Registering my profile with a couple of dating sites turned out to be the easy part, although it didn't feel easy at the time. But it was merely a business transaction, done and done. I still have one of my receipts from the end of February 2011. That was four and a half years after my husband died.
Then I waited to be contacted, passively looking through the catalogues of pictures and statements. This one looks nice, I'd think. I wouldn't mind if that one wrote to me. But I didn't do anything more than that.
Little baby steps were all I could manage. What did I know about dating in the 21st century? The last time I'd been single was in the 1980s, when women like me were just beginning to offer a man their phone number without being asked. I met my late husband Al before I could get used to the idea. Too forward, my mother would have said in that judgmental voice I had accepted and internalized.
So I waited for the notifications, like a sleeping princess who had slept through her middle age without answering her wake-up calls.
Over the next month, some men wrote to me, although not necessarily the ones I would have chosen for myself. I corresponded with some and spoke on the phone with others. But I didn't get to the stage of face-to-face meetings with anyone. Baby steps.
Early on, an intense writing fest with one man ended precipitously when he disappeared, not just from my inbox, but from the dating site entirely. I fretted about that. Was it something I wrote? I was tempted to take this personally as some kind of abandonment. I was looking for a sign that I should quit, but I guess I wasn't willing to abandon myself so easily.
Besides, with each encounter I was learning about the fragility of feelings and fantasies--my own as well as those of the men with whom I was corresponding. Many had good intentions and were feeling their way through this new method of meeting someone special. We were of an age where bereavement, divorce, or other kinds of disappointed hope had made us raw. Our first attempts were clumsy and regressive, but that was no reason to quit.
Another man, with whom I had set up a meeting, let me know the morning of our date that he had met and been seeing another woman and wanted to give that budding relationship a chance. He must not have realized fully how he felt until that morning. At the time, I thought he was simply a man who was out of touch with his feelings, and maybe he was. But now I know that the whole process forces a focus on quantity and quick decisions.
You can't wait for men to contact you! one of my friend Susan exclaimed when I told her about my minimal efforts. She had met her partner on the web and knew the ropes. You need to contact them! You need go through numbers--at least five a week!
I ran this by other friends who viewed my reluctance with surprise. When I could find no allies whose views on dating hadn't evolved beyond mid-century modern, I sat myself down, picked five profiles that didn't seem so bad and drafted a note that I could tweak and send to each one.
Like submitting work for publication or a resume for a job, I got into a rhythm that overrode my resistance. Did he write something counter to what I was seeking? Was his photograph out of focus? Tough, I needed to make my quota, and, besides, most of the profile fit my wishes. That was good enough for my list.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Sunday, December 22, 2013
The Wisdom of Women, Part I
I have always depended on the wisdom of women. So it was only natural for me to seek the advice of my women friends when I embarked on Internet dating. It didn't matter whether they had personal experience or not. If they hadn't, they encouraged. If they had, they advised. Some just led by doing. My friends were my coaches and mentors.
They brushed aside all of my reservations. They just wanted me to try. With their help I came up with a game plan that I could fall back on when I faltered. And I did falter. Old insecurities rose from the depths. I relived the embarrassment of being too tall in high school and too shy at college mixers. I redeveloped a blush that I thought I had lost long ago.
If I hadn't witnessed similar unwelcome resurrections in my friends who had struck out on this path before me, I would have shrivelled up in shame and quit. One friend who had reconnected with a high school boyfriend, had gotten uncharacteristically giggly and confused when she talked about her first date. She's a very successful and (usually) poised business woman. Over dinner one night, she quivered, "Should I call him or should I wait until he calls me?" The next moment, her fingers were sending him a text, which in the next moment she wished she could take back.
I got to see beneath the layers of sophistication and self-assurance that she had created over the years. She was sixteen again and worried about boys. Her girlish anxieties and concerns had been preserved perfectly, like fossils brought back to life in Jurassic Park.
I knew that it would be no different for me when my time came. I was going to fall prey to a riot of conflicting emotions,--heightened emotions--after years of dulling down my feelings. I can't say I was ready, only that I had decided to stop worrying about it and take the plunge
Friday, December 20, 2013
Another New Identity
I thought about Internet dating for months without doing anything about it. I wasn't sure that I wanted to leave my comfort zone, but something inside of me was urging me to fly out of the nest. I was 61 years old, healthy and vital, and afraid of loving and losing again.
And that's not all I feared. Over the last four and a half years, I had built a new identity for myself as a widow. In my mind this imbued me with an air of dignity and self-sufficiency. I tended to dress all in black anyway, but I may have played that role up a bit. In my everyday black jeans and black shirts, I wanted to look like the Manhattan professor who had it all together--had gotten it all together-- no matter what life had thrown her way. I guess I was hoping to overcome the pity and fear that widowhood brings out in most people. Pride had something to do with it, but pride doesn't keep you warm at night.
Placing myself in the dating game meant that I was just another single woman seeking a man. It made me feel vulnerable and wanting. The last time I'd been single was in my 30s, when I had attitude. Here I am you lucky men. Who is going to buy me dinner tonight? After twenty contented years with my husband and a decade of family illnesses, my attitude had slipped away into a distant memory.
It took me a while to even mention the possibility to my friends. Saying it out loud and hearing their encouragement helped me enormously. (More about that later.) In fact they were more than encouraging. I got the sense that they were thinking it's about time! They helped me ease into the flow of time, which changes us whether we will it or not. I didn't want to petrify into the "Widder Barbara" with black veils covering all my mirrors. That wasn't dignified. It was horrifying, but sometimes when I'd spent too much time alone, it seemed inevitable.
