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.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
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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