This I Believe -- Book Excerpt

"This I Believe" is a fantastic book that keeps on giving inspiration to me.

 

I recently discovered this book quite by accident.  I was in Richmond, Virginia with my son and his girlfriend and we came upon a local non-profit that was giving away books for free.  I couldn't believe it.  Free. Books.

 

Free books are irresistible to me.  This would be similar to offering the editor of Vogue free clothes and accessories.  A room of tables full of all kinds of books just waiting for someone to come along and adopt them and take them home.  Where do I start?  I immediately wondered how many I would be able to carry to the car.

 

Early in my book grab, I found "This I Believe" and I snatched it up right away because the subtitle of the book said it was about "The personal philosophies of remarkable men and women"  and is also based on the NPR series of the same name.  "This I Believe" features 80 essayists, some famous and some unknown, writing to complete the thought that begins the book's title.

 

 

 

I decided I didn't want to read the essays in order; that jumping around from famous to unknown and back again would make the book more interesting.  One essay, titled "The Making of Poems" caught my eye because beautifully written poetry expands my viewpoint of the world.  Quickly, I found that the essay is really about resilience, one of my favorite topics to explore and talk to others about for never ending periods of time.

 

I love to find out how a person has pulled themselves back together after a personal crisis and what has kept them going.  What fuels their inner strength?  How did they learn so much from the pain in their life?  I think the answer is as varied as the billions of people making up Planet Earth but in this case, let's focus on author Gregory Orr's resilience and his remarkable essay which begins here:

 

The Making of Poems

By Gregory Orr

 

I believe in poetry as a way of surviving the emotional chaos, spiritual confusions, and traumatic events that come with being alive.

 

When I was twelve years old, I was responsible for the death of my younger brother in a hunting accident.  I held the rifle that killed him.  In a single moment, my world changed forever.  I felt grief, terror, shame, and despair more deeply than I could ever have imagined.  In the aftermath, no one in my shattered family could speak to me about my brother's death, and their silence left me alone with all my agonizing emotions.  And under those emotions, something even more terrible : a knowledge that all the easy meanings I had lived by until then had been suddenly and utterly abolished.

 

One consequence of traumatic violence is that it isolates its victims.  It can cut us off from other people, cutting us off from our own emotional lives until we go numb and move through the world as if only half alive.  As a young person, I found something to set against my growing sense of isolation and numbness: the making of poems.

 

When I write a poem, I process experience.  I take what's inside of me -- the raw, chaotic material of feeling or memory -- and translate it into words and then shape those words into the rhythmical language we call a poem.  This process brings me a kind of wild joy.  Before, I was powerless and passive in the face of my confusion, but now I am active: the powerful shaper of my experience.  I am transforming it into a lucid meaning.

 

Because poems are meanings, and even the saddest poems I write is proof that I want to survive.  And therefore it represents an affirmation of life in all its complexities and contradictions.

 

An additional miracle comes to me as the maker of poems: Because poems can be shared between poet and audience, they also become a further triumph over human isolation.

 

Whenever I read a poem that moves me, I know I'm not alone in the world.  I feel a connection to the person who wrote it, knowing that he or she has gone through something similar to what I've experienced, or felt something like what I have felt.  And their poem gives me hope and courage, because I know that they survived, that their life force was strong enough to turn experience into words and shape it into meaning and then bring it toward me to share.  The gift of their poem enters deeply into me and helps me live and believe in living.

Confessions of A Mediocre Widow By Catherine Tidd

The title of Catherine Tidd's new book suggests she is a mediocre widow.

 

Don't believe it for one second.

Catherine Tidd is quite the opposite.  Catherine Tidd is in fact a courageous, smart and very funny woman in search of herself and an entirely different life while raising three young children after the death of her beloved husband, Brad, in a tragic motorcycle accident in 2007.

Her book is refreshing and down-to-earth and is full of painful and funny personal insights about what happened to her after the death of her spouse: the hospital, the funeral, her in-laws, the whole crazy upside down aspect of picking yourself up and putting yourself back together.  As a widow myself, I truly understand the tightrope walk of processing grief, raising a child, working a full-time job all the while trying to figure out what the hell is going to happen next in this so-called uncharted territory called a new life. 

 

 

Putting those intensely private and sometimes heartbreaking experiences down on paper for others to consider and understand is a difficult task but not for Catherine Tidd.  She has written an amazing book that I couldn't put down and I would recommend to anyone whether they have lost a spouse or not because she is straightforward yet humorous (my husband is dead and Keith Richards is alive?) about how her new life unfolded in the months and years following her husband's death. 

 

Many times while reading, "Confessions of A Mediocre Widow Or, How I Lost My Husband And My Sanity," I found myself putting the book down and saying out loud, "Yes! That's exactly right Catherine.  Yes! You nailed what it feels like at that particular stage of grief."

 

I have to reveal that I was familiar with Catherine's sense of humor before I read her book.  Her uplifting blog, "Widow Chick," (www.widowchick.blogspot.com) was the first blog about grief that I discovered online.  Right away I loved the name of her blog and read every post, sometimes laughing at the things she vented about and sometimes shaking my head in agreement with her about the emotional push and pull of navigating single parenting, anniversaries, birthdays, and the dating scene.

 

But her new book is chock full of more Catherine and it has given her the time and space to expand on how loss affects you and those who care about you and to really dig deep into a discussion of life on your own as a widow with children, a subject that tends to make most people feel very uncomfortable.

 

Catherine Tidd



Here is how Catherine explains what she wanted to have happen to her in the midst of dealing with her overwhelming grief: "I wanted to  walk into a padded room and throw the grocery list, the bills, the back-to-school forms, the insurance paperwork, just chuck 'em at a wall over and over until the paper was crumpled and soft.  I wanted to scream until my throat was raw.  I wanted to kick at those padded walls until my legs were sore.  I wanted to pull an Office Space and take a baseball bat to every appliance in my house that had the nerve not to work properly.  And sometimes I wanted to take my emotions out on an innocent teddy bear."

