Let empathy inspire you

For the last several weeks, I have been feeling lost here on the Journey to Dissertation Land. You may have noticed my absence or, more specifically, my silence. I suppose part of the reason is that I have not known what I want to say.

Better to say nothing than to go on and on saying things that just don’t mean anything.

I also have been lost in the details. There have been many events of “loss” and “grief” lately, and my studies of the topic have continued to jettison me into that dark and familiar place that, frankly, can be a bit much to handle sometimes, so I choose to step away.

I’ve been wrestling with anticipatory grief because the holiday season usually triggers some of these feelings for me as I celebrate life with those that are still here, with the underlying understanding that at some point, the family dynamics inevitably will change again one day. 

It’s all about living in the now, appreciating the people who mean so much, and letting them know it while we can. 

Today, I am motivated to at least resume this conversation, since there have been some people who have been kind enough to continue sending me their thoughts, and I have been encouraged by the fact that my observations on grief, loss, current (and tragic) news events are reaching an audience that I did not realize was paying attention. 

So I’ll keep this post brief today because I really don’t know what direction I am exploring at the moment. As I mentioned, anticipatory grief has been slapping me around, but residual grief is making an appearance. Perhaps this is the idea I should expand on for a moment, since it is foremost in my mind today.

Let me say that I don’t even know if “residual grief” is an official term, but I’m guessing it is. What I mean by residual grief is that lingering sadness you feel after sharing in someone’s grief. 

You attend a wake or a funeral, extending your heart to someone who is in the early stage of dealing with the loss of a loved one. You stand on line, perhaps for hours, perhaps even in the frigid weather, because there are so many mourners, the line to the funeral home extends out the door. You want to be there for these people. This is what you need to do.

You exchange polite “hello’s” with old schoolmates or neighbors from years past who have joined you on line, looking to bring comfort to the family of the deceased.

You soak in the family’s pain: viewing their family photos arranged about the funeral home, reading (maybe discreetly, so as not to appear too interested) the small note cards on the floral arrangements sent by caring friends and family. 

Eventually, you reach the front of the line where the immediate family stands, shaken, shattered, a piece of their heart torn away. Most of us will admit that we are “not good at these things,” but we manage words to express our sympathy and offer support.

We get through it, and presumably, it helps those who are grieving. In some way, it must help us as well, for we find the strength to put ourselves through the ritual even though it can be uncomfortable to show our own humanness. 

After the wake my husband and I attended the other night, I asked him, “Why does it affect me this way?” The family we reached out to is not one that I would say is “in our close circle” but is a family we care about, respect, and love, for many reasons. We share a history that is connected to our schooling, sports activities, community life. 

That’s the obvious layer. The deeper layers are individual -- you can insert your own suggestion here, but the truth is, we understand their grief because we understand what it means to love and lose someone. 

In some small way, we feel their pain. Again, my smart husband had to remind me of the word. “That’s empathy,” he said. 

I think back over the last several months about the people I know who have suffered a death in their family this year. Their grief is fresh, and the upcoming holidays will be difficult for them, to say the least. Other people who have had a loss that is not recent also will struggle, because the loss is permanent, and the milestones in our lives can make the absence sting anew. 

Perhaps we should let our empathy motivate us. Find the time to stop in on at least one person that has had a tough year. I’ve got good intentions that I hope will manifest in my individual acts of kindness. I think I’m doing it “for them,” but I’m sure I’m also doing it for me. It isn’t the kind of thing you can separate. It is a shared experience that reveals the true spirit of the holiday season.

Look at that, a post that was not so brief after all. I guess I did have something to say. 


Copyright 2010 by Marianne V. Heffernan

Status: Here or not, the love remains

I want to take some time to thank you all for walking with me. Some of you are silently in step, perhaps at times nodding in solidarity as you read.  Others are carrying on the conversation with me through your private emails, blog comments, or in other exchanges when our paths cross. 