So I took the first step and drafted a profile. It didn't feel so threatening. After all, I consoled myself, I don't have to do anything with it. I can hold on to it until I'm ready to post it somewhere. And if I'm never ready--no harm done. I made notes. What did I seek in a man? What did I have to offer? It was hardly a revolutionary way to begin, but it didn't have to be. Writing feeds writing, and the process helped me forget my doubts and fears. What do I like to do? Who have I become through the years of my life? I wrote and wrote, and it was good for me to declare myself, my many roles, and my wishes for my future.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Too Young to Be Alone
There is comfort in a regulated life. After nearly five years of widowhood and two years after my mother died, I knew how my days and weeks would be. Students, papers, and meetings during the week. Movies, concerts, and dinners with friends on the weekends.
No more emergencies. No more long-distance calls to doctors or checking in with aides. No more coming to school hauling my overnight bag for my monthly trip to Florida. No more sitting in the sun with my mother in her wheelchair while she looked off somewhere in the distance or looked at me with perplexity. No more of those moments when she seemed to recognize me for a moment or two, beaming and smiling, until she drifted back to wherever she went in or out of her mind.
After she died I was responsible for myself only. I was lonely, but there was a relief in the sudden simplicity of my life. I knew I could follow my uncomplicated routine indefinitely. I was grateful for the lack of drama.
It's hard to pry oneself out of a complacent existence. Part of me wanted more. Part of me wanted nothing but rest.
My neighbor had been widowed several years before me, and after some time had passed, her mother took her to task. "You're too young to be alone. Find someone!" My neighbor, a sophisticated and accomplished professional who was used to running her own life, obeyed and entered the world of Internet dating.
Back then I was busy with my family illnesses. Nevertheless I followed her attempts, admired her perseverance through the flops, and cheered her success when she met her compatible new mate.
There came the day in my widowed life when I decided to borrow her mother's wisdom. She might as well have been my mother for all the resistance I felt. Finding someone was a daunting task, an ordeal. But I knew it was in my best interest to proceed, so that's what I did.
No more emergencies. No more long-distance calls to doctors or checking in with aides. No more coming to school hauling my overnight bag for my monthly trip to Florida. No more sitting in the sun with my mother in her wheelchair while she looked off somewhere in the distance or looked at me with perplexity. No more of those moments when she seemed to recognize me for a moment or two, beaming and smiling, until she drifted back to wherever she went in or out of her mind.
After she died I was responsible for myself only. I was lonely, but there was a relief in the sudden simplicity of my life. I knew I could follow my uncomplicated routine indefinitely. I was grateful for the lack of drama.
It's hard to pry oneself out of a complacent existence. Part of me wanted more. Part of me wanted nothing but rest.
My neighbor had been widowed several years before me, and after some time had passed, her mother took her to task. "You're too young to be alone. Find someone!" My neighbor, a sophisticated and accomplished professional who was used to running her own life, obeyed and entered the world of Internet dating.
Back then I was busy with my family illnesses. Nevertheless I followed her attempts, admired her perseverance through the flops, and cheered her success when she met her compatible new mate.
There came the day in my widowed life when I decided to borrow her mother's wisdom. She might as well have been my mother for all the resistance I felt. Finding someone was a daunting task, an ordeal. But I knew it was in my best interest to proceed, so that's what I did.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Kaddish
My dear friend's husband died this past month. She asked me to tell her about the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the bereaved. Even though I've been through it myself, I can only know a piece of her grief. Their bond, like my own with Al,
was unique, is unique. Still, I would
have thought that I would know exactly what to do for her, having been through
it myself. I’d have thought that I’d know
instinctively what she needs and how much intervention. But I m struck by my own uncertainties and
reluctances. I can see how ritual holds
us together in our ignorance of one another’s mysteries.
I'm no expert in matters of religion. As a child, I had a few Sunday school lessons. That was it. What I'm writing is from experience and comments gleaned from my attendance at the synagogue I joined after my father died in 2005. Little did I know then that belonging to a congregation where I could say Kaddish would be so necessary in the next several years.
The Kaddish is a praising prayer. It sends forth blessings and gratitude for life and that which gave us life. It doesn't directly mention death or grief at all. Traditionally, it is said very quickly, which used to make me giggle when I was a child in shul--hearing the men outdo themselves in quickness and agility of speech, as if they were in a competitive race. The old men sounded like schoolboys showing off their skills, and I suppose there is some truth to the idea that how we learn a thing is how we practice it for the rest of our lives.
But there are practical reasons for saying it quickly. It isn't easy to drop into praising mode when you've just lost your beloved, whether a husband, partner, parent, child, sibling, or friend. Inarticulate shrieks or moans surely come more naturally as the shock wears off. This institutionalized traditional prayer calls for the mourner to stand and evoke a picture greater than one's own individual sorrow.
As above, so below. The will of God or however we see it, universal energies, carries us all in its flow. The mourners rise and recite the prayer that this life we are living and making for ourselves be revered, whether we like it or not. The chant alternates between the standing mourners and the seated congregants. Yes, there is a separation, but it isn't absolute. We are all within hearing distance of one another. We have agreed to gather together in support.