Catherine also writes about using retail therapy as a way of coping with the loneliness and isolation following her husband's sudden death.  She would buy tons of stuff, decide to keep one thing and then return the rest the next day.  This didn't make her very popular with the salespeople and her therapy went on for months until she got fixated on a new purchase: a Mazda RX8.  As in a car that doesn't have a back seat, is low to the ground and not child friendly at all.  I loved that she did this even though it was extravagant.

Here in Catherine's words are why the Mazda RX8 was such a necessary, yet temporary, purchase: "For a while, that car was the best therapy I could have had.  It was where I could go and just pretend for a minute that my life was not actually happening.  I could drive around and forget for seconds at a time that I had three kids at home who were in the throes of toddlerhood.  I felt empowered that I had bought that car completely on my own.  I would listen to music I liked, turning it up so loud that it would almost drown out the thoughts in my head.  And the tinted windows would show nothing at a stoplight if I just needed to sit there and cry for a minute."

Even though Catherine spent her 11th wedding anniversary planning her husband's funeral, she found the inner strength to move her life forward and "Confessions of A Mediocre Widow" is a candid book about the reality of becoming a widow and where the exhausting, emotional adjustments took her and her family.

The bottom line, Catherine writes, is the ability to become self-aware and realize that it doesn't matter whether other people understand your journey or not.  You will find the way that is best for you.  It may be a slow process but inner peace can come if you accept what your life is today.  She states a core truth about being a widow when she writes that there comes a point in every widow's journey when she has to make peace with the death of her loved one "and finally accept that, yes, this has happened to her.  Most of the widows who seem to all of a sudden turn a corner have one thing in common: they stopped fighting widowhood and started to work with it."

Thank you Catherine Tidd for sharing your heartfelt story in this beauty of a book, "Confessions of A Mediocre Widow."  You made me feel as though we were friends in this widow journey and I know your new book will help many others (widows or not)  understand that you have to put yourself out there and live life with as much love as you can find.

 

"Confessions of A Mediocre Widow" will be available in retail stores on Tuesday, January 7, 2014.  Copies can be ordered on Amazon.com at this link:

http://www.amazon.com/Confessions-Mediocre-Widow-Husband-Sanity/dp/1402285221/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1387507432&sr=8-1&keywords=confessions+of+a+mediocre+widow

 

or at Barnes & Noble at this link:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/confessions-of-a-mediocre-widow-catherine-tidd/1114864435?ean=9781402285226

Heaven

There's a place where we all want to end up. 

We know it by name but where is it?  Where is Heaven?

I was thinking about Heaven yesterday while attending the wake of a man who was one of my father's best friends.

This man was a good man, worked hard, had a wonderful wife and children and tried to do his best for others.  I'm sure he is in Heaven, wherever that is.

I'm also sure that other people that I knew and loved are in Heaven: my husband, all of my grandparents, my aunt and uncles and some friends.

I believe in Heaven but the idea of not knowing where it is nags at me.  It's a concept that rolls around in my head.  Maybe it is up above us, waaay up above us, but who knows? And what do they do there?  I imagine that people in Heaven are different ages, not the age they were when they died, and that they do things that they loved such as playing baseball, or having parties or being at the beach.

 

This is my idea of Heaven

 

I also like to think that they are with us and try to guide and help us.

I think not knowing where your loved one is located is one of the big frustrations about grief.  You are physically cut off from a loved one when they die and there's no way to find out where they are or even how they are doing.

Is it asking too much to know these things?  I don't think so.

I think it's the least they could do after leaving us.  They should at least call, email or text us about what's going on with them.  They must know that we wonder.  They must know that we think about them all the time.

People who have had near death experiences have described what has happened to them and that is probably the closest we will come to finding out what Heaven is all about.

A lot of people talk about seeing a bright light and also seeing people they know.  Katie Couric aired an episode on her daytime show addressing the subject of Heaven and interviewed people who had been through traumatic experiences and spoke of going to heaven and then coming back to their lives.  In an interview Katie Couric did with Dr. Mary Neal, Neal describes being trapped underwater for  15 minutes and losing consciousness.  Neals' description of heaven is of a place filled with love, a love we have not felt here.

Maybe your ideas about Heaven are completely different.  Please share if your thoughts if you would like to!

Here is the link to the Katie Couric interviews with Dr. Mary Neal and others:

http://www.katiecouric.com/on-the-show/2012/10/08/to-heaven-and-back/

Lean In To Laughter

One of my brothers has a wacky way of making a joke exactly when it's needed.

His timing and dry delivery are impeccable.  Just when the situation is starting to get either too serious or is totally out of hand, I can always depend on my brother to throw an exclamation point into the conversation.

 

It's not an easy thing to do.  There's a fine line between funny and unfunny and once you cross over into unfunny, it's hard to undo and recover your mojo.

I've delivered some whoppers that have crashed on delivery but I don't try to cover it up by saying, "I'm only joking."  Usually when someone says that to me I know they are not really joking.  They're usually trying to tell me something by making it seem as if it's a joke.  NOT!

If I fall flat on my face, I try to own it immediately.  It's really the only way to go.

But the point is, making a joke gets me and maybe you through some rough times.

And humor also get writer Veronica Chambers through some life-changing moments with her husband.  As Chambers says, "I promise to laugh with my husband -- in sickness, in health, and everything in between."

Here's a short piece Veronica Chambers wrote for the February 2013 issue of O magazine that I think shows how humor diffuses those tense and  scary moments and puts life in perspective:

There's A Joke In There Somewhere
By Veronica Chambers
O Magazine/February 2013

Five years ago, I had an awful, soul-sucking year: During the birth of my child, my body went into organ failure, to the point where the doctors told my husband, Jason, I had begun to die.

Then my daughter, who was born weighing less than two pounds, spent three months in the hospital fighting for her life.  Then, just 14 weeks after we brought her home, my youngest brother, who was 28, died in a car accident, a crash that ended with an explosion so total there was nothing left to bury.

