I wrote the passage below to my first-born niece, Madeleine, when she was about four months old. I was 21 years old at the time, and was being exposed for the first time, via my sister, her husband, and their perfect little beauty, to the fears, frustrations, and overwhelming love and devotion that go along with being a parent for the first time.
Being a senior in college, with flexibility in my school and work schedule, I was able to help by watching my niece one day a week on Mondays. We used to call them "Mondays with Madeleine."
The ten years that have passed since I wrote this have shown me many other families and situations that are both similar and different to that of my sister's family at the time that Madeleine was born. There is more than just one way to provide for your child, and what is best for one family may not be the best choice for another. The one consistency I have found is that it is never easy.
The First Monday- January 7, 2002
The day before our first Monday was your mom's thirty-second birthday. Your whole family laughed, doted and cooed as you had your first pears, which you appeared to enjoy immensely. None of us could ever tire of watching you as your mom got you to laugh and grin, as only a mom can.
This evening was also our first snowstorm of the winter, and of your life. This meant that after dinner, dessert and birthday presents, your dad had to "go do something he didn't want to do," as he explained to you when he said good-bye. He had a snow-plowing contract at the time, and needed to go out into the awful weather that night. I remember watching him hold you against his chest before he left. I could see that it broke his heart to leave you and your mom; he said over and over how good it felt to hold you, and how he wished he didn't have to go. But in the end, he was leaving to take care of you.
This is one of those things I can only imagine, not yet a parent myself: being torn between the essential tasks which mean providing for your family, and being with them every moment. You want both, for love of your child, but you must do what is best in the end. Watching your dad go into the snow that night I felt closer than before, to seeing what parenting is all about.
I stayed at your house that night, because the snow made driving a bit treacherous. In the morning, I woke up to your mom bringing you to your swing. She was getting your rice cereal and pears ready. It was the first time I'd seen her in professional attire since before you were born, and that was strange. I was afraid she might be in a hurry, and I offered to feed you, but she said she'd do it. I realized that she had her reasons for wanting to do it herself.
The ground was still covered with snow, and I held you as your mom put galoshes on her feet- they didn't exactly compliment her outfit, and she joked about that. The shoes she would wear at work were in a small paper shopping bag. After she tied her snow shoes, I watched her reach for you to say good-bye- about to head to her first day back to work as a mom, and the first day at a new job on top of that. Her face broke into tears as she held you to her.
I watched your mom go to college for the first time when I was eight- she cried just a little as we left her at that first dormitory; I watched her graduate college and graduate law school; I watched her get married, and by this time had watched her entire first pregnancy. All this time as we've been growing into our adult lives, I've teased her, saying she was still a kid, and would never really be a grown-up. I was shocked as it dawned on me that morning, that she was crying a mother's tears.
I've only seen your mom cry a few times. She is a strong woman, and always manages to keep her head clear and be strong for others. On this morning I saw her cry with emotion that I'd never seen on her face before. She hurt to leave you, out of love for you-just like daddy the night before- and at the same time, she had to leave you, so that she could know she was doing everything possible to make you a happy, healthy girl.
As she gave you back to me and was gathering her things to leave, I looked at her briefcase. Since this was a new job, she didn't yet have her own clients or cases yet-- there couldn't be files for her to have taken home-- and I wondered what was in them. I pictured blank legal pads and pens... I thought it might make her laugh, and asked, "Do you have to bring your own legal pads for taking notes, or do they give you those?" I saw a small smile as she told me that the office provided paper. I told her I was glad it was me she was leaving you with, instead of some smelly old lady who she didn't know. I knew though, that despite my attempt at humor, this was one of the hardest things your mom would have to do. And it didn't make it any easier that she had to trudge through six inches of snow to get to her car, either.
But she had a job to do. With a briefcase and her nice shoes in one hand, and a snow brush for cleaning the car in the other, she made her way to the car as you and I watched out the window. It occurred to me again -as it has countless times since you were born- how much both of your parents love you. In the last nine hours, I'd seen both of them go out into the world to make a better one for you, their "little angel pie-face." As I watched my big sister that morning, armed with a briefcase and a snow brush, I had to say to myself, "she just might be a grown-up after all."
