Roger Rosenblatt's Reflections

 

Some wonderful friends on the West Coast gave me Roger Rosenblatt's book, Kayak Morning, as a Christmas present.  I was familiar with Rosenblatt as a writer for Time magazine and also as a columnist for The Washington Post, but was unfamiliar with the tragic death of his daughter, Amy Solomon,  a 38-year-old wife and mother of three children, from a heart condition.

 

In Kayak Morning, which was written two years after Amy's death, Rosenblatt explores the human experience of loss.  His descriptions of his grief and his reflections about his daughter Amy's death are calm and straightforward yet poignant.

It is while Rosenblatt is kayaking in a creek not far from his home in Quogue, New York that he finds the solitude he needs to sort through his scattered thoughts about his grief and work through his deep sorrow to try and make sense out of what has happened to him and his wife, Ginny.  Rosenblatt recounts conversations that occured during this particular summer of kayaking and in an unusually striking discussion, he presents the idea that grief is a gift:


"You have to understand," she said. "Grief lasts forever."

"Like death," I said.

"Like death. Except death is someone else's condition, and grief is all yours."

"I feel worse now than I did shortly after she died."

"And you'll feel worse next year.  And worse the year after that, unless you find a way to transform your grief."

"We're back to that."

"We've never left it," she said. "Grief comes to you all at once, so you think it will be over all at once. But it is your guest for a lifetime."

"How should I treat this guest? This unwelcome, uninvited guest."

"Think of the one who sent it to you," she said.

I thought I had become familiar with most of the different ways that grief can be felt and presented to a person who has lost a loved one until I read the above excerpt.

It took me aback; the first time I read it, I thought to myself, "Grief is definitely not a present to be opened and cherished." But the more that I thought about the profound idea of it, the more I began to understand Rosenblatt's surprising point about grief being something personal given to you by the person you loved and lost. 

For it is in our grief, that we struggle to still keep our loved one alive.

 

Through writing down memories and sharing stories about the spouse, child, parent, friend or relative you loved and lost, you are  remembering your loved one, and as painful as your loss is in the beginning, grief, through the passing of time, does become more manageable.

 

Bringing your loved one back into your life through stories becomes a gift of sorts through the laughter, smiles and even tears that the person's life brings to others.

 

Writing Through Your Emotions

To me, processing or working through difficult emotions such as grief, anger, frustration and confusion, is in a sense, breaking down the walls of why I feel a certain way.  Once I think I have figured out a pretty good reason why I think this is happening, I try to either get rid of as much of the feeling as I can or I try to readjust or "rebuild" my way of looking at the situation.

 

During the "figuring out" stage (which can be hours or months), my mind is usually a jumble of thoughts and emotions.  I may be feeling powerless in a situation that keeps repeating itself or getting worse.  Sometimes I grab a pad of paper and start writing down what's in my head -- even if it doesn't make any sense.

Writing can be an effective way of sorting through a problem or trying to find a new way to deal with life after the loss of a loved one.  Just seeing the partial thoughts or beginnings of ideas on paper has helped me get through whatever is going on.   In the beginning, you may only be able to think of a phrase or a few unrelated words but the act of writing it on paper feels positive.  It's also a safe and confidential way of dealing with your emotions because it's only on a piece of paper that you can later rip up.

 

Psychological studies have found that writing about stressful, traumatic or emotional events, like caring for a dying person or grieving their loss, helps people recover faster, both psychologically and physically.

 

Jotting down thoughts, almost in stream of consciousness style, helps me move forward because it's a lot like doodling.

 

In the beginning, your pen is just moving around and doesn't seem to be following any pattern.  Then, after awhile when you're just fooling around, a design or complete thoughts start to form.  In this case, if you allow your mind to wander and you keep trying to work through the conflicting emotions eventually things start to click and a kind of healing may start.

 

Of course it's hard to put your sorrow or your loneliness into words.  But that doesn't mean you shouldn't try.  Perhaps you can pretend you are talking to a friend or even talking to the person you lost as you search for the words that make sense.  Describe what you are feeling.  Write it down and think about what it really means to you in relation to your changed life; your life without your loved one.

 

Writing may help you feel more connected and supported and less like you are outside of yourself.

 

Writing is a resource that's available to you any time you need it.

 

 

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.

Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah"



Cast of NBC's "The Voice"
singing a tribute to victims in Newtown, CT

A good friend who tragically lost a loved one in the Newtown, CT mass shooting yesterday posted on her Facebook page this beautiful and haunting video of the coaches and artists from NBC's hit show, The Voice, singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" in a tribute to the 20 children and six adults who died in the halls of Sandy Hook Elementary School.

I think it is the simplicity of the song's message that makes it so powerful.  Let the healing powers of the music fill your soul and wash over you and may it offer you a few moments of relief from any pain you may be feeling today.

I am so sorry for your loss Annie.  Thank you for sharing in your time of sorrow.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IO64urOFNaY

#beerbottles

I'm at the cemetary picking up the weatherbeaten Christmas wreath I placed on my husband's marker weeks ago and I spy four empty Heinekein bottles lying in a puddle of water on a nearby marker.

My, my...What do we have here?

I'd like to think it was someone's birthday and four friends or relatives came to celebrate, sing and raise one for their family member or friend.

Or maybe one person came and had a good time drinking four beers while talking and singing to their loved one.

Either way the empty beer bottles don't bother me at all.  At another location, people would regard the Heinekein bottles as trash and would be annoyed to find them laying the grass as litter.  Not me.  Other than creating work for the people who work at the cemetary, I like that people have been here, drinking beer, visiting someone they miss a lot and continuing with their rituals.

It is possible that a person or people were here drinking beer because they missed this person so much that they wanted to numb their sorrow.  I totally get why you would want to do that.  It is soooo tempting yet so short sighted.  I remember the day of my husband's funeral.  All I really wanted to do was drink martinis all day until I couldn't feel anything.  But numbing yourself won't get you anywhere.  It doesn't help you heal or work to get you in a good place in the long run.  When you come out of your haze, nothing's changed.  The person is still gone and the pain is still there, waiting for you to work it out.

Whether we like it or not, loss is a part of life and grief is a totally natural response to loss.  When people loose someone they love very much, they don't know what to do when their special days come along.  Some decide they will be closest to the person at the cemetary so they go to the cemetary to be close with the person, to hang out and mark a day that was special to them when they were alive.

There is no truth to the saying, "Out of sight. Out of mind."  The physical absence of someone doesn't mean  you stop thinking about that person when they die or that your need to feel close to them at particular times of the year also stops when they die.  I know someone who still bakes a cake on her father's birthday even though he died years ago and we still hang my husband's Christmas stocking on the  fireplace right beside the others.

We all have our rituals to ease the pain and they are precious.