We say aloud the names of our dead, and we capitulate to forces beyond our control with as much grace as we can muster. Kaddish helps. The prayer is said in a language, Aramaic, that sets it apart from the other Hebrew prayers in the rest of the service. I imagine that through the ages, its foreignness must have always seemed odd and hard to assimilate. Like bereavement itself, it doesn't fit, but must be included.
We can find this prayer as well as those used by other religious communities easily these days on the Internet. I sought them all in my first days of mourning. The many different sources of consolation are reminders that we all belong to one community, no matter what we do or don't believe.
I'm no expert in matters of religion. As a child, I had a few Sunday school lessons. That was it. What I'm writing is from experience and comments gleaned from my attendance at the synagogue I joined after my father died in 2005. Little did I know then that belonging to a congregation where I could say Kaddish would be so necessary in the next several years.
The Kaddish is a praising prayer. It sends forth blessings and gratitude for life and that which gave us life. It doesn't directly mention death or grief at all. Traditionally, it is said very quickly, which used to make me giggle when I was a child in shul--hearing the men outdo themselves in quickness and agility of speech, as if they were in a competitive race. The old men sounded like schoolboys showing off their skills, and I suppose there is some truth to the idea that how we learn a thing is how we practice it for the rest of our lives.
But there are practical reasons for saying it quickly. It isn't easy to drop into praising mode when you've just lost your beloved, whether a husband, partner, parent, child, sibling, or friend. Inarticulate shrieks or moans surely come more naturally as the shock wears off. This institutionalized traditional prayer calls for the mourner to stand and evoke a picture greater than one's own individual sorrow.
As above, so below. The will of God or however we see it, universal energies, carries us all in its flow. The mourners rise and recite the prayer that this life we are living and making for ourselves be revered, whether we like it or not. The chant alternates between the standing mourners and the seated congregants. Yes, there is a separation, but it isn't absolute. We are all within hearing distance of one another. We have agreed to gather together in support.
We say aloud the names of our dead, and we capitulate to forces beyond our control with as much grace as we can muster. Kaddish helps. The prayer is said in a language, Aramaic, that sets it apart from the other Hebrew prayers in the rest of the service. I imagine that through the ages, its foreignness must have always seemed odd and hard to assimilate. Like bereavement itself, it doesn't fit, but must be included.
We can find this prayer as well as those used by other religious communities easily these days on the Internet. I sought them all in my first days of mourning. The many different sources of consolation are reminders that we all belong to one community, no matter what we do or don't believe.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Life After Death
I spent the first few years after the deaths of my husband, mother, and father going through the motions of living one day at a time. Thankfully, my life had already been set up in such a way that I could depend on its structure to keep me upright and in motion. I had a job as an English professor with students who depended on me to hold up my end of the teacher/learner cycle. I had friends who did not exclude single women from their social activities. And I had a therapist who told me how well I was doing.
Whether that was always true or not didn't really matter. I no longer had an intimate companion to care about my innermost fears and wishes as my husband Al had done with love and intelligence for twenty years. I no longer had my mother who, in her better days, had been a warm and loving presence through the thicks and thins of my life.
From 2002 to 2009 I had the responsibility for overseeing the care of my elegant mother's descent into dementia. My father had given up hope and lost his intrepid spirit, handing over to me all of the duties of health care and financial decisions for both of them.
During those days Al was more than my helpmate; he was brilliant at navigating the systems and befriending the bureaucrats. He ensured that my parents got the best possible care until the end of my father's life in 2005. Then, early in 2006, we received Al's diagnosis of stage 4 lung cancer, which began our own descent into the cancer treatment mill. We had one blissful six-month period of remission--and went right back down until he died in the summer of 2007. Then it was back to my undivided commitment to my mother's care. Although I lived and worked in New York, my heart was in Florida, where my mother resided. I traveled back and forth until she died in 2009.
I'd had no time to think about and react to the crises that had piled up around me while they were happening. I simply acted and went on to the next thing. And that same mode of getting through another day as best as I could continued for several years after the deaths of my loved ones. My low-level goals were to keep busy and not have too much time alone.
I didn't think about my life much beyond that until one day when I let myself fall.
I was walking to the subway to keep some medical appointment that I'd put off when caring for my family. In my spacey state, I tripped on an uneven square of pavement and began to sprawl forward. There was an instant when I knew that by sheer will I could have forced myself back upright.
But I'd been living by will power for too long, and I was on empty. "What's the point?" I thought. "Give it up." And I let myself fall, landing on my hands and knees. What a relief!
A couple of passersby stopped to ask me if I was alright. (Don't believe everything you hear about New Yorkers. They can be kind--in a pinch.) I assured them I was okay, even though I didn't get up right away. It felt luxurious to just lie there. No hurry. No one was depending on me any more to get somewhere fast. The rough pavement felt cool against my cheek. It was the nicest feeling I'd felt in years.
In a little while I got up and moved to a nearby front stoop. I sat there for a while, resting and watching the world go by. It felt good to give up the ghost.
It wasn't long after my voluntary fall that an image from Greek mythology began to emerge in my consciousness. It was of Charon rowing his passengers across the Rivers Styx and Acheron from the land of the living to the land of the dead.
I identified with him--the one who accompanies the dying and dead on their journies. My time on the rivers hadn't ended after my seven years of caregiving. I had not stepped ashore after my last passage, when I had ferried my mother across. I was still in the same boat, straining to stay upright with no steady ground beneath my feet.