Your support and interest is appreciated, affirming, and helpful. In some cases, it has also been enlightening. Thank you. I hope you will continue the journey with me. There is something comforting in the fact that others are paying attention to this discussion. Together, we are on to something.

Through Walking Distance, I am getting great suggestions from others who are watching my dissertation struggle. One thing I have mentioned are many of my observations of Facebook posts which suggest that we have a fascination or, at minimum, a healthy interest in death. 

Several weeks ago, I talked about the extraordinary surge of internet grief postings over the death of popular UMass band leader and music professor George N. Parks. A memorial wall for Parks on Facebook sparked a virtual explosion of comments from former students and others who reached out to the social network site to share their collective grief with others who obviously understood it, and anyone who may not have had the direct occasion to experience it.

Parks, 57, died September 16, and almost immediately as word spread of his passing, the public response to his death exploded on Facebook. Today, the page shows 11,666 fans connected to him and a living “wall” of memories that include video clips of the halftime event at the UMass football game on October 16 when the school held a memorial service for this legendary, award winning band leader. Other touching clips can be found on his Facebook page as well, including a link to personal tributes to him that are posted on YouTube. 

On a human level, it is awe inspiring. For my research interest, it also is fascinating. The publicly outward expressions being shared through social media seem to suggest a recognition of the value of this shared grief experience. Why else would someone take the time to post these events? 

“An inspiration,” “my hero,” “my mentor, teacher, friend.” These are such deeply sincere sentiments posted for anyone who wanders along to read them. Names attached, hearts on sleeves. George N. Parks was one life that touched many, but also was one example of the capacity each of us has to live on through those we love, inspire, and whose lives we touch. 

This interest in death is not new. It appears, however, that the practice of sharing our grief in what might be considered impersonal venues is really a new phenomenon. The World Wide Web as we know it has been around for more than 30 years, but Facebook and YouTube are in their toddler years by comparison. This sharing is different from anything we’ve ever done before, particularly when it comes to the grief experience.

We need to say these things, we need others to hear them, and short of having someone in person to directly hear them, many of us are issuing our personal memories wrapped in grief to a potentially global audience.

How on earth did we get here? Ah, interesting choice of words. I think there is something universal at work here, and my evidence today suggests this need to share is the part that has remained constant.

I recently read Geoffrey Gorer’s book, Death, grief, and mourning in contemporary Britain (London: The Cresset Press). The book was written in 1965, so the “contemporary” timeframe is long past and thus, Gorer’s findings outdated, one might presume. Nonetheless, Gorer did a quantitative study that is still worth inspection. He interviewed people about their experiences with death and mourning. 

Gorer concluded that the most reliable sign that a mourner is dealing adequately with his grief is when he or she gratefully accepts the spoken condolences of others. 

This seems to be in line with today’s grief postings in social media, or at least, it might be interpreted as such. If Gorer was right, some of us are showing the signs of healing from grief if we are expressing it in a public manner that allows for the gracious acceptance of the expressed sympathies of others. Considering some of the postings I’ve seen on social media sites, this exchange is taking place. 

Another point Gorer illuminated struck a chord with me, as it is a remark I have heard all too often in various situations. Gorer asked his survey participants about the belief that “time heals.” It is reassuring to hear that folks from the 1960s in England had the same feeling on the topic as the people I interact with today. Half of the people he surveyed rejected the notion, and so do I. When it comes to grief, what constitutes “healing”? 

Is it when you are able to get through a day without crying over the loss? Is it when you stop thinking of the person on a daily basis? Is it when you return to a “normal” routine? What is the evidence of healing when the scars are embedded in the soul?

I like the way Gorer rationalized their assessments. While many had used the phrase, “never get over it,” Gorer saw deeper into their responses. They had healed from their intense grief, but what the respondents meant was, they held an ongoing affection for their lost loved one.

George Parks’ memorial wall on Facebook sure looks like that to me.


