South Korea Ferry Disaster

When the unimaginable happens, it is common to ask "Why?" "What if?" "What next?"

Watching the media repeatedly air stories about incredible disasters and accidents, it is understandable that after about a week of constant exposure to the never ending details of these stories that people begin to feel detached and almost numb to the tragedies that have occurred.

 

I'm not saying that the depth of the tragedy isn't felt by others because it is and many immediately respond with aid and help.  I think it's more that the disasters are overwhelming, just too much to take in or process. Two recent tragedies, the sinking of a South Korean ferry killing over a hundred people and the missing Malaysian Airlines flight which disappeared about a month ago over possibly the Indian Ocean while carrying 239 passengers and crew members, are the kind of disasters which instantly spring to mind as incidents that can cause media burnout. 

 

But when the media moves the focus of the story from the bigger explanation of how the accident happened to the more intimate personal story of those victimized by these accidents, the fragility of life and our connections to each other immediately comes to the fore.

Our common bond of vulnerability is exposed.

 

Yesterday the Wall Street Journal ran a touching story about a South Korean husband, Choi in-soo, and his painful efforts to try and understand the raw reality of losing his wife, Choi Soon-bok, in last week's ferry accident.  This is the kind of story that hits me.  When the person is still in shock and at the same time is trying to describe how it feels to discover that a loved one has died and they will never see that person again.

We all hold on to the last precious moments.  The last picture. The last text message.  The last voice message. The last email.

"I'm sorry I'm traveling without you," Mrs. Choi told her husband by phone when the ferry departed on Tuesday evening.  "That was the last I heard from her," Mr. Choi said. 

 

Here is the link to the Wall Street Journal story:  on.wsj.com/1mBI1gn  

Choi in-soo shows a photo of
his wife, Choi Soo-bok, on his smartphone.
Kwanwoo Jun/The Wall Street Journal

50 Years Ago In Dallas

On November 22, 1963, I was 9 years old and off from school that day because I felt sick.

 

I was under the covers of my parents bed and watching the black and white television they had in their bedroom.  For some reason my Dad was home that day and he come upstairs to see how I was when the television programming stopped and the unbelievable and shocking news was announced that President John F. Kennedy has been shot in Dallas and died.

 

I had never seen my father cry before and I didn't know what to do.  He went over to the window and raised his left arm up against the wall and pressed his head into the crook of his elbow and starting crying.  I silently watched his shoulders shake for a few minutes.  I pulled the sheets up to my face and started to cry too because I knew, even though I was only nine years old, that what was happening was bad, really, really bad.  Bad in a way that I knew was different from anything else I had ever known.  Eventually, my father turned around, wiped his face with his hands and stared at the television as the awful news continued to be announced over the airwaves.

President John F. Kennedy & First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy ride
in the Dallas motorcade moments before shots were fired.
Photo Courtesy of Reuters/STR

 

I don't think anyone turned the television off for days.  Our whole lives revolved around what was being broadcast and no one moved from where there was a television from the moment the news broke of the assassination to the burial at Arlington National Cemetery and even for days after.

The loss was, and still is, profound.  People were in shock and deeply grieving for the young and charismatic president and felt the immediate need to reach out to offer support to First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy and her two children, Caroline and John.  This was a president who spent a lot of time on television and Americans felt that they were a part of the Kennedy family's life.  At least our family did.

There were no computers in those days so people sat down and expressed their feelings of grief and sympathy the old fashioned way:  they wrote heartfelt handwritten letters. 

The White House said in the weeks following President John F. Kennedy's death that it received more than 800,000 condolence letters, 45,000  of which were received on the Monday following the assassination.

People seemed to instinctively know that one of the most important things you can do for a bereaved person is to acknowledge their loss.  Don't ever be afraid to acknowledge another person's loss.  When in doubt of what to do, it's best to push aside your own anxieties and please keep it simple.

In this tragic instance, it was a loss for the whole nation, as our President was killed right before our eyes.  And while Kennedy was our President, he was also a husband and father and uncle and brother and it is those other human roles that Kennedy filled that also were acknowledged in the days following his death.

And so we take a moment today to remember.

In the words of Monica Lehner-Kahn, "Condolence is the art of giving courage."

