uncle in over a year, she loved him from afar - his goofy phone calls to her on her birthday and on all holidays, the times when she was younger and he took her out sailing, all had left vivid memories in her mind. While her older sisters actually chose not to go to the viewing, she insisted upon accompanying us.

We were, frankly, very proud of her behavior on that occasion. She sat quietly throughout the service, throughout the numerous people who got up to speak of their own memories of my uncle. At the end, she graciously met and shook hands with dozens and dozens of people there.

There was no body on display, my aunt having opted for cremation for her husband. Perhaps that's why it wasn't so traumatic for her - or for the rest of us. I think when a viewing or wake doesn't have the actual remains on view, it's much easier for a child to deal with the situation. Speaking for myself, I know that I felt that way.

But Eric was different. Eric had worked as a barista at her favorite coffee shop, our local Starbucks, while attending college part time. He was a cute, good-looking, sweet, goofy boy, one of those kids whom you always welcomed into your home. His viewing was closed casket in this case because of the devastating injuries he'd sustained. It was a good choice, I think, for his parents especially.

My daughter went to the viewing and stayed for over an hour with her friends. They reminisced about Eric and the good times they'd individually and collectively had with him. My daughter's friend said that while the viewing itself was a very sad occasion, the kids who had attended felt like they 'had done the right thing.

We didn't want Eric to think that we didn't remember him.' On Facebook, there was a group set up as a memorial to him. Two of the photos on there showed my daughter with Eric. One was a picture of her struggling to hold his collie while Eric looked on, laughing. The other was a photo of her leaning her head against his shoulders in a group shot. They had gone to a diner that night, that long night that now seems so far away in time. I was really glad that those photos were there.

Over the weekend, we had the chance to talk about Eric. My daughter, this time, didn't want to say very much. 'You didn't know him like I did, everybody loved him' were her comments. She was angry that I had pried into her personal grieving space; I decided to leave her alone with the proverbial door open to talk when she felt more like it. On her nightstand now is the card that she picked up at the evening viewing: a black and white photo of Eric in full profile, looking out at a beautiful mountain range.

My youngest has always been one to confide in her journal. While I never (well, hardly ever) read it, I think that putting down her thoughts about Eric and his death in words will be a huge source of consolation for her. Her journal has, I believe, gotten her thought some pretty rough times in the past. I'm sure it will serve her well this time, too. How is she holding up now? She's giggling in her bedroom with one of her best friends, having driving into 'the city' to attend a concert last night. She's learned, the hard way, that life goes on.

She's grieved earlier in her life, but never before for a young man who was her friend. In her own way, she has learned how to deal with it. There were the gerbils, when she was four and five. The first one just gave up the ghost one day; we had a little funeral for him in our back yard. The second gerbil was worse: he/she escaped from its cage and was never, ever found. (Yes, I did check under the carpet in her room and in her walk in closet. That gerbil was never meant to be found, I guess.) By the time the second gerbil was gone, she had already lost interest in it. I think the worst loss she's suffered up until just now was the death of her beloved cat, Sylvester.

Sylvester was a rescue cat who truly was always in the running for Ugliest Cat in the World. Soft-hearted daughter loved him dearly; he slept in her room, he slept on her bed, he was always available for a rub under his chin from her. He never thought very highly about the rest of us, just her. She was 15 and working part time as a model in New York when he passed. She had had a big photo shoot that week, and my husband had told me earlier that 'something is wrong with Sylvester'. Within two days, he had developed an enormous tumor in his cheek; within a day, he died. I had to tell my daughter that Sylvester had died while we were waiting in Grand Central Station in New York for our train ride home.

She was very, very upset: she had never had the chance to see him one last time before he died. She told me this in no uncertain terms, and was very, very angry about the whole situation for several months. She still keeps a photo of him tucked into her bedroom mirror. Young children - and teens - need to feel a sense of closure when someone - or something - close to them dies. In Eric's case, she had the chance to say goodbye to him at the wake, as she had done to her godfather years earlier. It's important for teens to feel that closure in order to heal.

Our oldest daughter, Ariel, had suffered a much greater loss three years earlier. Three months after high school graduation, one of her dearest and oldest best friends died in a car crash in West Virginia. Ariel and Nicole had been inseperable for most of their kindergarten and grade school years together.

Their relationship lasted through middle school, although that was when they each kind of drifted into different activities. In her junior year, Ariel transferred to a wonderful Roman Catholic private school, leaving Nicole at the public high school. They still kept in touch, although not nearly as often. They could go a year without talking and still pick right back up with their friendship.

Nicole had had a tough time in school since her freshman year. She was always a lively, fun-loving kid who referred to me as her "Moo Moo", her second Mom. After barely graduating from high school (and I do mean barely), she went to a small college in West Virginia. Her parents owned a home in the area; her dad, now retired, lived at the home close to the school. Nicole went to school part time and worked part time. As the story was told, she had worked late at her job and fell asleep at the wheel on a dark West Virginia country road on her way home.

I loved Nicole like she was my own daughter. But I also have to admit publicly that she got in with the 'wrong crowd' in her freshman year. She had had numerous suspensions from school, she drank heavily, and there were few legal and streets drugs with which she wasn't familiar. All of her friends, and their parents too, knew this. We chose to go with the story of her death as told. At that point, what difference did it really make?

Ariel received phone calls and emails from other friends about Nicole's death; it clearly wasn't the best way to find out that a beloved friend had died in a violent car accident, but that's the way it was. There was no public viewing for Nicole; instead, her parents chose to hold it about an hour before her funeral itself began. At this point, Ariel was besides herself with grief. She was always an emotional, compassionate child. We spent a full day with her weeping hysterically and talking with Nicole's other friends about her death. By the time the morning of the funeral came, I was certain that disaster was on its way.

I had talked with Ariel for hours on end about Nicole. We talked about why it wasn't fair that she died, that she died way too early, that the two of them had drifted apart after graduation and how that made Ariel both angry and incredibly sad. She talked and talked while I listened.

We went to the funeral together. Nicole's casket was in front of a state of the Virgin Mary in the church. It was, God help us all, an open casket. Nicole's face, which had suffered much damage, was bloated almost beyond recognition. It was like looking at a rubber doll replica of the girl we'd both known and loved. Ariel went first to the kneeler in front of the casket, crying the entire time. To this day, I still see Nicole lying there in her casket.

We chose not to go to the reception following the funeral. The funeral itself had taken such a toll on my daughter and myself, neither of us was sure we were up to it. In retrospect, we should have gone. Again, it was a chance for Ariel to obtain some kind of closure, closure with Nicole's mother (whom she loved dearly) and closure with the fact that Nicole was dead at 18. The burial took place in the church's cemetery. About six months after Nicole's death, her entire family moved to the house in West Virginia. We haven't spoken with them since.

I know that I still feel an emptiness about Nicole's death; I can just imagine what unanswered questions Ariel might have. Occasionally, we do talk about her. But what I found with Ariel is that she learned the hard way that life goes on after the death of a good friend. She had classes to continue, events to attend, other friends to take up her time. If I had to do it over again, I would have insisted that my daughter and I attend the post-funeral reception. It would have given us both one last chance to talk about Nicole and share all of the good things this lively young woman had brought into our lives. With all of her family gone from the state, we'll never be able to have that chance again.