I'd been close to the shore where the living dwelled, and yet I hadn't taken that next step. I hadn't realized it, but I'd been living in a neither-here-nor-there dimension. Still on those rocky waters, surrounded by river mist.
I felt my isolation. I saw my numbness. Even though there was no one in particular waiting on shore to hold out a hand, I decided to reach for a mooring and hoist myself up. This was the beginning of the next part of my life.
Whether that was always true or not didn't really matter. I no longer had an intimate companion to care about my innermost fears and wishes as my husband Al had done with love and intelligence for twenty years. I no longer had my mother who, in her better days, had been a warm and loving presence through the thicks and thins of my life.
From 2002 to 2009 I had the responsibility for overseeing the care of my elegant mother's descent into dementia. My father had given up hope and lost his intrepid spirit, handing over to me all of the duties of health care and financial decisions for both of them.
During those days Al was more than my helpmate; he was brilliant at navigating the systems and befriending the bureaucrats. He ensured that my parents got the best possible care until the end of my father's life in 2005. Then, early in 2006, we received Al's diagnosis of stage 4 lung cancer, which began our own descent into the cancer treatment mill. We had one blissful six-month period of remission--and went right back down until he died in the summer of 2007. Then it was back to my undivided commitment to my mother's care. Although I lived and worked in New York, my heart was in Florida, where my mother resided. I traveled back and forth until she died in 2009.
I'd had no time to think about and react to the crises that had piled up around me while they were happening. I simply acted and went on to the next thing. And that same mode of getting through another day as best as I could continued for several years after the deaths of my loved ones. My low-level goals were to keep busy and not have too much time alone.
I didn't think about my life much beyond that until one day when I let myself fall.
I was walking to the subway to keep some medical appointment that I'd put off when caring for my family. In my spacey state, I tripped on an uneven square of pavement and began to sprawl forward. There was an instant when I knew that by sheer will I could have forced myself back upright.
But I'd been living by will power for too long, and I was on empty. "What's the point?" I thought. "Give it up." And I let myself fall, landing on my hands and knees. What a relief!
A couple of passersby stopped to ask me if I was alright. (Don't believe everything you hear about New Yorkers. They can be kind--in a pinch.) I assured them I was okay, even though I didn't get up right away. It felt luxurious to just lie there. No hurry. No one was depending on me any more to get somewhere fast. The rough pavement felt cool against my cheek. It was the nicest feeling I'd felt in years.
In a little while I got up and moved to a nearby front stoop. I sat there for a while, resting and watching the world go by. It felt good to give up the ghost.
It wasn't long after my voluntary fall that an image from Greek mythology began to emerge in my consciousness. It was of Charon rowing his passengers across the Rivers Styx and Acheron from the land of the living to the land of the dead.
I identified with him--the one who accompanies the dying and dead on their journies. My time on the rivers hadn't ended after my seven years of caregiving. I had not stepped ashore after my last passage, when I had ferried my mother across. I was still in the same boat, straining to stay upright with no steady ground beneath my feet.
I'd been close to the shore where the living dwelled, and yet I hadn't taken that next step. I hadn't realized it, but I'd been living in a neither-here-nor-there dimension. Still on those rocky waters, surrounded by river mist.
I felt my isolation. I saw my numbness. Even though there was no one in particular waiting on shore to hold out a hand, I decided to reach for a mooring and hoist myself up. This was the beginning of the next part of my life.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Healing
This past Monday marked the sixth anniversary of my husband's death. Even though I haven't been writing recently, I've been thinking about the changes I've gone through--those I've willed for myself and those that I didn't intend. I've tried to make the best of them and haven't always succeeded.
The ones I willed had to do with intentional healing. Heal is an Old English word that means to make whole. Heald means to weave or knit. For me, that meant a gathering together of the fragments of my mind and spirit that scattered when my husband died. But as awful as his death was, it doesn't tell my whole story of loss, which took up most of the last decade.
The losses began with my mother's Alzheimer's symptoms appearing in 2001 and ended with her death in 2009. My father died of lung cancer in 2005. Al was diagnosed with the same disease in 2006 and died in 2007 after the cancer spread to his brain. Those are the cold, hard dates that only hint at the deterioration, dislocations, and family fractures that made those days so bleak.
I don't remember what made me wake one day--when was it? 2010? 2011?--and decide to write a list of the major dates of the last decade. All those crises had merged into one big disaster in my mind, and I was ready for some clarity and also some clearing out in the hope of making space for new and good things in my life. I had been going through the motions. I wasn't yet at a point where I wanted more out of life. I was too depleted for that. But at least I wanted to want more.
In order to compile the list, I had to go through old notebooks and appointment calendars. I could not readily distinguish the details of one illness from those of another through mere memory. During those years some crisis was always arising. There had been many stages in my parents' last years. Their illnesses had overlapped with Al's, and there were similarities in symptoms and treatments.
Before I wrote the list, my failure to remember the benchmark dates of an entire decade worried me. After all my mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. Although that diagnosis had never been confirmed through an autopsy, which traditional Judaism doesn't countenance, she sure had dementia. (My father believed that her symptoms began to appear after a fall when she hit her head. I'll go along with that.) I read recently--can't remember where--that fear of memory loss tops fear of death for baby boomers. Setting down the dates and leaving the list on my desktop for reference externalized my inner turmoil and put a frame around the period.