 

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?

Newtown: A Priest's Tears

Monsignor Robert Weiss

I always think of priests as people who have heard and seen it all.

After years of listening to thousands of people confess their sins (large and small), and executing innumerable weddings, funerals and baptisms, I can't imagine that priests are surprised by anything anybody does.  I'm sure their deep faith gives them hope and optimism about human behavior but there probably isn't anything new under the sun for them.

Until I read about Monsignor Robert Weiss.

Weiss is a priest at St. Rose of Lima parish in Newtown, CT and he horribly lost more than 10 parishioners in the tragic and shocking shooting of December 14 at the Sandy Hook Elementary School.  Weiss personally knew many of the children who died at the school for he had baptized them and he compassionately stayed at the scene to continue to counsel and absorb the anxiety, regrets and raw grief of the schoolchildren's parents.

Weiss was interviewed on television about the shooting.  I watched him try to describe what the people of the town were feeling and during the interview he started to cry.

I silently thanked him for crying on television, for showing his vulnerability and his strength.  It is not a sign of weakness to cry.  It is letting your grief run free and in that freedom is where you can sometimes find the strength to go forward and to also find a sense of healing.

After my husband died, I cried a lot.   My son had a hard time watching this happen and always asked me to please stop.  But I really couldn't.  Sometimes it was in public and sometimes it was privately.  But my tears were my way of  releasing my grief and I always felt better afterwards.

Grief that is held inside only keeps hurting.

People are afraid to talk to others who are grieving because they think that by mentioning the deceased person's name they will upset them and they will cry.  So what if they cry?  Take their hand and hold it.  Put your arms around them and hug them.  Quietly tell them they are not alone.

Monsignor Robert Weiss has shown us how to handle unspeakable acts of horror and deep grief.  Here is The Washington Post story about his beautiful acts of human kindness: 

 

 

Monsignor Robert Weiss

St. Rose priest mourns with his flock after witnessing his parishioners’ grief

By Anne Hull, Published The Washington Post: December 16

 

NEWTOWN, CONN. — As if it were any normal day, Monsignor Robert Weiss had his usual breakfast at the Sandy Hook Diner — a short stack of French toast and two strips of bacon. Waitresses call it the “Monsignor Special.”

Within hours of that hometown breakfast Friday, Weiss found himself in a room at a firehouse, with parents on folding chairs, in what would become one of the worst days in American history.

The 66-year-old priest is known as Father Bob to the 3,500 families who belong to St. Rose of Lima Catholic Church. On Sunday, what Father Bob craved — after long hours of counseling and grieving and not enough sleep — was a good Scotch and a place to let go. Half of the 20 children killed at Sandy Hook Elementary were members of Weiss’s congregation, and he had baptized many of them.

After the 10:30 a.m. Mass on Sunday, in a rectory full of law enforcement officers and priests, Weiss wept.

Nothing at seminary had trained him for this week. Nothing about his 13 years at St. Rose. Nothing about his understanding of the world.

“I thought about Paul,” said Weiss, his black clergy shirt unbuttoned and his white collar in his shirt pocket like a pen. “Paul said, ‘In my weakness I find my greatest strength.’ ”

On Friday morning, Weiss was working in his office when he received a call from authorities to lock down the school at St. Rose. There had been a school shooting. Weiss left the rectory and walked 100 yards to the church, where students were gathered for regular Friday morning Mass. Weiss interrupted the priest who was officiating and told him to stop and keep the students inside the church.

When Weiss heard that the shooting had occurred at Sandy Hook, less than a mile away, he grabbed two other priests from St. Rose, and they rode in Weiss’s BMW to the school. Three priests in clergy collars were a welcome sight.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” said the police officer who flagged them through the secured perimeter.

When Weiss pulled up, he saw teachers organizing students into lines in the parking lot. The ­second-grade teacher held up a sign that said two, and the third-grade teacher held up a sign that said three. And the students — who had been told to close their eyes while they evacuated the building to avoid seeing the carnage as they rushed past — obediently began forming lines.

Not every child was there. Some had run into the woods when they heard the shots. A few had run home. And some were inside the school.

Frantic parents were arriving. Children burst from their lines upon seeing their mother or father, while parents ran toward the lines.