Copyright 2010 by Marianne V. Heffernan

Celebrating with and without you

[IMAGE REMOVED AT REQUEST OF PHOTOGRAPHER]

Apologies to my readers. The cute photograph that was posted here is no longer available for you to enjoy, as it was copyright protected by its photographer. It was the perfect image to represent my blog entry nearly a year ago, but for now, I am leaving this space empty.

Please imagine if you will, a beautiful greyhound wearing large round-rimmed eyeglasses and sitting on a pile of books....

You may not recognize her, but the beauty looking back at you is no stranger. The studious appearance. A pile of books upon which to rest.

That would be me.

Funny how a few hours of sleep after a marathon day of brain work and a mini-meltdown at bedtime can change one’s perspective. I had a full blog post written yesterday in anticipation of today but as it turns out, I have decided not to share it. At least not what I had originally written.

I poured out a letter to my brother and sister yesterday because I was reflecting on my life’s juggling act and the inevitable turning of the calendar page. I’ll keep the letter between the three of us though, because there is an opportunity here to offer a shared experience.

Today is my birthday. In my distant past, that would be a big deal, a cause for lifting a glass, making plans, and generally soaking in the adoration of family and friends who always reach out to wish me well.

Instead, it has become one of those days that presents a mixed bag of emotion. This is a common issue for anyone who has suffered the loss of a loved one: dealing with the special days of the year that are now different because of the “missing pieces.”

I don’t want to dwell on that but much as I will try, I will not have a choice on how the emotions will poke at me throughout the day. It’s a roll of the dice because you never know how it’s going to go.

It is what it is. You keep going.

All this writing and sharing and inspecting I’ve been doing here is stirring up a lot inside, obviously. But let me say this: Whether the topic is grief or ice cream, to me, this is what writing is. As a writer, I retreat to the inner places of myself where the real experience lies and chip away to unearth the minerals that eventually come to represent these experiences in the form of writing.

It’s what I do. When the ideas start dancing around in my mind, I will either “shake it up” with them or let them dance on their own until one of us decides to put lyrics to the music.

So this morning when I came downstairs to put on the coffee, make the lunches, and get ready for the day ahead, I was met by this cute lass you see here, elegantly staring out at me from the front of a handwritten birthday card. She was sitting on this pile of books next to the Maxwell House and surrounded by three intriguing objects: an African violet, some sort of “tropical foliage” plant, and a sweet potato, courtesy of my thoughtful husband. (As I write this, it strikes me that these things could be subject to a variety of interpretations... let’s just smile and agree that this is a sweet gesture and leave it at that.)

Of course, Michael has learned through the years that I regard birthdays as a person’s “special day,” though he regularly disagrees with me on the philosophy. Like many people, he claims to feel that birthdays are “just another day” (and yet, somehow, he is always pleased to be given the royal treatment every year when his special day rolls around).

My feeling is this: you’re supposed to celebrate because it is the one day of the year that is solely yours. Your life, tagged to the moment on that particular day when you took your first breath. It’s your special day. A day that celebrates YOU.

Every year since the death of my sister Joyce, and later since my brother John died, I have had to strap on the virtual seatbelt and hit the gas to maneuver the emotional traffic that an anniversary like one’s birthday can bring. Like I said, it is what it is. Somehow, you figure it out. Life carries you along, and the people you surround yourself with always fill in some of the missing pieces in their own unique ways.

I think that’s a blessing of grief. You can’t always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes, you get what you need.(Thank you, Mick Jagger.)

I’ve got a schedule of things to do today that “must” be done, but there is room to go withi the flow too, so that’s what I’ll do. I’m sure my mother will call at 8:19 a.m. to wish me a Happy Birthday, she being the first to do that since the day I was born at precisely that time. It’s one of the rituals I can count on. The rest will work itself out.

One thing I know for sure. I’m having lunch with Joyce and John. We’re having a tuna fish sandwich. There’s a story to that, but that’s between us.

As I mark another year in my life, I’ll look back a little to reminisce about the good days I can’t get back. I also will look ahead because I have many blessings that have come to me since J&J were here. Either way, I’ll celebrate with them. That’s just the way it is.