We learn about ourselves and our processes through maturation. We try to accept that our rhythms are not the same as everyone else's. For me, there is something about the transference of thought to concrete writing that gives me the distance I need to analyze and understand my emotions. I can't force myself to move on until I'm ready. I've tried many times, and what results on the page is stilted and vague. It's been said that when the student is ready, the teacher appears, and I suppose that's true even when the student and teacher are internal parts of oneself.
The act of researching and writing the list marked the beginning of my self-healing. Here is what I first listed:
I was hesitant to include the death of my 13-year-old standard poodle in my list of human deaths, even though at first I was writing strictly for myself. I've hesitated again to mention it in this blog, but Star was a great spirit and companion, and her death grieved me.
I've added to that list since then, but that was my start.
The ones I willed had to do with intentional healing. Heal is an Old English word that means to make whole. Heald means to weave or knit. For me, that meant a gathering together of the fragments of my mind and spirit that scattered when my husband died. But as awful as his death was, it doesn't tell my whole story of loss, which took up most of the last decade.
The losses began with my mother's Alzheimer's symptoms appearing in 2001 and ended with her death in 2009. My father died of lung cancer in 2005. Al was diagnosed with the same disease in 2006 and died in 2007 after the cancer spread to his brain. Those are the cold, hard dates that only hint at the deterioration, dislocations, and family fractures that made those days so bleak.
I don't remember what made me wake one day--when was it? 2010? 2011?--and decide to write a list of the major dates of the last decade. All those crises had merged into one big disaster in my mind, and I was ready for some clarity and also some clearing out in the hope of making space for new and good things in my life. I had been going through the motions. I wasn't yet at a point where I wanted more out of life. I was too depleted for that. But at least I wanted to want more.
In order to compile the list, I had to go through old notebooks and appointment calendars. I could not readily distinguish the details of one illness from those of another through mere memory. During those years some crisis was always arising. There had been many stages in my parents' last years. Their illnesses had overlapped with Al's, and there were similarities in symptoms and treatments.
Before I wrote the list, my failure to remember the benchmark dates of an entire decade worried me. After all my mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. Although that diagnosis had never been confirmed through an autopsy, which traditional Judaism doesn't countenance, she sure had dementia. (My father believed that her symptoms began to appear after a fall when she hit her head. I'll go along with that.) I read recently--can't remember where--that fear of memory loss tops fear of death for baby boomers. Setting down the dates and leaving the list on my desktop for reference externalized my inner turmoil and put a frame around the period.
We learn about ourselves and our processes through maturation. We try to accept that our rhythms are not the same as everyone else's. For me, there is something about the transference of thought to concrete writing that gives me the distance I need to analyze and understand my emotions. I can't force myself to move on until I'm ready. I've tried many times, and what results on the page is stilted and vague. It's been said that when the student is ready, the teacher appears, and I suppose that's true even when the student and teacher are internal parts of oneself.
The act of researching and writing the list marked the beginning of my self-healing. Here is what I first listed:
2001 Mother's
symptoms began
3/31/05 Dad
died
2/24/06 Al
diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer
8/5/07 Al
died
2/19/08 Star
died
2/1/09 Mom
diedI was hesitant to include the death of my 13-year-old standard poodle in my list of human deaths, even though at first I was writing strictly for myself. I've hesitated again to mention it in this blog, but Star was a great spirit and companion, and her death grieved me.
I've added to that list since then, but that was my start.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Berkshire Festival of Women Writers: What Do We Say?
March in the Berkshires is a month-long celebration of women writers with readings, panel discussions, and workshops. Since I'm on sabbatical this semester, I had the rare opportunity to participate in many of the events, and I developed a dual perspective on giving and receiving "dark" material. What do we say when someone reads or speaks of grief and loss?
On the first weekend of the festival, I read a few of my Widow's Log pieces in a group presentation called "Women of a Certain Age," along with other writers of fiction and poetry. Since my material was heavy and based on personal experience, I prepared the audience in advance by telling them that I was reading about events that had occurred five years ago. I said that I wasn't in the same place or frame of mind as I had been when I was first living through my husband's death and my bereavement. I also told them that I would be reading three pieces, so they could pace themselves, and I was careful to present a variety of moods, ending with "Lighten Up."
My attention to setting up the material had come from previous presentations, where some of the people in the audience had responded to me personally rather than to my writing. Who can blame them? I'm writing in the first-person. I felt this. I did that. But the I who felt and did whatever five years ago is not the same person as the one at the podium reading today. The passing of time, the living of life, and the act of writing has transformed me.
I write and give readings today to explore a crucial life experience and articulate feelings for others in grief. I do it to break through the isolation and (I hope) to uplift. I do it to let others know what it's like to lose a mate or any loved one. But I know it's uncomfortable for many people to hear. If I were writing fiction in the third person, both I and the non-bereaved in the audience would have more psychic distance.
After the reading, people came from the audience to speak with the readers. They focused on the fiction and poetry writers' works. When they came to me, some spoke of my courage. This was meant kindly, but, to be honest, courage has nothing to do with it. I'm simply writing what I know, filtered through my perspective and accessed over time. That's what writers do, and that's the identity--a writer--that I prefer. One person complimented me on one of my metaphors. I particularly liked that. But the most important person to approach me was a woman who had been widowed a couple of years ago. She told me about a few of her experiences that my pieces had evoked for her. I just listened. I think she seemed relieved.