After his funeral, I drove to the Himalayan Institute in Pennsylvania for a three-day Ayurvedic retreat meant to bring things back into balance.  Thanks to 72 hours of vegetarian meals, yoga classes and sessions with a holistic doctor, I returned home hopeful.

But less than two weeks later, a chaplain from my local hospital called to inform me that my husband had been the victim of a hit-and-run.  "Are you f--ing kidding me," I shrieked.

At the hospital, when I saw his face, so bruised it was almost unrecognizable, I realized there was no right way to absorb this kind of pain.  My life had become a cruel joke.

And yet.  When Jason came home, he immediately began cracking wise.  And that set the tone for how we regarded his situation: with levity and something like grace.

Him: "My arm hurts.  Take your top off -- it's the only thing that will help."

Me: "You got hit in a crosswalk at 7 A.M.?  Dude, I think God smited you."

When a stranger asked how he broke his arm, he said: "Arm wrestling with my mother-in-law.  I won."

We laughed every day, and despite all that we had endured, I was happy.  I won't go so far as to say that his being run over was a gift.  I will say that the accident reminded me how remarkable humor can be.

My husband's laughter is like medicine.  When times get tough, he finds the funny -- and I just lean in for the joke.

Isn't this an amazing way to look at life?

Divorce v Death

I'm not sure why people compare getting divorced to losing a spouse.

But they do.

Hmmmmm.  One of these things is really not like the other.

Yes, both situations are the end of something, but one is final and the other is not.

Both situations are traumatic and force you to assess your life and eventually rebuild it in a new way.

But the death of a loved one is final.  You will never see that person again.

With divorce, you might feel like you never want to see that person again but they're still alive.

Lots of widows and widowers hear this comparison but that doesn't make it true.

Shortly after my husband's death, I had a couple of people make the same comparison to me and I thought it was weird but then I heard from others about the same thing.  Recently, I read the following on another woman's Facebook page.  Having been widowed for six years, this woman thought she had heard it all until another woman said to her, "My husband had to work on Saturday, so I know what it's like to be you."  The widow thought to herself: "REALLY?  Did he come home for dinner?  Then, no you don't."

 

If you're still not sure of the difference between divorce and death, here is a short video made by a young woman named Kim Richardson.  She makes her point quietly and effectively.  The video was tweeted yesterday by a support group in South Carolina called Widows of Opportunity (www.widowsofopportunity.)

 

 

Reflections of Nora Ephron's Son

 

Nora Ephron

Crying is unsettling.  Especially if you are watching one of your parents do it.

 

My son hates it when I cry and has said that when I would cry all the time immediately after his father/my husband's death, he would feel this mix of emotions that he didn't want to feel and so he would walk away.  I understand it and think his reaction was perfectly normal.  He was thirteen years old and dealing with something that adults find hard to handle.  He was just trying to survive.

 

Now, at twenty two years old, my son explains his reaction this way: "When children see their parents cry, it's like a wall being broken.  It messes everything up.  I wanted you to be my Mom but when I saw you cry, it's like you weren't my Mom anymore.  You were a person and I didn't want that. I wanted my Mom."

 

It makes sense to me and I love him all the more for his insight; as painful as it was, and sometimes still is, for both of us.

 

That is why Jacob Bernstein's long and loving story about his mother, Nora Ephron, is so powerful and compassionate.

 

It's a universal story of how children feel about their parents as children, and as adults, and especially sons and their feelings about their mothers.

 

But having an accomplished, high-profile, multi-talented mother such as Nora Ephron is a unique story. And Jacob Bernstein writes it beautifully.  I knew it was a long story so I only intended to read the first page and then come back to it later, but then I couldn't stop reading it until I reached the end.

His mother is proud.  He took good notes.

Please click on this link to read Jacob Bernstein's story as it appeared in the New York Times magazine this past weekend:

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/10/magazine/nora-ephrons-final-act.html?_r=3&hp=&adxnnl=1&pagewanted=1&adxnnlx=1362652331-n02tv3ThoWXX1qcUk6JoRw

The Loss of A Child

When I have been in support group sessions and listened as people have talked about losing a spouse there is usually a sense of bonding, a feeling of "having been there" in the expressed feeling or thought.  A supportive dialogue usually ensues and sometimes people even feel a sense of progress.

 

Being around other widows and widowers can be a blessing after you have lost a spouse.  I remember thinking, "Finally! Here are people who are dealing with what I am dealing with!"  Because of our shared experience, we could tell jokes or cry or get angry about the loss of our loved ones.  I think we even began to think that maybe losing a spouse is something most adults eventually have to experience.

 

 

 

 

I remember though when a woman whose husband had recently died began talking one day about how she also had lost her child.  I felt a stillness and reverence come over the room.  The death of anyone you love permanently changes your life.  A spouse, a parent, a friend.  There is always a yearning for more time and a need to connect even after they are physically gone.

But the death of a child is in a category all by itself.  Such a profound loss is unbelievably cruel and goes against the natural order of life.  

Anyone who can talk, let alone sit down and write a complete and rational thought about their deceased child is a person who is truly resilient.  Jeremy Shatan is one of those people.

 

Please read about his beloved Jacob in the following New York Times story and some of the jarring events that have marked Jeremy's journey since Jacob's death.

March 3, 2013

A High-Functioning Bereaved Parent

By JEREMY SHATAN

New York Times

 

So where am I now, 13 years after my 2½-year-old son, Jacob, died because of a brain tumor? One thing I can say is that my junk mail has no idea where I am. The other day I threw out yet another letter offering to give us advice on Jacob’s college career, as well as a solicitation to re-subscribe to Highlights magazine. Obviously, Jacob is not going to college. And my surviving children are 11 and 13, a bit out of the Highlights demographic.

