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.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
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?
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
How I See It
I've been away for awhile living my life and moving on, but more on that later. For me, moving on does not mean abandoning what I've lived through. Bereavement is now a part of me and adds to my perspective, but I don't cling to grief or push it on everyone I meet. Over time my identity as a widow has blended with other aspects of my life and personality. I've consciously sought wholeness and fought against indiscriminately stuffing the spaces left empty when Al died. Friends, lay and religious counselling, and self-inquiry have helped, as has the passage of time.
Unrelieved, unprocessed grief--grief that is harbored--is not healthy. We who were left behind are supposed to live. Anyway, that's how I see it.
I can understand, though, people who hold on to their mourning. I think, at least in part, it's a reaction to our culture's suppression of grief displays. Our culture is riddled with unexpressed grief. It gnaws off its own limbs in futile attempts to disown this most basic part of our destiny. Well it can't be denied for long. It merely dislocates and crops up as rage, paranoia, and ruthlessness. Or numbness. Just look at us, so afraid of sadness. Let me tell you something--sadness doesn't kill when you acknowledge and respect it. Then you can move on.
Unrelieved, unprocessed grief--grief that is harbored--is not healthy. We who were left behind are supposed to live. Anyway, that's how I see it.
I can understand, though, people who hold on to their mourning. I think, at least in part, it's a reaction to our culture's suppression of grief displays. Our culture is riddled with unexpressed grief. It gnaws off its own limbs in futile attempts to disown this most basic part of our destiny. Well it can't be denied for long. It merely dislocates and crops up as rage, paranoia, and ruthlessness. Or numbness. Just look at us, so afraid of sadness. Let me tell you something--sadness doesn't kill when you acknowledge and respect it. Then you can move on.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Material Stuff
When Al died, one of my widowed friends offered to come to my apartment that week and help me get rid of his things, as her sister had done for her in her time of need. It was a generous offer, but I declined. I wasn't ready to let go of all the material stuff that had meant so much to him. He had treasured his collections of clothes, belts, boots, hats, other accessories, and when he especially liked the fit or quality of something, he bought duplicates, ensuring their replacement when the original wore out. His assumption was that he would live a long, long life, and his fear was that he would not have enough to last to its end.
As a result I wound up with closets and drawers stuffed with his possessions. Somehow his reverence for these things transferred over to me (partly because he had occupied the apartment for a couple of decades before I'd moved in). I couldn't even contemplate cracking open his closet doors, let alone entering and emptying their contents. Three months after his death, when our relatives flew to New York for a memorial service, I invited our nieces and nephews to take whatever they wanted. They had no trouble whatsoever in breaching the hold. The girls took his cashmere sweaters and ties. The boys shirted and suited up for post-college interviews. When they were finished, my bedroom looked like the end of a 75% off sale day at Barney's. I consolidated what they'd left behind and lived around it all for a couple of years. It's funny what a person chooses not to see or feel.
I'm not sure what made me decide to make more space for myself in my own living quarters or, rather, in my own life. I needed to work up to a major change in my perceptions before I could take what felt to me like a major action. It was a few years after Al's death that I hired an organizer to come in and help me. The project took nearly all day. We started with two industrial-sized garbage bags: 1) to give away and 2) to throw away. A third pile was to keep. Hiring a professional was money well-spent. The woman was ruthless and relentless, just what I needed. She gave me little time to dwell on or protest the process, and I was swept up in her determination. We wound up with about twenty-five bags and a tiny keepsake pile. We drove to Housing Works with about twenty bags stuffed with contributions, brought the refuse bags to the basement, and redistributed my things into the emptied drawers and closets. Done, done, and done.
I sometimes wish I was like my friend who offered to help me clear out my apartment the week Al died. She tends to act with immediacy in other circumstances too. People like that get more accomplished more quickly, and life, as we know, can be so brief. But I'm just not made that way. I suppose accepting the way we are made and figuring out how to work with our own material is an accomplishment too, whenever we happen to come to our realizations.
As a result I wound up with closets and drawers stuffed with his possessions. Somehow his reverence for these things transferred over to me (partly because he had occupied the apartment for a couple of decades before I'd moved in). I couldn't even contemplate cracking open his closet doors, let alone entering and emptying their contents. Three months after his death, when our relatives flew to New York for a memorial service, I invited our nieces and nephews to take whatever they wanted. They had no trouble whatsoever in breaching the hold. The girls took his cashmere sweaters and ties. The boys shirted and suited up for post-college interviews. When they were finished, my bedroom looked like the end of a 75% off sale day at Barney's. I consolidated what they'd left behind and lived around it all for a couple of years. It's funny what a person chooses not to see or feel.
I'm not sure what made me decide to make more space for myself in my own living quarters or, rather, in my own life. I needed to work up to a major change in my perceptions before I could take what felt to me like a major action. It was a few years after Al's death that I hired an organizer to come in and help me. The project took nearly all day. We started with two industrial-sized garbage bags: 1) to give away and 2) to throw away. A third pile was to keep. Hiring a professional was money well-spent. The woman was ruthless and relentless, just what I needed. She gave me little time to dwell on or protest the process, and I was swept up in her determination. We wound up with about twenty-five bags and a tiny keepsake pile. We drove to Housing Works with about twenty bags stuffed with contributions, brought the refuse bags to the basement, and redistributed my things into the emptied drawers and closets. Done, done, and done.
I sometimes wish I was like my friend who offered to help me clear out my apartment the week Al died. She tends to act with immediacy in other circumstances too. People like that get more accomplished more quickly, and life, as we know, can be so brief. But I'm just not made that way. I suppose accepting the way we are made and figuring out how to work with our own material is an accomplishment too, whenever we happen to come to our realizations.
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