I wish I could transform my material into fiction. We'd all have more breathing room, but it's just not my medium right now. I find writing (and reading) memoir most compelling. After living through the deaths of my husband and parents, I'm drawn to the blatant truth--ungilded and disorganized. I find satisfaction in the uncertainty and the disillusionment. I want the truth sayer--grappling with her or his mind, heart, and surroundings. It may not be like that forever, but that's how it is now.
So my focus a week after my reading, when I participated in one of the festival's writing workshops, was on one woman who wrote about her parents' recent and close-together deaths. The others in the circle were upbeat, and what they read evoked smiles and laughter from the listeners. This woman apologized before reading her "dark" material. She apologized again after she'd finished. There was quiet and some sympathetic smiles and nods. Then the circle continued reading on a happier note.
Unlike my writing, this woman was writing from within the darkness. It was raw and so was she. Reading what she had just written within that cheerful circle took real courage, like making a rude noise in public. I doubt that I was the only one who was relieved to hear her dark material, although I was the only one to approach her after we broke. But that's alright. Sometimes the light bulb goes off later in the night.
When I approached the woman (I wish I could remember her name), I thanked her for her important contribution. I told her that it's hard for people to appreciate lightness without acknowledging the presence of shadows. I mentioned that my parents had died too. We commiserated briefly. I didn't tell her about my husband's death. It felt unnecessary and almost like one-upsmanship.
Still, all of my exposure to audience response this month has given me a window into the difficulties of speaking to the bereaved. Not just writers, but anyone in grief. What do we say? Does anything satisfy? What helps in the first days and weeks probably changes over time. I don't think the actual words matter so much as some sort of acknowledgement. Sometimes all we have to do is be present and listen.
We aren't all masters of communication, but when we attempt to break through our isolated lives we are doing good works. For all I know, the woman I spoke with at the writing workshop simply wanted sympathy and not some philosophical comment about light and dark, but I did the best I could and said what I believe. Even the remark to me about courage that I initially disowned at the time of my presentation spurred me to think more deeply and write this piece. What do we say? Something authentic and kind. What do we do? Listen. Stick around despite the discomfort. That takes courage.
On the first weekend of the festival, I read a few of my Widow's Log pieces in a group presentation called "Women of a Certain Age," along with other writers of fiction and poetry. Since my material was heavy and based on personal experience, I prepared the audience in advance by telling them that I was reading about events that had occurred five years ago. I said that I wasn't in the same place or frame of mind as I had been when I was first living through my husband's death and my bereavement. I also told them that I would be reading three pieces, so they could pace themselves, and I was careful to present a variety of moods, ending with "Lighten Up."
My attention to setting up the material had come from previous presentations, where some of the people in the audience had responded to me personally rather than to my writing. Who can blame them? I'm writing in the first-person. I felt this. I did that. But the I who felt and did whatever five years ago is not the same person as the one at the podium reading today. The passing of time, the living of life, and the act of writing has transformed me.
I write and give readings today to explore a crucial life experience and articulate feelings for others in grief. I do it to break through the isolation and (I hope) to uplift. I do it to let others know what it's like to lose a mate or any loved one. But I know it's uncomfortable for many people to hear. If I were writing fiction in the third person, both I and the non-bereaved in the audience would have more psychic distance.
After the reading, people came from the audience to speak with the readers. They focused on the fiction and poetry writers' works. When they came to me, some spoke of my courage. This was meant kindly, but, to be honest, courage has nothing to do with it. I'm simply writing what I know, filtered through my perspective and accessed over time. That's what writers do, and that's the identity--a writer--that I prefer. One person complimented me on one of my metaphors. I particularly liked that. But the most important person to approach me was a woman who had been widowed a couple of years ago. She told me about a few of her experiences that my pieces had evoked for her. I just listened. I think she seemed relieved.
I wish I could transform my material into fiction. We'd all have more breathing room, but it's just not my medium right now. I find writing (and reading) memoir most compelling. After living through the deaths of my husband and parents, I'm drawn to the blatant truth--ungilded and disorganized. I find satisfaction in the uncertainty and the disillusionment. I want the truth sayer--grappling with her or his mind, heart, and surroundings. It may not be like that forever, but that's how it is now.
So my focus a week after my reading, when I participated in one of the festival's writing workshops, was on one woman who wrote about her parents' recent and close-together deaths. The others in the circle were upbeat, and what they read evoked smiles and laughter from the listeners. This woman apologized before reading her "dark" material. She apologized again after she'd finished. There was quiet and some sympathetic smiles and nods. Then the circle continued reading on a happier note.
Unlike my writing, this woman was writing from within the darkness. It was raw and so was she. Reading what she had just written within that cheerful circle took real courage, like making a rude noise in public. I doubt that I was the only one who was relieved to hear her dark material, although I was the only one to approach her after we broke. But that's alright. Sometimes the light bulb goes off later in the night.
When I approached the woman (I wish I could remember her name), I thanked her for her important contribution. I told her that it's hard for people to appreciate lightness without acknowledging the presence of shadows. I mentioned that my parents had died too. We commiserated briefly. I didn't tell her about my husband's death. It felt unnecessary and almost like one-upsmanship.
Still, all of my exposure to audience response this month has given me a window into the difficulties of speaking to the bereaved. Not just writers, but anyone in grief. What do we say? Does anything satisfy? What helps in the first days and weeks probably changes over time. I don't think the actual words matter so much as some sort of acknowledgement. Sometimes all we have to do is be present and listen.
