The Notebook

I never know when I am going to read or hear something that I might want to use in writing a future blog post so I try to always carry a small notebook with me.  On the times that I have forgotten my notebook, I have written notes on the back of envelopes, cocktail napkins and business cards which then creates this messy pile of stray notes.

For now, the small spiral notebook I am using is almost full and it caused me recently to flip through the worn pages to check and see if I had missed anything that might be helpful to myself and others who are trying to rebuild their lives after a loss or strengthen their resilience when facing life's unexpected trials.

 

 

And then there it was.  Handwritten notes from a sweet conversation I had this past summer on the beach with a young woman in her twenties.  She had lost her grandfather and an uncle within a few months of each other.  We had just met and were casually talking about ourselves.  I told her about Cry, Laugh, Heal and surprisingly she then began telling me about her experiences with loss.

 

I write about this conversation today after so many months because I was struck by the common thread in her thoughts and the fact that if I closed my eyes and forgot about her age she could have been a member of my support group made up of people much older than herself.  She was voicing many of the same feelings older people have expressed after losing a loved one:  the need to talk, the shock and confusion and the contradictions brought by the pain of loss.

"People know you are going through an awful time of it and yet they talk to you as though nothing has happened," she said remarking on what it was like to go back to school after attending the funerals.  "I think people react this way because it's far too messy for them and they also think they're upsetting you.  And they definitely don't think about how you might want to cry and release your feelings."

She continued talking quietly about this experience and said after a period of time following the losses she knew she needed to be part of a  trusted discussion addressing grief issues.  The loss of her uncle and her grandfather made her realize that she needed to join a support group and she was so glad that she did.  She wasn't sure what she would find or what it would be like, but she came away surprised and also curious about the amazing dynamic that had occurred in her group.

"Isn't it weird how you can find yourself in a support group, among people who you have never met before, people who are strangers, and you start speaking honestly from your heart about how you really feel and what you are really thinking about.  I found that I was saying things to strangers that I couldn't tell my loved ones, the people who have known me for most of my life.  And for some reason the other people in my group felt that way too.  And it worked.  I felt I was with new friends."

Our discussion about life and loss was not for long; I would say at the most it was about 10 to 15 minutes.  But within that short window of time while we talked, I felt her willingness to expose her vulnerability on the contradictions of these grizzly subjects of loss and resilience was amazing.

 

Here's why:  in her young soul she had dug deep and found strength in a truth that sometimes takes many of us (myself included) a life time to discover.  That truth? 

 

Her words say it best: "Sometimes beauty comes out of pain.  I found that something good can come out of something tragic and that's hard for people to understand.  I think people are afraid to say something good came out of someone's death because we are afraid it would be seen as though we were glad that it happened when of course that is not the truth at all.  No one, no one wants anyone to feel that pain but it's surprising to discover that a light can come out of darkness."

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.

Time To Reveal

Three things cannot be long hidden:

 the sun,

 the moon

 and the truth.  -- Buddha