Reunion after reunion whittled the lines down, leaving only parents, empty-handed and desperate. They were taken to the nearby firehouse where the Sandy Hook Volunteer Fire and Rescue Company operated.

Weiss walked over, too. He knew half the parents from St. Rose. He had officiated at their weddings and the baptisms of their children, some of whom were now unaccounted for.

Inside the firehouse, parents texted relatives, called babysitters to stay late and called around to likely places where their missing children might have gone.

That room, too, was whittled down.

“If your child’s name was not called, please go into this room,” an official said, directing the remaining parents into an adjoining room.

Investigators asked each parent for a photo of his or her child. Wallets and purses came out. No shortage of photos. Next came the questions. What color is your son’s hair? What did she wear to school that morning?

They all had a child in the first grade. They were hoping and praying that a classroom had not yet been evacuated, or that their child had been taken to the hospital. Couples debated which one should leave to check the hospitals.

In the room of folding chairs, time passed. Weiss felt the tension rising in equal measure to the sense of dread. Parents started coming to him with regrets.

A mother said she shouldn’t have taken her daughter’s DVD player away. “She wasn’t a bad child,” the mother told Weiss. Another mother who came to Weiss said it was her fault she sent her daughter to school that morning. She blamed herself, telling the priest she wasn’t fit to raise her other children.

About 3 p.m., Connecticut Gov. Dan Malloy came into the room. The gruesome announcement was his to make: 27 people inside the school had been killed, and 20 were children. All would be taken to the medical examiner’s office.

With the news came the most raw display of human grief that Weiss had ever seen or imagined — wailing, weeping, screaming, people sinking to the floor.

Some parents wanted to go inside the school and see their children. They insisted or begged. They wanted to go inside the school. The answer was no. The school was a crime scene and couldn’t be disrupted. The parents did not yet know an assault rifle had been used to kill the children.

The room began to clear out. At 3:20, a mother’s cellphone rang with the reminder to take her son to Cub Scouts.

That night, Weiss was called to the police station and was assigned to call at the homes of two victims, along with a state trooper and a grief counselor.

He knocked on one door at midnight — that of a husband whose wife had been killed in the shooting — and the next door at 1:30 a.m.

Weiss knew both families well. They belonged to his church.

In all those hours of counseling and comforting, no one asked the priest, “Why?” The question came later, starting on Sunday, and Weiss did not have an answer.

 

© The Washington Post Company

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.

Liam Neeson

I am always on the look-out for stories where people open up and reveal how they handle their feelings of grief.  As you know, the subject of grief is not considered to be a mainstream topic of conversation because it is such an emotional minefield.  To do so means revealing deep pain and vulnerability; which is hard for anyone to do; but especially hard if you are a celebrity or a public official.

It can be almost impossible to get men to talk about how they feel about most things -- unless it's a sports team or a political party -- so it was a wonderful surprise this week when actor Liam Neeson was in the news because he talked to Esquire magazine about the death of his wife actress Natasha Richardson in 2009 at the age of 45.  Neeson deserves a lot of credit for talking candidly to a men's magazine about how he survived her death that was caused by a skiing accident in Canada.  Just by the fact that it took him almost two years to talk about this tragic event shows how hard it can be to adjust to the death of a loved one along with the added responsibility of becoming the sole parent of two young sons.

Neeson's comments go a long way in showing that slowly you can begin to heal and that while he is trying to get on with his life he recognizes the benefits of talking about what he and he sons dealt with after Natasha Richardson's death.  He told Esquire magazine that initially you think that you know what grieving will be, but then it turns out to be something entirely different.  Doesn't that sound familiar?

In case you missed it, here are a few excerpts from Neeson's Esquire  magazine interview:

-- "It's easy enough to plan jobs, to plan a lot of works.  That's effective.  But that's the weird thing about grief.  You can't prepare for it.  You think you're gonna cry and get it over with.  You make those plans, but they never work."

--  "I think I survived by running away some.  Running away to work."

--"It hits you in the middle of the night -- well, it hits me in the middle of the night.  I'm out walking.  I'm feeling quite content, and it's like suddenly, boom.  It's like you've just done that in your chest."