We aren't all masters of communication, but when we attempt to break through our isolated lives we are doing good works. For all I know, the woman I spoke with at the writing workshop simply wanted sympathy and not some philosophical comment about light and dark, but I did the best I could and said what I believe. Even the remark to me about courage that I initially disowned at the time of my presentation spurred me to think more deeply and write this piece. What do we say? Something authentic and kind. What do we do? Listen. Stick around despite the discomfort. That takes courage.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
A Lost Key--PTS
I locked myself out of my house last week. I'm always losing keys or leaving them in some inaccessible place. It's why I have so many spares. But in the last five years since my husband died, I've used those spare house keys and haven't put them back in their hiding places.
Had Al been alive, those keys would have been replaced immediately. Although I've been managing my life well enough, I haven't taken over every aspect of his organizational activities. It was one of his strengths, not mine.
As the house keys dwindled, little by little, a part of me noted these careless acts of self-sabbatage, even sending myself weak warnings. You're going to need that key one of these days, and it won't be where you need it. I can't say I ignored the warnings. It was more like a shrug. I'll deal with it later, I'd think, like an adolescent daring fate or like Scarlett O'Hara.
When I found myself locked outside of my house with my only set of keys inside, I couldn't think what to do. Panicked, I searched all of the hiding places where I knew keys had once been. I tried to remember my neighbors who had copies of my keys, but when I finally managed to recollect their names I realized they were away or at work. I stood outside of my own locked home, paralyzed, furious with myself, and deep in the middle of hopeless dispair.
Talk about an overreaction! After what seemed like a lifetime but was probably about fifteen minutes, I regained my composure, thought, called one of my neighbors who works nearby, drove over to pick up her copy of my house key, came home, and let myself in. I was relieved and yet still shaken by my panic about this small incident.
In my career, I've supervised an organization with hundreds of employees and put on large events. In my personal life, I've managed households. I've solved real crises and deflected others many times in my life. I've done so with a calm demeanor and a steady focus. I would have said that I'm good in a crisis.
I was certainly "good" at managing my critically-ill husband's care. I never (until the end) admitted the possibility of failure. I did my research, kept my notes, asked my questions, and planned our course of action. I reassured, exhorted, and exuded optimism. Surely, brains and dedication would win the fight. I was determined to provide it all by myself, since my brainy, dedicated husband was too ill to do his part. When we lost the fight, I turned my efforts towards healing. I didn't rush myself. I got help. And for the mostpart, I've been doing alright, seeking and finding comfort in my small steps into my new life.
Which is why I was surprised to find myself so upset about my overreaction to a lost key. Since it happened, I've been pondering its intensity and my crisis-like emotions. Have I been kidding myself that I'm basically okay? Am I not as strong as I thought I was? Was I being too hard on myself?
What I think is that I had a bout of post-traumatic stress disorder. We usually associate PTS with war veterans and civilian victims or survivors of crime violence and other traumas. But what about the survivors of the wars with cancer, heart disease, and the other fatal illnesses and accidents that wrenched their spouses from them? What about the years, months, and days of the caregivers who had to keep their fears at bay in emergency room after emergency room? What about the accumulation of suppressed panic while they played the strong one over the days, months, and years?
It was war, and we widows are its veterans. It now seems obvious to me that, occasionally, some stressful event will trigger a flashback into feelings of panic, helplessness, and anxiety. Or perhaps it will show in a fall into depression and hopelessness. I think recognizing our own post-traumatic stress episodes with grace and understanding might help contain it. Of course, if it doesn't help, and the feelings persist, then it makes good sense to seek help.
We so much want our lives to progress in orderly stages. We believe the myths that tell us how one stage leads to another on a one-way journey. We don't want to acknowlege the possibilities of regression or circling back to spoil our illusions of a self-controlled, well-planned life. Despite the indisputable evidence, we expect the sequence to run: birth, growth, marriage, children, more growth, old age, and then, finally, death. And when the death of a loved one finally comes after a long, well-lived life, we expect our grief to progress in discreet stages that start with denial and end with acceptance. When I looked up Kubler-Ross' stages to remind myself, the consoling subtitle said "Know What to Expect."
How neat we want our lives to be! What wishful thinking! Five and a half years after the trauma of my husband's death, I want to suggest that when and if the unexpected messy feelings emerge, we view them with compassion and understanding. That we own them and then move on.
Had Al been alive, those keys would have been replaced immediately. Although I've been managing my life well enough, I haven't taken over every aspect of his organizational activities. It was one of his strengths, not mine.
As the house keys dwindled, little by little, a part of me noted these careless acts of self-sabbatage, even sending myself weak warnings. You're going to need that key one of these days, and it won't be where you need it. I can't say I ignored the warnings. It was more like a shrug. I'll deal with it later, I'd think, like an adolescent daring fate or like Scarlett O'Hara.
When I found myself locked outside of my house with my only set of keys inside, I couldn't think what to do. Panicked, I searched all of the hiding places where I knew keys had once been. I tried to remember my neighbors who had copies of my keys, but when I finally managed to recollect their names I realized they were away or at work. I stood outside of my own locked home, paralyzed, furious with myself, and deep in the middle of hopeless dispair.
Talk about an overreaction! After what seemed like a lifetime but was probably about fifteen minutes, I regained my composure, thought, called one of my neighbors who works nearby, drove over to pick up her copy of my house key, came home, and let myself in. I was relieved and yet still shaken by my panic about this small incident.