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Exquisite Grief
I will never forget the drive to the location of the accident. The brilliant leaves, which had made for a magnificent fall in the Hudson Valley, were now skeletons of their former vibrancy, whirling across the road in furious little tornadoes. Their dance was so frenetic; it mirrored my inner grief and turmoil. I knew as I watched them that their image in future years would bring me back to this moment.
The words that had awoken me that morning weren’t even real yet. It felt like I’d arrive in the Rockland County town and see him there, waiting for me and eager to give details about the events of the night before; to explain what had really happened; how I’d somehow gotten the facts all wrong.
As it turned out, none of the facts were wrong. And then it was anxious pacing; it was staring at the ground on the side of the road looking for answers that weren’t there; it was waiting to understand exactly why we were there at all—that small group of us in a mini-caravan, pulling our cars off the road to study the exact spot. Were the stones and broken glass on the edge of the roadway suddenly going to arrange themselves in a verbal explanation of what made this happen? We didn’t realize that being there and not understanding a thing wasn’t going to help at all; it was just the last place in the world where he had existence, and we needed to be there. It was the closest thing we would ever have to being near him again.
I made harried phone calls to the last ones to see him alive, demanding to know everything he said: his mood, his intentions, his reasons, his words—every word—his last actions last decisions last meal last joke last irritation last drink…Last. It was as though knowing every little thing I could possibly learn about those last few hours would replace the sixty or so years together that should have been ahead of us.
* * * * * * *
The first morning of my new life: An early morning shower in my sister’s bright white tiled bathroom. Staring at the wall. Crumpling. Yet somehow I knew to condition after shampooing, and even how to turn the knobs to make the water the right temperature—all the while not forgetting what was ahead of me in that day. Looking back, I don't know how I stepped out of that bathroom to go into it.
The funeral home: The soft-spoken woman seemed scared of the deeply grieving family in front of her, scared to say the wrong thing, and not comprehending their grief. He had been twenty-six; I wondered how old she was. She delicately helped us to write the eulogy for the newspaper.
The cemetery: His would be the next open plot in a row that was working its way slowly down a hill. A hill that overlooked a restaurant supply store, a gas station, a thoroughfare. Just down the road from a special little café where we’d go for buttermilk pancakes and a Reuben, thinking we owned the world. And we had owned the whole world. Our world was ahead of us, and we weren’t foolish enough not to realize that was the greatest place to be. We knew well where we stood in the world, and with each other, there was no question about that.
The flower shop: The book of floral arrangements presented many options. The florist flipped right to the tab separating the section of funeral arrangements. Flowers in the logo of his favorite baseball team, which his brothers chose; the enormous heart of roses, which I chose.
The florist felt that I was making an emotional decision when I placed my order. She gently explained that the arrangement would be just as beautiful with carnations. I don’t think she understood that Ben and I weren’t carnations. We were brilliant, red roses.
I noticed the photos of wedding arrangements in the back of the book and had to leave the shop to cry in the parking lot. My father followed me out, desperate for me to stop hurting, not knowing how to handle this unnavigable version of grief.
The florist gave me a discount on the roses. I later told my sister, “I spent six hundred dollars on red roses for Ben.” She said, “Good for you!” I think she got it.
It is at times like these when you see the good in many people. My co-worker Mary Beth would leave her job at the restaurant where we worked, and drive fifty minutes to bring trays and trays of food for the family, at the direction of the restaurant manager who didn’t give a thought to the food cost. Lauren and her family, whom I hadn’t seen in years, would send flowers and a kind note, as would countless friends and neighbors. My boss would tell me I had a job whenever I was ready to leave the house, and advise me not to take drugs to treat my insomnia.
My sister would let me sleep with her and would cry with me through many nights. My father would time and again stay up through one more movie with me, because I so dreaded the alternative - long, sleepless, and seemingly unending night. My mom could never bear to leave me alone anytime I went somewhere to cry. Yes, these times bring out the good in many people.