 

One construct I use to help myself understand where I am now is a term my wife and I came up with: High-Functioning Bereaved Parent. As is often remarked, someone who has lost a spouse is handily defined by the word “widow” or “widower.” But there is no shorthand to describe a parent who has lost a child. Language is a reflection of culture. The great majority of people will never experience the loss of a child and would prefer not to think about it all that much. Raising children is fraught enough without having to dwell on their mortality. So for now, H.F.B.P. will have to do. I’ll certainly take it over “every parent’s worst nightmare.”

 

So how exactly does being a High-Functioning Bereaved Parent manifest itself? I get out of bed, I help raise our kids and run our household, I laugh, tell jokes, watch violent movies, listen to music and go to concerts. So it all looks pretty good from the outside, and it usually feels … not bad, which is how I prefer to answer when someone asks me how I’m doing. I have no doubt that much of this equilibrium comes from the fact that my wife and I have been together through all of this and still find a lot of joy in our marriage and our surviving children. I also have the privilege of being the executive director of Hope & Heroes Children’s Cancer Fund and working every day to improve the lives of children with cancer alongside the staff of the Herbert Irving Child & Adolescent Oncology Center. Among bereaved parents, I consider myself very lucky that I get to work for Jacob every day.

 

But I knew from the moment Jacob died that we would never get over his loss; we would only learn to live with it. At the risk of torturing grammar, perhaps I should revise that mantra to be “we would only be learning to live with it,” because it’s a process that never stops.

One way I know that is from the physically jarring sensation I feel when the huge chasm in my life abuts the solid ground I usually walk on. It could be at a high school information seminar for my daughter, for example. There’s just this moment of wrongness. Somewhere in my soul there’s a trajectory for Jacob’s life that is still going on, a part of me that wonders why we haven’t already hit these milestones with him first. The natural order of things has been disturbed, but that hasn’t entirely stopped me from attempting to hew to that order. Or it could happen with a change in the weather, which can trigger a sense memory sending me back to the time when Jacob was being treated.

 

That aspect of things is a form of post-traumatic stress disorder, I suppose, which feels like unprocessed experiences that my brain is constantly working on behind the scenes. A hint of fall in the air, and the curtain is momentarily yanked open, exposing the churning attempt at understanding what happened.

 

For reasons like those, some days are more effort than others. Also, occasionally my status as an H.F.B.P. can lead to a balancing act in relation to my work. Naturally, I can empathize with the parents I meet at the clinic — I have walked in their shoes. But since Jacob did not survive, I don’t want to shake their carefully constructed hope that their child will. One thing I always make sure to convey is that each diagnosis is unique and that treatments have continued to improve. My perspective still allows me to have hope for others, and if things do take a turn for the worse, I can offer the powerful example of my own survival after the loss of my son.

 

But it hasn’t always been that way. In the emotional chaos shortly after Jacob died, my wife and I took our infant daughter to a retreat for bereaved families provided by Chai Lifeline. We were already wrung out, but this was a new form of wringer: story after story of gut-wrenching, unimaginable loss. My wife got a migraine so intense that the rattle of a newspaper caused her pain; we considered leaving after the first night.

 

We stuck it out, and through the haze it dawned on us: you can live on after the loss of a child, it’s not impossible. After the retreat, when the sadness would threaten to become overwhelming, I would think of these other bereaved parents and take strength from their behavior. Regular conference calls with a group of dads also helped a great deal.

 

So my path has not been through completely uncharted territory. I have had mentors to follow, whether or not they would have called themselves High-Functioning Bereaved Parents. In the end, I’m not sure if being an H.F.B.P. is a choice, exactly, but I believe that putting a name to our “condition” has helped us not just survive, but to thrive and engage with life more fully.

---

Jeremy Shatan lives in Inwood, Manhattan, with his wife and two surviving children, is proud to serve as Executive Director of Hope & Heroes Children’s Cancer Fund, and writes about music at LINK 3 AnEarful and @AnEarful.

Steve Martin Remembers His Father

Comedian Steve Martin in 2011

Comedian Steve Martin is obviously an incredibly multi-talented, award-winning funny guy.

 

To me, Steve Martin is one of those celebrities that I just accept as being the way they are as they present themselves in their work.  I don't think of him as a little boy or as having parents.  He is who he is as he appears in the roles of his television and his film work.

 

To the public, Steve Martin is the hysterical stand-up comedian who played the "wild and crazy guy" and many other characters on Saturday Night Live or he is the star of the movie "Father of the Bride" along with lots of other films.

 

So I was surprised when I was googling for an article on hospice care and up popped this story that Steve Martin wrote in 2008 about his father.  Thank you Google!

 

It is touching and sad and sweet and serious.  A whole other side of Steve Martin that is usually kept private.  I'm happy he decided to share this emotional story with us because it brings home and poignantly reveals how we all have complicated relationships with our parents whether you are a celebrity or not.

 

Steve Martin grew up thinking that his father didn't love him.  As a child, Steve Martin's father was stern and distant but all that changed as they both grew older.

Please read Steve Martin's story:


The Death of My Father
By Steve Martin
January 2008

 

In his death, my father, Glenn Vernon Martin, did something he could not do in life. He brought our family together.

 

After he died at age 83, many of his friends told me how much they loved him—how generous he was, how outgoing, how funny, how caring. I was surprised at these descriptions. During my teenage years, there was little said to me that was not criticism. I remember him as angry. But now, ten years after his death, I recall events that seem to contradict my memory of him. When I was 16, he handed down to me the family’s 1957 Chevy. Neither one of us knew at the time that it was the coolest car anyone my age could have. When I was in the third grade he proudly accompanied me to the school tumbling contest where I won first prize. One day, while I was in single digits, he suggested we play catch in the front yard. This offer to spend time together was so anomalous that I didn’t quite understand what I was supposed to do.

 

When I graduated from high school, my father offered to buy me a tuxedo. I refused because my father always shunned gifts. I felt with my refusal, that somehow in a convoluted, perverse logic, I was being a good son. I wish now that I could have let him buy me a tuxedo, let him be a dad.