Copyright 2010 By Marianne V. Heffernan

That hole in your heart

I’ve felt it but it never occurred to me that someone else would use the same exact words to describe it. How could someone else know what my grief feels like?

I heard the words spoken by Dr. William Petit as he faced the media this week after a jury issued its “death penalty” verdict in the case of convicted killer Steven Hayes. 

While many people are caught up in the debate over capital punishment in this case, I am fixated on Petit’s grief and the way in which he is finding the words to express this emotion publically. 

Grief is a powerful feeling. It can control you, potentially destroy you if you allow it to. It can eat you alive. Dr. William Petit is one of those people who knows this all too well.

 

Petit lost his wife, Jennifer Hawke-Petit, 48, and daughters Hayley, 17, and Michaela, 11, in one gigantic series of escalating evil acts on July 23, 2007. The three were terrorized by Hayes and his accomplice, Joshua Komisarjevsky, for a period that lasted overnight and ended with the Petit home in Cheshire, Connecticut, engulfed in flames, and three beautiful human beings dead. 

The criminal trial and subsequent penalty phase concluded this week with a jury unanimously deciding that Hayes deserves to be executed for his role in the Petit killings. Komisarjevsky is due to stand trial next year. 

After the decision, Petit faced a mob of media outside the Superior Courthouse in New Haven to respond to questions. The death penalty judgment changes nothing for Petit in terms of healing the wounds he has suffered. The “wounds” are deeper than any physical harm that can be inflicted. 

“I don’t think there’s ever closure,” Petit said. “There’s a hole with jagged edges, and over time the edges may smooth out a little bit but the hole in your heart and the hole in your soul is still there, so there’s never closure.” 

So true. Grief is an unimaginable experience. Sometimes, it is tied to horrific events such as murder. In the Petit case, we have seen and heard about the horrors that robbed Dr. Petit of his wife and daughters for the rest of his life. 

So far, the criminal justice system has spoken, meting out “part one” of its dose of justice. It remains to be seen what “part two” will bring with the second trial. In the meantime, Petit and the extended members of his family are left to carry on. 

So how does one do that? How does one “carry on” in this life when a loved one is taken from us? Really, when life serves up “hell,” how do you go on?

Thanatologists - that is, experts on death, dying and grief - say that grief is an individual experience. By that, I mean, for each of us the death of a loved one will mean something different than what that particular person’s death will mean to someone else. That’s because our lives are unique, so each connection, each experience, each relationship, contributes to a unique personal narrative that is our individual life story.

What’s needed is “meaning reconstruction.” Life as we know it changes irrevocably when someone we love dies. Noted grief expert Dr. Robert Neimeyer says that death changes our individual life stories so that the life that we might have had, would have had, perhaps were supposed to have, can never be. 

That in itself is devastating. As if that isn’t enough, we are expected to pick up the pieces and go on, to figure out what our life means and who we are after this particular death has transformed us.

I found an interesting interview of Neimeyer in my dissertation research, and it was more validation of other research I have come across that speaks about this “relearning” that we undergo through our grief. 

Neimeyer said, “We have to relearn who we are and relearn what the world is because both are changed by the subtraction of this person from our life.” (Taylor, J., “Healing Grief,” YouTube.)

While that may sound too sterile or clinical a view, it is nonetheless the challenge that we each face when we are battling our way through personal grief.

For William Petit, grief has generated a positive initiative that epitomizes the idea of meaning making. I’m sure he found his inspiration from all three of his loved ones, but it appears he took particular direction from his younger daughter, Michaela. It was Michaela who reportedly had been inspired by the words of Mohandas Ghandi to “be the change you wish to see in the world.” 

Those words grace the web site of the Petit Family Foundation, established by Petit and others who recognized that the lives of Jennifer, Hayley, and Michaela should never be forgotten. Their lives meant something when they graced this earth, and they mean something as their spirits live on. 