Some will try to tell you how to grieve. They think they know what will help you. Ironically, those who think they can help you with their empty words end up filling you with the most dread. None of that helps. Nothing, of what people think should help, actually does.
I would come to learn that those people are really only comforting themselves by fervently convincing themselves that they know they are helping you. In reality what they actually know, after minimal consideration, can be translated into a series of variations on a central theme: total horse-shit. But that is the anger talking.
I would be remiss if I left out...
The Contest: Who loved stronger, knew longer. A woman worked with him when he was a bus-boy at seventeen, a friend of the family had seen him in church since age three, someone else who I’d never before seen or heard him speak of claimed that he was like a son to her…that's funny, I thought. After all, I had only been in his life for two years…I was low on the totem pole of acquaintance, right? It didn’t matter how often we had laughed together, how many hours we'd spent staring into each other’s eyes; didn't matter that we had agreed upon names for our future children, had recently visited a potential venue for our someday wedding. A fantasy.
Of course everyone wants to help, and see you happy and “over it.” I would come to cope with being told what I wanted and didn’t want, being told not to cry, being told that I needed to hold it together for the sake of others, being told I’d get "better," (I guess I was sick?) and being told that it would “pass." This was a time when I didn’t want to get better, and didn’t want it ever to pass. I was told that he was happy now because he was with God, and that I should be happy for him. If they felt that these were the right things to say to me, then these people had either never suffered a loss of any substantial amount or -more likely- they had never been permitted to suffer one. For this I pitied them, and still do.
The thing about this type of exquisite sadness is that in the end, you have your own secret to keep from the world. Now that your other half is gone, no one but you knows about what glimmered temporarily between the two of you. You now have the strength of this experience behind you, and no one knows what you did to come out of that, or how you did it…including yourself. Suffering loss creates an entirely new dimension of who you are; it helps to shape the kind of person you will be from that point on. Life gains perspective, loved ones gain a new level of importance.
But the loss is always there. It doesn’t go away, it just evolves inside you and becomes a part of you. The comfort you can have when looking back -and only when looking back- is that a life without suffering is no life. There is a great love which must come before any suffering, no matter what kind. And this is the thing that must get you through it.
The words that had awoken me that morning weren’t even real yet. It felt like I’d arrive in the Rockland County town and see him there, waiting for me and eager to give details about the events of the night before; to explain what had really happened; how I’d somehow gotten the facts all wrong.
As it turned out, none of the facts were wrong. And then it was anxious pacing; it was staring at the ground on the side of the road looking for answers that weren’t there; it was waiting to understand exactly why we were there at all—that small group of us in a mini-caravan, pulling our cars off the road to study the exact spot. Were the stones and broken glass on the edge of the roadway suddenly going to arrange themselves in a verbal explanation of what made this happen? We didn’t realize that being there and not understanding a thing wasn’t going to help at all; it was just the last place in the world where he had existence, and we needed to be there. It was the closest thing we would ever have to being near him again.
I made harried phone calls to the last ones to see him alive, demanding to know everything he said: his mood, his intentions, his reasons, his words—every word—his last actions last decisions last meal last joke last irritation last drink…Last. It was as though knowing every little thing I could possibly learn about those last few hours would replace the sixty or so years together that should have been ahead of us.
* * * * * * *
The first morning of my new life: An early morning shower in my sister’s bright white tiled bathroom. Staring at the wall. Crumpling. Yet somehow I knew to condition after shampooing, and even how to turn the knobs to make the water the right temperature—all the while not forgetting what was ahead of me in that day. Looking back, I don't know how I stepped out of that bathroom to go into it.
The funeral home: The soft-spoken woman seemed scared of the deeply grieving family in front of her, scared to say the wrong thing, and not comprehending their grief. He had been twenty-six; I wondered how old she was. She delicately helped us to write the eulogy for the newspaper.