 

My father sold real estate but he wanted to be in show business. I was probably five years old when I saw him in a bit part at the Call Board theater on Melrose Place in Hollywood. He came on in the second act and served a drink. The theater existed until a few years ago and is now finally defunct and, I believe, a lamp shop.

 

My father’s attitude toward my show business accomplishments was critical. After my first appearance on Saturday Night Live in 1976, he wrote a bad review of me in the newsletter of the Newport Board of Realtors where he was president. Later, he related this news to me slightly shamefaced, and said that after it appeared, his best friend came into his office holding the paper, placed it on his desk, and shook his head sternly, indicating a wordless “no.”

 

In the early ’80s, a close friend of mine, whose own father was killed walking across a street and whose mother committed suicide on Mother’s Day, said that if I had anything to work out with my parents, I should do it now, because one day that opportunity would be over. When I heard this remark, I had no idea that I would ever want to work anything out with them, that, in fact, there was anything to work out at all. But it stewed in my brain for years, and soon I decided to try and get to know my parents. I took them to lunch every Sunday I could, and would goad them into talking.

 

It was our routine that after I drove them home from our lunches, my mother and father, now in their 80s, would walk me to the car. I would kiss my mother on the cheek and my father and I would wave or awkwardly say goodbye. But this time we hugged each other and he whispered, “I love you,” with a voice barely audible. This would be the first time these words were ever spoken between us. I returned the phrase with the same awkward, broken delivery.

 

As my father ailed, he grew more irritable. He made unreasonable demands, such as waking his 24-hour help and insisting that they take him for drives at three a.m., as it was the only way he could relax. He also became heartrendingly emotional. He could be in the middle of a story and begin to laugh, which would provoke sudden tears, making him unable to continue.

 

In his early 80s, my father’s health declined further and he became bedridden. There must be an instinct about when the end is near, as we all found ourselves gathered at my parents’ home in Orange County, California. I walked into the house they had lived in for 35 years and my weeping sister said, “He’s saying goodbye to everyone.”

 

A hospice nurse said to me, “This is when it all happens.” I didn’t know what she meant, but soon I did.

 

I walked into the bedroom where he lay, his mind alert but his body failing. He said, almost buoyantly, “I’m ready now.” I understood that his intensifying rage of the last few years had been against death and now his resistance was abating. I stood at the end of the bed and we looked into each other’s eyes for a long, unbroken time. At last he said, “You did everything I wanted to do.”

 

I said the truth: “I did it for you.”

 

Looking back, I’m sure that we both had different interpretations of what I meant.

 

I sat on the edge of the bed and another silence fell over us. Then he said, “I wish I could cry, I wish I could cry.”

 

At first, I took this as a comment on his condition but am forever thankful that I pushed on. “What do you want to cry about?” I finally said.

 

“For all the love I received and couldn’t return.”

 

He had kept this secret, his desire to love his family, from me and from my mother his whole life. It was as though an early misstep had kept us forever out of stride. Now, two days from his death, our pace was aligning and we were able to speak.

 

My father’s death has a thousand endings. I continue to absorb its messages and meanings. He stripped death of its spooky morbidity and made it tangible and passionate. He prepared me in some way for my own death. He showed me the responsibility of the living to the dying. But the most enduring thought was expressed by my sister, Melinda. She told me she had learned something from all this. I asked her what it was. She said, “Nobody should have to die alone.”

© 2012 The Reader's Digest Association, Inc.

Get Your S#%t Together

Are you one of those people who thinks that if they prepare to write their will that they are inviting tragedy to happen to them?

Guess what?  It doesn't work that way.

Chanel Reynolds

If you haven't taken care of executing your will, and/or sharing bank account numbers with your spouse or partner, then you should do it today.

Not to be an alarmist, but you really have no idea what is going to happen to you and you should be prepared.  Think of it as a gift that you are giving to the people that you love.  Life has a way of catching you off-guard and then, unfortunately, you find yourself with regrets.

I promise you, once you take care of figuring out who is charge of your health decisions and your property should you not be in a position to say, you will feel amazing!

First stop: a great web site called Get Your Shit Together (http://getyourshittogether.org/)  No shit.  That's really what the website is called.  It offers free downloads of lots of templates for wills, living wills and power of attorney.

Chanel Reynolds started the website a few years ago after her young and vigorous husband was hit by a car while bicycling.  He tragically died from the accident, leaving Reynolds with two children to raise.  She knew she and her husband had drafted wills for each other but the wills weren't signed and she had no idea how much money they had in their bank account.

I related to Reynolds story.  My husband was sick for about two and a half years before he died and I remember that awful feeling of being completely helpless when the doctors came to me one day when he was in the hospital and they asked me if I had power of attorney.  I told the doctors I didn't and they quickly replied, "You better get it today."

All at once the sheer mighty weight of our collective finances fell on my shoulders and I was not prepared to take them over either.  My husband had a will but it was out of date.  I didn't have a will and I didn't have power of attorney.  And our dear son was thirteen years old during this chaotic and emotional time.

Of course, now I do have a will and a living will and I feel a lot better knowing that copies of those essential documents sit in my attorney's file cabinet.

No matter what your situation, read Chanel's story and check out her helpful website which features a checklist of things that you may want to review to ensure that your property and your health are handled the way you want.

Here is the link to Chanel's story recently published in The New York Times:

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/12/your-money/estate-planning/shell-tell-you-its-time-to-think-ahead.html?_r=0&adxnnl=1&ref=your-money&pagewanted=1&adxnnlx=1359424907-eY6eXyTxpnJ6bVGav6sExw

Do Not Look Away

 

 

Courtesy of CNN.com

  

Holding a hand.  Giving a hug.  Opening your heart.

 

We must not be afraid to offer comfort and empathy.

 

I know it's hard to step outself of yourself and reach out to others in pain. To empathize requires introspection which is not a very popular exercise these days.  Introspection requires you to stop thinking about yourself and imagine what another person is feeling in a situation you would not want to happen to you or anyone else.

