Every night

When I say that Joseph would not sleep after the funeral, I don't mean that as a joke. It's not hyperbole. It's not exaggeration. He was exhausted, but he fought sleep like he was terrified of it, and he was. I'm not sure who exactly was the first person who suggested that "Grandpa is sleeping now," and I know it was well-meaning, but you could see his little mind stringing events together.

He saw Grandpa get hit by the car. He knew that Grandpa "fell asleep" when that happened. He knew that Grandpa spent much of the next six weeks "asleep," either sedated or just unconcious. And then he saw Grandpa in the big silver box, not responding, while everyone said he was asleep, and that was where he stayed. Sleep, in his mind, was very, very bad.

Suddenly, putting Joseph in his bed was like putting a cat in a bathtub...full of schnauzers. The clinging and screaming. Eight o'clock would come and go, and nine and ten and if we were lucky and incredibly determined, by 1 a.m. or so, he would collapse. He was not truly asleep, though. The slightest movement would bring him to a frantic, panicked state, like someone threw cold water on him. He would bolt upright and that would be the end of the night, whether it was 2 a.m. or 6 a.m. His breathing would be rapid and shallow. Within an hour or two, the night terrors would start. Not truly awake or asleep, he would cry inconsolably for hours while clinging to one of us.

It was awful. His doctor prescribed melatonin to try to help. It did. A little. Instead of 1 a.m., he would be asleep by 10:30 or 11 p.m. But every morning, around 2 a.m., the night terrors brought him screaming out of bed.

Please, please, please, never use "sleep" to explain death to a child.