For Dr. William Petit, the life he had before July 23, 2007 is a memory. His home, his family, and his daily focus of career and family life as he knew it are a part of his past. As he rebuilds his life, his wife and daughters will be a part of it in a way he never would have imagined. 

The hole in his heart is a permanent condition, but as he adjusts to a life he never would have asked for, Dr. Petit is giving meaning to the tragedy. In doing so, he honors Jennifer, Hayley and Michaela, and shares them with the world. 

What an amazing gift of grief. 

For more information on the Petit Family Foundation, visit http://www.petitfamilyfoundation.org/. 

Block and tackle

Another week of “Where am I?” on the Journey to Dissertation Land. Just when I think I have a handle on it, the GPS of my scholarly exploration loses its signal. Did I miss a turn? Am I even on the right road?

I took another shot at soliciting comments from my Committee last week in an attempt to ramrod my way onto the calendar before Thanksgiving to formally present my topic and get the official “Permission granted” to continue.

“Took another shot.”

Need I say more?

Here’s how it went. I, Little Miss “I Can Do This PhD Thing,” revised my proposal yet again, incorporating what I thought were the suggestions of the three professors who are guiding my path in this pursuit. 

Those suggestions would be things like, “It needs to be more scholarly,” “Rearrange,” and “Perhaps add a whole chapter on the history of grief and maybe even on the history of privacy.”

Oh dear Lord. Add, subtract, divide, conquer. Read, read, read more and read it again. 

YES-YES-YES-YES. Thank you, sir, may I have another? Makes sense, yes. Am I ready to present my topic? Apparently not. I hate this.

One must not take it personally when those who hold the coveted Ph.D. rank push you on your back side so you can get a better view of where you need to go. It isn’t personal, but it sure can be frustrating.

However, it is as it should be. I know this, so I am back at it, trying to clear my path and think through these obstacles to get on with the progress that writing will bring. I will say this: as an academic, I am challenged. I do not profess to be professorial. I do not suggest that I am a genius-like social scientist at this stage of my dissertation journey.  

I have made it this far and I know I can do this. I am just having a little trouble getting out of the gate. I find so many facets of this grief study interesting, and each offshoot leads to other ideas. The tangents make this work unwieldy, and I need to keep pulling myself back, inward, to figure out what the most important questions are, and to only focus on those questions. Keep it manageable, keep it narrowly focused. Above all, GET IT DONE.

This is a huge challenge for anyone writing a dissertation, and for me, a nearly impossible one. I have always been one to chase down the ideas that interest me, which ultimately was what shaped my career as a journalist. One story or source would turn me on to another, and I would dig into it and follow it through to find an abundance of related “stories” or ideas that would lead to other stories. The curse of a creative mind and the burden of being a writer, I suspect. There is never a shortage of stories to write.

So for now, I am back to the drawing board, not starting from scratch but worse, taking another (not so objective) look at what I have done so far in mapping out my topic. The working title has not changed. I am still seeking to prove out: “The Evolution of the Grief Memoir; How Communication Technologies are Changing the Way We Share and Experience Grief.”

I think this is what I want and need to know, but the building blocks are still scattered about the place. I need to rearrange them and make sure they are indeed the right blocks to piece together. There are so many blocks!   

Is it grief, or something more positive?

Grief is forever. We have already established this, so pardon the repetition. It is just a broken record at the moment. Today, one of grief’s little tricks jumped all over me, so I have to hash it out.

It’s a bit like a “back burner” deal. At times, grief does a low boil or barely even simmers. Other times, it gives off a little steam or boils over violently. Regardless, it is always on that back burner, ever present, offering the potential to spill over and make a mess of things as if in defiance of being ignored.

I will get back to my dissertation torment eventually, but for the moment I need to spill my guts on the tugs of grief that keep reminding me where the research for me truly began. Besides, as I’ve said before, “It’s all connected.” This hashing it out is part of the process.