 

I know it is only a few days until Christmas, a time when Christians traditionally celebrate the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ, and people would prefer to surround themselves in the comfort of a commercial Christmas, a Christmas of unending presents and idyllic settings full of twinkling lights, freshly baked cookies and smiles and holiday joy.

 

But there is also another Christmas, equally as powerful: a Christmas belonging to those newly bereaved, a Christmas belonging to those whose child has died. 

Please pause this Christmas and think of these people who are desperate in their sorrow.  No matter what the reason, a shooting, a disease, an accident or a medical condition, these parents should not be ignored because they may make us feel uncomfortable.

 

To truly be filled with the spirit of Christmas, we must give of ourselves.  Though it truly is every parent's nightmare, please do not look away from those who are grieving the loss of a child.  Besides the deep pain they are experiencing, there is also an outrage that they are feeling; an outrage that they will never know what the child might have become.

 

They need our help.  They need to know they are not alone.

 

Please read the following Washington Post story written by a mother who writes of her raw feelings following the death of her child.  May it inspire all of us to be courageous in the face of grief:

 

Courtesy of CBS News

 

The death of a child: A parent’s worst nightmare

By Ann Hood, Published: The Washington Post, December 21

Ann Hood is a novelist and short-story writer living in Providence, R.I.

We are stunned. We are outraged. As a nation, we are questioning laws on gun control, questioning how such a thing can happen. These are all appropriate responses to the tragedy in Newtown, Conn.

 

But there is a repercussion to all this that will continue long after laws are changed and life, unbelievably, gets back to normal: the grief of the parents of the 20 children killed. How many times have I heard that this is a parent’s worst nightmare? As someone who has lived the nightmare of losing a child, I know that the enormous hole left behind remains forever.

My daughter, Grace, was not killed by a gun. She died suddenly at age 5 from a virulent form of strep. As I stood stunned in a church at her memorial, one of the hardest things I heard someone say was, “I’m going to go home and hug my child a little tighter.” Well, good for you, I thought. I’m going to go home and scream.

What can be said in light of such grief? What can you do? The problem is that no one can give the parents what they want most: their child. Long after the memorials fade and the casseroles stop coming, that child is still dead, and those parents are still grieving.

I offer here what I have learned about grief in the 10 years since my Gracie died:

I learned that platitudes don’t work. Time doesn’t heal. She is not in a better place. God does give us more than we can bear sometimes. I have learned that there is more power in a good strong hug than in a thousand meaningful words. I have learned that even in the face of loss, clothes still get dirty and bills still need to get paid. Friends who laundered our socks and answered our e-mails, who mowed our lawn and put gas in our cars, helped us — a lot. The friend who came one afternoon and went through Grace’s backpack, carefully storing her kindergarten workbook and papers, hanging her art on the refrigerator and her raincoat on its hook in the mudroom, had more courage than the ones who told me to call anytime.

Some friends sat with me day after day, week after week and, yes, month after month, and let me talk while they listened. I told the story of Grace’s last day over and over, as if by telling it I could make sense of what had happened to her, to us. But there is no sense to be made of such tragedy, and when I realized that, they let me wail and bang my fists and curse.

As time passes, people return to their ordinary lives, while grieving parents no longer have ordinary lives. They are redefining themselves, and they are at a loss at how to move forward. There is a woman who still sends me a card on Grace’s birthday and every Mother’s Day, who sent cards weekly for more than a year, a lifeline to a grieving mother. The people who even now, a decade later, still say Grace’s name, still comment on her quirky style and artistic talents and love of the Beatles, continue to help me through my days, simply by remembering her.

How easy it is to look away from grief, as if it might be contagious, or too frightening to face. But the Newtown parents have a difficult, lifelong journey through grief ahead of them. Somehow, the seasons will change, the anniversaries will stack up one after the other. They will, unbelievably, smile again. They will make dinner and change jobs and buy clothes and celebrate and travel. They will go on. But there will always, always, be this grief, softened and dulled but present every minute of every day.

Do not forget that. Look them in the eye. Take them in your arms, and do not let them go.

Widows Fighting For Their Homes

Protect Your Property

 

Every woman needs to read this New York Times story (see link below).

 

Whether you are 18 or 81-years-old, single, married or widowed, every woman needs to know the financial facts about owning her own home.  Don't think that someone is going to go out of their way to explain it to you.  Find out about home ownership for yourself in order to protect yourself and the biggest investment of your life -- your home.

 

When my husband died, both of our names were on the mortgage.  I was lucky but I could easily have been one of these women in the New York Times story.  My husband had been ill and in and out of hospitals for about two and a half years before he died.  I remember a particularly poignant memory when my husband ended up in the emergency room and the doctors thought he was going to die that day.  One of the doctors asked me in a tone I will never forget if I had power of attorney.  I didn't.  I had never thought about it.

 

Really.

But I quickly got a lawyer to give it to me.

 

It was from that day forward that I saw I needed to be proactive about our property and finances.  I was working full-time and made sure from that time forward that I could pay the mortgage.  I felt very alone in that time and particularly vulnerable because I felt the financial weight as well as the responsibility for my husband and young son.

I knew I could pay the mortgage but that also was a lot of stress to handle.  Sadly, I know a few women who had to sell their houses after their husbands' deaths and it is not a pretty process.

 

It's already hard enough when you have to deal with the emotional minefield of grieving but to then find yourself in the throes of fighting to keep a roof over your head is just incomprehensible.  I remember the surreal and out-of-body feeling of planning my husband's funeral, trying to take care of our child and having no enthusiasm or energy to do any of it.  I can't imagine to then be expected to put all that turmoil aside and then focus on proving that the house I have been living in is legally mine.

 

I'm not sure why two people would buy a house and list only one person's name on the morgage but apparently this happens all the time and now we are finding out that the so-called gap in paperwork is creating a crisis for widowed women who are in their fifties and older.

 

If you have a mortgage, please make sure you are listed on it with your husband or partner.  Unfortunately, mortgage companies take a "business is business" attitude and don't let feelings of compassion or sympathy enter into their decisions about home foreclosures.