The cemetery: His would be the next open plot in a row that was working its way slowly down a hill. A hill that overlooked a restaurant supply store, a gas station, a thoroughfare. Just down the road from a special little café where we’d go for buttermilk pancakes and a Reuben, thinking we owned the world. And we had owned the whole world. Our world was ahead of us, and we weren’t foolish enough not to realize that was the greatest place to be. We knew well where we stood in the world, and with each other, there was no question about that.
The flower shop: The book of floral arrangements presented many options. The florist flipped right to the tab separating the section of funeral arrangements. Flowers in the logo of his favorite baseball team, which his brothers chose; the enormous heart of roses, which I chose.
The florist felt that I was making an emotional decision when I placed my order. She gently explained that the arrangement would be just as beautiful with carnations. I don’t think she understood that Ben and I weren’t carnations. We were brilliant, red roses.
I noticed the photos of wedding arrangements in the back of the book and had to leave the shop to cry in the parking lot. My father followed me out, desperate for me to stop hurting, not knowing how to handle this unnavigable version of grief.
The florist gave me a discount on the roses. I later told my sister, “I spent six hundred dollars on red roses for Ben.” She said, “Good for you!” I think she got it.
It is at times like these when you see the good in many people. My co-worker Mary Beth would leave her job at the restaurant where we worked, and drive fifty minutes to bring trays and trays of food for the family, at the direction of the restaurant manager who didn’t give a thought to the food cost. Lauren and her family, whom I hadn’t seen in years, would send flowers and a kind note, as would countless friends and neighbors. My boss would tell me I had a job whenever I was ready to leave the house, and advise me not to take drugs to treat my insomnia.
My sister would let me sleep with her and would cry with me through many nights. My father would time and again stay up through one more movie with me, because I so dreaded the alternative - long, sleepless, and seemingly unending night. My mom could never bear to leave me alone anytime I went somewhere to cry. Yes, these times bring out the good in many people.
Some will try to tell you how to grieve. They think they know what will help you. Ironically, those who think they can help you with their empty words end up filling you with the most dread. None of that helps. Nothing, of what people think should help, actually does.
I would come to learn that those people are really only comforting themselves by fervently convincing themselves that they know they are helping you. In reality what they actually know, after minimal consideration, can be translated into a series of variations on a central theme: total horse-shit. But that is the anger talking.
I would be remiss if I left out...
The Contest: Who loved stronger, knew longer. A woman worked with him when he was a bus-boy at seventeen, a friend of the family had seen him in church since age three, someone else who I’d never before seen or heard him speak of claimed that he was like a son to her…that's funny, I thought. After all, I had only been in his life for two years…I was low on the totem pole of acquaintance, right? It didn’t matter how often we had laughed together, how many hours we'd spent staring into each other’s eyes; didn't matter that we had agreed upon names for our future children, had recently visited a potential venue for our someday wedding. A fantasy.
Of course everyone wants to help, and see you happy and “over it.” I would come to cope with being told what I wanted and didn’t want, being told not to cry, being told that I needed to hold it together for the sake of others, being told I’d get "better," (I guess I was sick?) and being told that it would “pass." This was a time when I didn’t want to get better, and didn’t want it ever to pass. I was told that he was happy now because he was with God, and that I should be happy for him. If they felt that these were the right things to say to me, then these people had either never suffered a loss of any substantial amount or -more likely- they had never been permitted to suffer one. For this I pitied them, and still do.
The thing about this type of exquisite sadness is that in the end, you have your own secret to keep from the world. Now that your other half is gone, no one but you knows about what glimmered temporarily between the two of you. You now have the strength of this experience behind you, and no one knows what you did to come out of that, or how you did it…including yourself. Suffering loss creates an entirely new dimension of who you are; it helps to shape the kind of person you will be from that point on. Life gains perspective, loved ones gain a new level of importance.
But the loss is always there. It doesn’t go away, it just evolves inside you and becomes a part of you. The comfort you can have when looking back -and only when looking back- is that a life without suffering is no life. There is a great love which must come before any suffering, no matter what kind. And this is the thing that must get you through it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)