In my career, I've supervised an organization with hundreds of employees and put on large events. In my personal life, I've managed households. I've solved real crises and deflected others many times in my life. I've done so with a calm demeanor and a steady focus. I would have said that I'm good in a crisis.
I was certainly "good" at managing my critically-ill husband's care. I never (until the end) admitted the possibility of failure. I did my research, kept my notes, asked my questions, and planned our course of action. I reassured, exhorted, and exuded optimism. Surely, brains and dedication would win the fight. I was determined to provide it all by myself, since my brainy, dedicated husband was too ill to do his part. When we lost the fight, I turned my efforts towards healing. I didn't rush myself. I got help. And for the mostpart, I've been doing alright, seeking and finding comfort in my small steps into my new life.
Which is why I was surprised to find myself so upset about my overreaction to a lost key. Since it happened, I've been pondering its intensity and my crisis-like emotions. Have I been kidding myself that I'm basically okay? Am I not as strong as I thought I was? Was I being too hard on myself?
What I think is that I had a bout of post-traumatic stress disorder. We usually associate PTS with war veterans and civilian victims or survivors of crime violence and other traumas. But what about the survivors of the wars with cancer, heart disease, and the other fatal illnesses and accidents that wrenched their spouses from them? What about the years, months, and days of the caregivers who had to keep their fears at bay in emergency room after emergency room? What about the accumulation of suppressed panic while they played the strong one over the days, months, and years?
It was war, and we widows are its veterans. It now seems obvious to me that, occasionally, some stressful event will trigger a flashback into feelings of panic, helplessness, and anxiety. Or perhaps it will show in a fall into depression and hopelessness. I think recognizing our own post-traumatic stress episodes with grace and understanding might help contain it. Of course, if it doesn't help, and the feelings persist, then it makes good sense to seek help.
We so much want our lives to progress in orderly stages. We believe the myths that tell us how one stage leads to another on a one-way journey. We don't want to acknowlege the possibilities of regression or circling back to spoil our illusions of a self-controlled, well-planned life. Despite the indisputable evidence, we expect the sequence to run: birth, growth, marriage, children, more growth, old age, and then, finally, death. And when the death of a loved one finally comes after a long, well-lived life, we expect our grief to progress in discreet stages that start with denial and end with acceptance. When I looked up Kubler-Ross' stages to remind myself, the consoling subtitle said "Know What to Expect."
How neat we want our lives to be! What wishful thinking! Five and a half years after the trauma of my husband's death, I want to suggest that when and if the unexpected messy feelings emerge, we view them with compassion and understanding. That we own them and then move on.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Acceptance
It's been more than five years since my husband died, and little by little I've let myself become absorbed back into the flow of life. I've embraced hope for a new life with a good man. I've taken up ballroom dancing. I've regained a zest for teaching. I've begun writing again and was awarded a semester-long sabbatical by my college. which I'm presently enjoying.
I thought I'd written all there was to write about widowhood--my widowhood, anyway. But I was wrong. A friend asked me the other day if I was still grieving. I had to stop and think about what grief really is. Kubler-Ross' stages come in handy as a shorthand. The end of the process she defined is acceptance. I've accepted (as much as one can) the disappearance from my life of the man I would always in some ways think of as my life partner. I am no longer surprised or angered by his absence from my life. But I carry a sadness that wasn't in me before his death. I expect I always will.
I don't really believe in grief as a process with an end. But I think I may have completed some sort of cycle. I've come to feel happiness under the shadow of my knowledge. I've even come to be curious about the complexities and contradictions within my bereavement. Higher knowledge and lower emotions meet within me. I've succumbed to petty thoughts and compromises that I would not have expected five years ago when I was focused on the knife edge between life and death.
In her memoir, The Holocaust Kid, Sonia Pilcher asks her mother, a Holocaust survivor, how she can concern herself with little bargains at the local discount store. How could she descend to such non-essential issues with what she knew about humanity and its inhuman ways. "Life makes you live," her mother shrugs. I've always loved that response, so simple and so true.
I've used it as an inspiration when I've wanted to fight against the flow of life. How else will I find out what comes next?
I thought I'd written all there was to write about widowhood--my widowhood, anyway. But I was wrong. A friend asked me the other day if I was still grieving. I had to stop and think about what grief really is. Kubler-Ross' stages come in handy as a shorthand. The end of the process she defined is acceptance. I've accepted (as much as one can) the disappearance from my life of the man I would always in some ways think of as my life partner. I am no longer surprised or angered by his absence from my life. But I carry a sadness that wasn't in me before his death. I expect I always will.
I don't really believe in grief as a process with an end. But I think I may have completed some sort of cycle. I've come to feel happiness under the shadow of my knowledge. I've even come to be curious about the complexities and contradictions within my bereavement. Higher knowledge and lower emotions meet within me. I've succumbed to petty thoughts and compromises that I would not have expected five years ago when I was focused on the knife edge between life and death.
In her memoir, The Holocaust Kid, Sonia Pilcher asks her mother, a Holocaust survivor, how she can concern herself with little bargains at the local discount store. How could she descend to such non-essential issues with what she knew about humanity and its inhuman ways. "Life makes you live," her mother shrugs. I've always loved that response, so simple and so true.
I've used it as an inspiration when I've wanted to fight against the flow of life. How else will I find out what comes next?
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