 

Here is the compelling New York Times story:

 

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/02/business/widows-pushed-into-foreclosure-by-mortgage-fine-print.html?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=edit_th_20121202&_r=0

Finding Support

 

Re-reading my first Cry, Laugh Heal post from 2010 for Monday's edition brought all the crazy grieving feelings back to me: exhaustion, numbness, raw emotions, the scary future and sometimes even laughter!

But it also reminded how great my support group was during that time and how it gave me hope and helped me feel that life really would get better even though my husband died.  As I met with my small group twice a month, some sessions were upsetting and some were comforting but eventually I felt less alone and stronger about myself and my murky future.

There's a very good reason why they are called support groups: they are set-up to give that extra boost of support needed to help you handle a life crisis and the people in the group have been in your situation.

 

The philosophy of most support groups is this: we have been there, we know how you feel, and you can lean on us until you feel stronger.  Whether it's grief, alcoholism, drug abuse or any other condition where people reach out for help, those who have experienced it are part of the group and lend a helping hand by giving back to those trying to figure out how to deal with their crisis and the more experienced people pass along how life can be lived in a different way.

 

For me, that was the secret weapon of my support group.  The leaders of my group had lost spouses, raised children, and rebuilt their lives.  I had no idea how they had done it but I was there hanging on to every word, reading every bit of material and drawing all of the strength that I could from them because I told myself that if they could do it then so could I.

 

We were bound by our common loss and our discussions, which usually lasted for about two hours, were supportive and healing.  People in my group were newly widowed and had the opportunity to talk about all the issues surrounding their spouse's death, things that they didn't feel comfortable discussing with even their family or friends.  The getting it out, the expression of emotion truly was a huge help.

 

I remember at my first meeting I was nervous because I didn't know what to expect.  We went around the table and introduced ourselves and I thought I would be fine until it came to telling why we were there.  I started to cry and couldn't stop.  But it was okay.  Everyone was quiet and waited for me.  I finally got through my story and when I was finished there was such understanding.  It was so reassuring to me!!!!

 

I could only belong to my support group for two years and while this support group worked me, joining a support group may not be for everyone.  Many people prefer the privacy of one-on-one talks and that is wonderful too.  I tried one-on-one chats for a few months until I was ready to join my support group.  A wonderful and compassionate woman from the support group would regularly call me on the phone and we would talk for about an hour.  I can't tell you how helpful it was to have that support!  Having someone listen and then having her tell me what she did after her husband died was such a gift.  To this day, I treasure those conversations.

 

You are not alone and you don't need to bear your loss all by yourself.  I found my support group at the local hospital but you could also ask your family doctor or a trusted friend.

 

Please don't be afraid to take the first step.  There are lots of helping hands waiting for you!

Why Did I Come Into This Room?

       This morning I got in the car and put the key in the ignition when my mind started wandering back to the house, to the kitchen in particular, and I wondered, "Did I unplug the tea kettle?"

It is embarrassing to admit but when I am leaving the house, there are many, many times when I cannot remember whether I turned something off.  I generally have a mental list of the same things that I need to do every day so why does this happen?

I really try to prevent going through the house over and over to recheck myself, but still the "forgetting" happens.

My friends and I make jokes about our so-called short attention span in the house.  It sounds ridiculous but I can start doing something in one room and then find something that takes me to another room and I suddenly remember I need to start the laundry which takes me to another room.  On top of that, I can't tell you how many times I find myself in a room and I think to myself (or even say out loud): "Why did I come into this room?"  It's so inefficient!

 Once I was driving to Mass and we were late.  I was a couple of blocks from church when I realized I had left the dryer running!  Of course, I had to drive back and turn it off, but what really made it bad was the silence from my husband and son. Not. One. Word.  To me, that's worse than listening to the complaining about my mistake.

 For those of you who find yourselves in a new life situation because of a death or a divorce, you may be in throes of trying to find interesting and efficient ways of dealing with closing up the house by yourself on a daily basis. 

Just as we share our thoughts and emotions concerning bereavement, we may also be able to help each other adjust to being solely responsible for the house, the car, the shopping and other things by sharing tried and true “survival tips.”

              A friend of mine has started us off in the right direction by thinking of the wonderful idea of the following two “survival tips” – things that helped her when she was newly bereaved:  

1.      Make a list of things that need to be done before leaving the house and check them off as you get close to the front door:

-- Did I lock the doors?

-- Are all appliances turned off?

-- Did I turn on or off the lights?

-- Do I have my keys?

-- Glasses?

-- Wallet?

-- Medications?

2.      As you finish taking a pill, turn the bottle or pill container upside down after taking the medication to signal to yourself that you’ve taken the medication for the day.

I would love to hear from others who also have tried and true "survivor tips" that work for them.  

Please share!  We're all in this together.  Many thanks!! 

Vice President Joe Biden's Grief Journey

Vice President Joe Biden and his wife, Jill, at an event organized by
Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors (TAPS)

Vice President Joe Biden emotionally extended a helping hand to military families last Friday by sharing how he endured the death of his wife and daughter and revealed that at that time his grief  took him to a place where he understood for the first time how people can consider suicide to be a viable option.

Whether you agree with Biden's politics or not, his remarks were striking and intimate.  Grief and how it feels is not a subject you expect a vice president to speak about publicly.  The death of someone close can be a life-changing experience and when public figures discuss their experiences with grief, it is always a positive thing.  It helps others to know they are not alone in their thoughts and actions and creates a public dialogue about grieving and its emotional journey.

Speaking before an audience of military families who had lost loved ones in combat, Biden talked about the telephone call he received in 1972 informing him that his wife, Neilia, and daughter, Naomi,  had died in a car accident and that his two sons, Hunter and Beau, were also severly injured in the accident with a tractor-trailer. 

With cameras rolling and a full pool of reporters, Biden said, "And just like you guys know by the tone of a phone call -- you just knew, didn't you?  You knew when they walked up the path.  You knew when the call came.  You knew.  You just felt it in your bones something bad had happened.  And I knew.  I don't know how I knew.  But the call said my wife was dead, my daughter was dead, and I wasn't sure how my sons were going to make it."

