Playing through the pain

[Times photos: Stefanie Boyar] Andrew, 7, left, and his brother, James, 9, hurl beach balls in the hurricane room at the Circle of Love Center for Grieving Children. The room is filled with soft objects for throwing. The boys lost their great-grandmother, who lived with them, in November.

By LANE DeGREGORY
© St. Petersburg Times
published February 11, 2002

Kids gather at a downtown Tampa church to share their grief - and maybe bonk one another with a beach ball. It may be the only therapy that helps when someone you love has died.

TAMPA -- They sit in a circle, on denim bean bags and plaid couch cushions: 11 children, watching each other, waiting their turns. Some want to be here. Others had to be bribed.

"Hi. My name is Bryan McClellan, and I lost my dad," says the first boy, who's wearing a blue Gators baseball cap over his curly red hair. He's eating strawberry Twizzlers. He's 14. "My dad died of sun cancer. He just died in November."

The boy sitting next to him, who's 9, takes a deep breath. "I'm Austin. And my little brother died from cancer."

The next boy doesn't want to talk. He's 7. He just wants to hit something, or someone, or throw himself against the floor.

The youngest girl, who's 5, is sucking her thumb. She's huddled next to her big sister in the back corner. "I'm Sara," she says softly. She looks up at her sister, who nods. "Our daddy died."

Some of their parents had heart attacks, some were killed in car accidents, some committed suicide. Some children lost brothers or grandmothers or great-grandmothers.

Twice a month, on Monday nights, the families gather at the Circle of Love Center for Grieving Children. It's at St. Andrew's Episcopal Church in Tampa, sponsored by LifePath Hospice. It opened in November. All services are free.

The children throw beach balls at each other, put on puppet shows, cut construction paper into faces to show how they feel.

They learn they're not alone.

"It's much easier for children to work through their emotions by playing than by discussing," says Susan McIntyre, who took 30 hours of training to become a center volunteer. "I want to help these children normalize their grief, so it won't affect their self-esteem. I don't want the death to make them feel different about themselves."

The therapy sessions are based on a model by the Dougy Center, a national center for grieving children. The Tampa center is Florida's sixth.

"We don't make anyone participate if they don't want to," says center supervisor Tammy Alsing. "Everyone needs to work through grief in their own way. Children just seem to be more comfortable communicating their feelings in a play situation."

But how much can it really help a bunch of sad kids to pack them together in a room filled with gym mats?

What if you also feed them M&M's?

Volunteers Maureen O'Neill, center, and Judy Woodcock, right, listen as James, 9, introduces himself in the opening circle. Each child is asked to share his or her favorite memory of the loved one they've lost.

Going fishing

After introductions, each child is supposed to share his or her favorite memory of the person who died. Tyler, whose dad was killed in a car accident last spring, says he'll start. He's 11.

"My favorite memory is when me and my dad and my grandpa all went fishing. We all caught lots of fish. Grouper, I think my dad said it was."

Julie, 10, says she has a picture of her with her dad when she was 3, when she caught her first fish. Sara doesn't feel like talking.

Bryan says: "Actually, I have two favorite memories." Then he stops. He looks down, bites off another piece of licorice, chews and swallows. Without looking up, he tries again. "My two favorite memories are when me and my dad . . ." He trails off, shaking his head.

Austin pats his new friend on the knee, starts softly. "Well, one of my favorite memories was from when me and my little brother went swimming in the lake. And he swam out and got tired. So I paddled him all the way in on my back."

"You must've been tired," Bryan says.

"But we had fun."

While the children are with one group of volunteers, their parents are with another. The adults say the sessions help them, too.

"We really needed something, bad," says Bryan's mom, Laurie. Bryan is her only child. "We're both hurting. Both trying to help each other."

Children aren't supposed to have to ask what cremation means or learn about loneliness or worry about their moms. Many do.

Sara, 5, left, listens as her sister, Gloria, 7, reads a rule during the opening circle. There is an "I pass'' rule for those who don't feel comfortable talking. The girls lost their dad in August.

But it's so much harder when you don't understand everything, and your dad, who used to explain stuff to you, is gone. And you're not sure how you're supposed to handle it, or if you can. And you wish you could talk to your mom. But you can't, 'cause it makes her cry. And the kids at school, they don't want to know, really. And when you go to one of those grown-up therapists and you're supposed to be spilling your guts or something, you don't want to because how can a grown-up really get what you're going through? That therapist guy probably got to keep his dad more than 14 years.

Bryan didn't want to come here. Didn't want to discuss his dad. How could a room full of strangers understand what he's going through, anyway?

His mom didn't know. But she had to try something. So she pulled out an old parent trick. Ever since Christmas, Bryan has been asking her for an Xbox and three games to go with it, a $200 system. "Okay," his mom said. "You come try this circle thing once, and you can get your video box."

Tonight, Bryan begged to come back.

Emotions in motion

The hurricane room helps the most, Bryan says.

