Discussing death with a child

It was bedtime, and my 11-year-old son, Tim, was reading aloud from ''The Vile Village," a volume in the ''Lemony Snicket" series. The books' main characters -- Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire -- are clever, self-possessed orphans who overcome physical trials.

The children triumph in an adult world populated by endearing relatives, eccentric guardians, and malicious villains, but they also long for their parents who were killed in a mysterious house fire.

As he read to me from his bunk bed, my son asked, ''So Mom, where would I go if you and Dad died at the same time?"

My son's brown eyes were leveled at me when he voiced that question. The thought of Mom or Dad dying suddenly is scary, especially for a single child.

The question wasn't a complete surprise. When he and his friends left the theater after seeing the movie based on the book, they chattered in the back of the van about becoming orphans. They talked among themselves about who would go where and when and why. No queries were directed at me. Conversation faded.

In the interval months, the adults of our nation pondered the demise of a severely impaired woman in Florida and terminally ill pope. My husband and I had discussed end-of-life issues among ourselves and relatives. Death has been fodder for dinner-time discussions.

I spoke with Tim about the good fortune of having extended families in several East Coast cities. I teased him, saying that ''your aunts and uncles love you so much, they'd fight over you!" It broke the ice. He laughed.

To put some distance on the topic, I suggested that ''a lot would depend on your age and where you'd be in your life. If you were 20, you could make a decision based on whether you were in college in a particular town." Knowing his current dream is to play major league baseball, I hinted that his uncle in Florida would be the perfect parent to nurture that career. I flipped the discussion to role play how his cousins, my godson, and goddaughter might be offered the chance to live with us.

We talked as matter-of-factly as possible. His father was not home that night, unable to be included. I followed Tim's lead and kept things brave. Several times, we added ever so casually, ''But this probably won't happen. I mean, things like this are really rare." We hugged. The conversation did not have a final answer. It wasn't supposed to.

Books have been written to help us think about death, and start the dialogue. In medical school, my classmates and I learned from the books of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross about the formal stages of death and dying.

Quite frankly, images from childhood made a greater impression on me than books about death and dying. Disney gave me the visions of motherless Bambi and Dumbo. Oliver Twist taught me about cruelty to children.

In this era, my child has the Baudelaire siblings and Harry Potter. Orphans, but coping nicely.

Books can help parents broach the sensitive subject of death and dying with their children, said Dr. Anna Georgiopoulos, a child psychiatrist at Massachusetts General Hospital.

''By conjuring up a world removed from reality, children's literature can provide a less threatening way to try out these feelings and thoughts," she said. ''Place and pace are key elements. "

My son's bunkbed was a predictable space, perfect for talking to his parents. I was lucky, Georgiopoulos said, because my son gave me the lead to begin the discussion.

Experts aside, I should have consulted Sunny, the youngest Baudelaire. She would have told me in her distinctive garble, ''Nytetawktoo." Clever Snicket fans know she means: ''Bedtime reading inspires really good heart-to-heart chats, more valuable than mere bedtime tales."

Angela Lin of Westwood is a physician and free-lance writer.