Somehow we made it through winter without anyone getting sick

I recently went back to a 40-hour work schedule for the first time in more than 13 years. I won't say where I work, but I handle the bank accounts of people who have passed away, giving condolences to grieving family members and information on what loved ones need to do with the accounts.

To put it mildly, I deal with death every day.

I take my job seriously. Sometimes I cry when someone tells me about the loss of a dear family member or friend. I don't like to miss a day of work, and have only recently earned the right to take sick time with pay, whether for myself or one of my children. This might not seem like much, but it can be a stressful decision when two parents work.

Somehow we made it through winter without anyone getting sick and then — whammo! — our daughter got a stomach virus. At 7, she is the youngest and the most active of our three, so it was hard to see her so down.

Day One of the stomach virus went well. Sure, there was "the sickness," but in between we played video games, which I hadn't done in years, and talked. I realized how much I've missed hanging out with my kids since going back to work.

On the second day, her sickness started to subside and she fell into blessed sleep. That was when I turned to cut off her lamp and realized her pet fish of almost two years had died.

Two years! What kind of fish lives for two years, anyway? Don't they usually last about two weeks?

As I mentioned, I deal with death every day, but this was a death in our own home. And why now? My daughter already felt horrible. How could I tell her poor Carly, named for the character on the TV show of the same name, was belly-up in her bowl? Even though this fish lived for two long years, which is like a hundred from what I know about fish, I couldn't help but feel personally responsible.

Had she, too, gotten the stomach virus? Or perhaps we had neglected her somehow?

I immediately start wondering how I would break the news to my daughter when she woke up. My son, age 13, thought I should wait until she was feeling better, but what was I supposed to do, leave Carly there for a couple more days, only to decompose even more?

My husband was at work, and my 17-year-old was off with friends. So I made the executive decision to tell my daughter when she woke up.

She slept for hours. When she finally woke up, I waited the obligatory 15 minutes. "Feeling better, sweetie?" I asked. "Yes," she said. "Can I get you some ginger ale?" I asked. "That would be great," she answered.

"Sweetie, there is something I have to tell you." So I did, and then the tears started. It seemed to go on forever. How could I stop the heartache? "We can have a funeral," I suggested. "Really?" She wiped away the tears, looking interested. "Yes, I'll find a pretty jewelry box. We can put her in it and bury her," I told her. After agreeing that she could pick where we buried poor Carly, we were out the door, big brother in tow.

She picked a spot under a bush in the backyard. There was a stepping stone that one of the kids had made years ago with little gems set into the cement. The dirt underneath was just soft enough to dig easily.

All of a sudden a bird shot out from the bush, flying almost straight into my face. It was a mother bird protecting a nest above where we were burying the fish. My son got a chair to stand on to see into the nest, and confirmed that four Tiffany-blue robin eggs were inside. I suggested moving the burial location of Carly, but my daughter wouldn't hear of it.