Shoes pile up outside the hurricane room. All is chaos inside. One rule everyone must obey: No hurting.

It's downstairs in the church, a small room with navy carpet filled with soft objects. Plush soccer balls and blow-up beach balls and pillows in rainbow cases. A rag doll and Styrofoam squares and an inflatable yellow boat.

"Take your shoes off first, please," a volunteer says. Four boys kick off their sneakers.

Bryan grabs a red rubber ball, wings it at the wall. Austin dives into the boat, rolls around on the floor. Jimmy, 9, picks up a pillow and bashes his little brother over the back. They act like the Three Stooges. They sound like a Batman fight.

"Ugh! Aaah! Got ya!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!" Austin nails Bryan with a beach ball.

"No head shots!" the volunteer warns. "No hurting."

They're all hurting. That's why they're here.

In the art room next door, Julie and her sister Kristie, 8, are playing doctor with yarn-haired puppets. Two older girls are gluing silver glitter on pictures of elephants and flowers. It doesn't matter if their projects don't relate directly to death, as long as the kids have a good time. Most of them don't smile much anymore.

About 7:30 p.m., the volunteer in the hurricane room calls, "It's time, boys! Let's put on your shoes."

"No!" Austin cries, sliding across the carpet on his stomach.

"Five more minutes?" pleads Bryan. "We're having so much fun!"

Red is for feelings

At the end of the evening, they can shoot hoops or play Foosball, color with crayons or bulldoze the sand box. Volunteers also plan an activity. The adults do the same one.

Tyler, 11, holds a brown candy during the M&M game. Each child takes a card that matches the color of their M&M and does as the card instructs. Tyler lost his father last May.

Last week, they all wrote the name of the person who died. Then they had to think up one trait for each letter in the name. Bryan's dad was Rick. "Rejoicing, Inspiring," he wrote. "Caring, Knowledge."

"That really helped us talk about his dad when we got home," Bryan's mom says. "Bryan and I had written so many of the same things by those letters."

Tonight, everyone is going to play the M&M game. McIntyre shakes a Tupperware container of candy while she explains it to the kids. "Okay, so you take an M&M, and you can eat it, but you have to take a card the same color as that M&M and do what that card says."

Red is for feelings. Orange for stories. Brown for questions. Green, you have to finish a sentence. Yellow, you have to reflect. Blue is wild.

Bryan tips the container over his right hand. "Oops! I got too many. What do I do?"

"Eat them. All but one."

"Okay," he says, chewing chocolate. Then he opens his hand to display the last one. "Orange." He thinks for a second, searching his past, going places he hasn't been in months. "Okay. A story, right?" The volunteer nods.

"Okay. So. Me and my dad, we had this tradition, kind of. He liked me to play baseball with him. And he'd take me to the park and throw me fastballs. And one day, he hit me in the head. And he felt so bad. And it was an accident and I was okay. But he took me to Pizza Hut after, anyway. Just me and him. And that was great." He eats the orange M&M, looks up at the other kids. "My dad was great."

Come together

Before they go home, everyone heads to the church dining room. Children and parents and volunteers stand in a circle, holding hands.

This is supposed to symbolize strength, says Alsing, the supervisor. It shows everyone supports each other.

"We hope most families will keep coming for six months to a year. But that's up to them," she says. "There's really no magic formula."

Nancy MacDonald and her daughters, Julie and Kristie, have been coming since the center opened. The girls' dad died 18 months ago. They're just starting to talk about it.

"I didn't realize how deeply they thought about him until we started coming here," she says of her elementary school-age girls. "They're opening up more now, slowly. A couple weeks ago, they were up in their room writing letters to him.

"This has been a godsend, really."

Then it's time for the closing circle.

"I'm glad you're all here. We're all supported by each other, by our peers," Alsing says. "And what we do in this circle is reflect and share and remember those things that are special to us. Birthdays, death days, anniversaries, anything that's important, whether it's happy or hard, you can put those needs into our circle, and we'll surround you with love and support."

No one says anything. Eleven children, seven parents and five volunteers stare at the tile floor. "Anything?" Nothing. "Anything at all?"

Bryan looks up at his mom. Tugs at his Gators cap. Then the boy who didn't want to talk about his dad, especially not in front of strangers, clears his throat. "Well, it's my mom and dad's anniversary coming up," he says. He stares at the floor. He can feel his mom crying, feel her hand is shaking in his.

"So, I want to remember that special day for you, Mom." He pauses. He squeezes her hand.

"And for Dad."

You're invited

The Circle of Love Center for Grieving Children will host an open house from 4:30 to 6:30 p.m. today.

The center is sponsored by LifePath Hospice and is open to children ages 3 to 18 who have lost someone in their family through illness, accident, suicide or murder. Free sessions are held twice a month and include puppet play, art projects, games and group discussions. Parent meetings are held at the same time and place.

The center is in St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, 509 E Twiggs St. in downtown Tampa. The center also needs volunteers. For directions or more information, call (813) 383-5243.

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