"For the first time in my life, I understood how someone could consciously decide to commit suicide," Biden intimately recalled.  He explained how it felt to be in depth of despair but also told the families that this feeling is not permanent.

Grief is a natural process, a natural fundemental emotion and it is a process.  People grieve because they are deprived of a loved one and their sense of loss is profound.  But Biden also told them how he found hope and that in their time of bereavement there is still hope for each family even though it may not feel like that today.

"I'm telling you it will come," Biden said.

Here is a link to the short CNN video and story about Biden's remarks:

http://content.usatoday.com/communities/theoval/post/2012/05/biden-speaks-about-death-of-wife-daughter/1?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=twitter&dlvrit=206567

The Anger of Losing Someone

Anger is a normal part of grieving.  It is.  When a loved one dies, many people feel angry first rather than sadness because they feel they are being left behind and also feel very helpless. 

Everyone says that life must go and it does but what do you do with the anger you feel?   Many people try to push the anger down and ignore it because the intensity of it scares them.  That's not going to work because eventually the anger will pop up at another time in a situation that has nothing to do with the person's death.  Intellectually you know that your loved one did not have control over the situation but that doesn't stop you from feeling something different in your heart.

Go ahead and feel the anger but you must not hurt yourself or someone else.  You have to find a way to let it out in a constructive manner.  Whether that means that you yell into a pillow, break dishes or rip clothes, feel it and express it.  Otherwise it's going to stay inside you and build up.  You may need to find a support group or go to a grief counselor to address it and work your way through it.

I found this very good first-person piece on anger and loss published recently by Hello Grief (www.hellogrief.org) and thought I would share it:

Loss and Anger
By Victoria Noe

Posted By Hello Grief on January 10, 2012

Anger can be unattractive, there’s no question about it. It’s messy and unpredictable, sometimes loud and violent. And in a world where we like things to make sense, it’s often unacceptable. But never more than when you’re grieving. There’s a long list of people we can be angry with:

The person who died: why didn’t they take better care of themselves? Why did they take such a stupid chance? What were they thinking?

The medical community: why didn’t the doctor force them to take better care of their health? Why didn’t the paramedics get there sooner? Why hasn’t someone discovered a cure for cancer, etc.?

God: why did you make a good person suffer? Why did you leave those children without a parent?
Why them? Why now? Why not someone else? Why not me?

The family: why didn’t they make him go to the doctor? Why did they let her live alone?
Why?

Why?

Why?

Death is, after all, the great unknown. Despite stories of white lights and visions of deceased relatives, no one’s come back from any extended time in the afterlife. We don’t know what awaits us.

And we REALLY don’t know why people die when they do. We say “it was just their time,” and obviously, it was. As a friend, that sense of helplessness can create even deeper anger.

Many times when I’ve grieved I’ve been angry, although I rarely shared those feelings. Despite being one of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ famous stages of grief, it’s probably the least acknowledged.

Anger can be useful, but when turned inward, is more likely referred to as depression. That’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about white-hot, body-shaking, screaming-at-the-top-of-your-lungs anger.

You’ve already realized that the grief you feel for your friend is being devalued because you’re not family. And that can add to the anger you already feel.

Even those who are also grieving are unlikely to accept your anger. Think of Sally Field melting down in the cemetery in Steel Magnolias, and the shock on her friends’ faces. The minister in The Big Chill – “I’m angry, and I don’t know what to do with my anger” – is much calmer about it, but the look in his eyes is anything but.

The problem with suppressing the absolutely justified anger we feel when a friend dies is that it will bubble up eventually. It will present itself suddenly and loudly and often in a completely unrelated situation. And that presents its own complications. Screaming at a barista who doesn’t know you won’t bring back your friend.

So, if you’re angry that cancer treatments and cures came too late for your friend…

If you’re angry that your friend’s family dismissed her threats of suicide…

If you’re angry that your friend drove drunk…

If you’re angry that an evil person chose your friend at random to kill…

Embrace that anger: accept it and embrace it. You’re angry because of the pain that your friend’s death has caused. That’s, dare I say it, normal. Frankly, it would be strange if you weren’t angry. You’re angry because you loved them and wanted them to stay close to you always. Selfish maybe, but normal and human.

So, as long as you don’t hurt yourself or anyone else, you have my permission to be angry. Then you can work on channeling your anger into positive action, to keep your friend’s memory alive every day of your life.

Guest author Victoria Noe created FriendGrief ^[2] to discuss the idea that there are profound differences in grieving the death of a friend, as opposed to a family member. While she writes on the loss of friends, her ideas can often apply to any individual who has suffered any type of loss.

Stop All The Clocks. . .

Someone you love has died. 

 

Everything around you, people, conversations, situations, the Earth, even life itself, feels like it has suddenly stopped. 

 

To me, this moment is very similiar to being in a car accident.  After the screeching brakes, the moment of impact, the shattering glass and the crush of metal hitting metal, there is an eery silence; a tingling in your ears. 

Your eyes see but what you see doesn't look real; your ears hear but what is being said doesn't make sense and you can't seem to get your breath and breathe.  Nothing is computing and your brain is shutting down because you can't seem to process what is happening.  You might even feel that you have separated from yourself and are outside of your body watching yourself from afar.

You immediately want to go backwards.  Take me back to an hour ago, take me back a half hour ago, take me back 5 minutes, take me back 1 minute.  I don't care how far you take me back, I don't want to be in the present time.  I remember looking out the window of my house the day after my husband died and I was really surprised to see people walking around and cars traveling up and down the street as if nothing had changed.  Everything outside appeared normal even though it wasn't for me.

That is why the W.H. Auden poem resonates with so many people..."Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone..."  It might be tempting to follow your gut feeling while you are in the midst of new grief but I found myself most comforted when I reached out to people I trusted with my vulnerability.