Case in point: I had a flashback to my brother John today. These are usually random images that come to mind, completely unsolicited, but occasionally, like today, they throw me for a loop. Maybe it was a little nudge from little brother to remind me that I hadn’t reminisced about him lately.

I like to think the out-of-the-blue memory flashes are messages from Heaven from him or my sister, kindof like one of the only ways they can “keep in touch.” There’s no Facebook to Heaven, so I have to use my imagination, as we all do, when we want to communicate with someone who is not “here.”

Today my mind jumped back to the day John died and my frantic drive up Route 8 to Griffin Hospital after getting the call from my mother that he had taken a turn for the worse. It is an unpleasant memory and still very vivid for me. It isn’t a memory I intentionally return to when I am thinking about my life before January 8, 2002. I have no idea where it came from or why.

That is all the flashing back that took place today. Just that instant downer that started to take me further into the memory of that day before I instinctively shut it down. Clicked the “off button” and sent it packing.

But not really. And that is my point. There is no “off button” with grief.

There is nothing new in my observation here, though for some people who have not experienced it yet, it may seem exaggerated or melodramatic. It isn’t. It’s just fact.

But the thing that I am connecting to, relating to, trying to get to, is the way other people’s grief touches ours. I’m not sure yet, but I may be saying that the grief of others somehow helps our own to heal. So now, finally, I am getting to the subject I have been meaning to speak to for a couple of weeks but perhaps subconsciously have been avoiding. I need to open a discussion about the tragic Petit case.

I say “open a discussion” because it has taken me so long to get to the topic, I will never be able to say all that is on my mind and in my heart here if I stick to my usual roughly-1,000 word limit per post. So expect that I will have more to say on the Petit case in the coming weeks. Right now, I need to share a small piece of it because it is so very important, and yes, it is an emerging theme in my dissertation journey.

You would have to be living on the Planet Jupiter to not know about the horrendous murders of Jennifer Hawke-Petit and her two beautiful daughters, Hayley and Michaela, in their family home in Cheshire, Connecticut in 2007. Dr. William A. Petit survived the nightmare of their slayings and now is bearing up to survive the court trials of the men accused -- one of whom recently was swiftly convicted by a jury and is awaiting a decision in the penalty phase of his trial; the second of whom is expected to stand trial next year.

Notice I do not mention their names. It’s my own recoiling the precludes me from assigning a human element to the beings that treated a family so inhumanly. The grief of Dr. Petit cannot be described in careful words because it is something that one can only feel, and feel to the depths of one’s very essence.

Dr. Petit was quoted in a local paper several weeks ago when the trial of the first man accused was about to begin, and media coverage again was making Dr. Petit’s private pain a public experience. A collective grief experience, at least in one sense.

His words jumped off the page and seared into my psyche because they expressed my own feelings so well. The paper recounted how, during a pretrial hearing for suspect (now convicted killer) #1, the names of Petit’s wife and daughters were read out loud in the courtroom.

Petit must have told a reporter afterward that it made him happy to hear their names. Given the circumstances, the setting, and the situation, this reaction might be hard to understand. But the partial quote in the paper spoke volumes about this man’s grief. When you add his quoted words to the context, it takes on a deeper meaning. He said it made him happy to hear their names “to show that they were people.”

To show that they were people.

To remind everyone that Jennifer, Hayley, and Michaela were here once. They were living, loving, caring human beings; a wife and daughters; someone’s friends; someone’s relatives; the source of someone’s pick-me-up moment, from a smile each of them offered just because. Jennifer, Hayley, and Michaela were all of these things and more, and Petit’s verbal reminder was moving as much as it was perfect to describe why grief never leaves us.

To show that they were people. Technically, is this grief? Or is it love seeping through a memory?

Just push ‘play'

My “grief” button is apparently stuck in the “on” position.

Another family funeral this week. Dear Uncle Joe. My cousins mourning the loss of their father, and another ritual of family, tears, ceremony, and remembering.

Grief, please, give me a break. Isn’t it enough that I am drowning in the literature of death, sorting through philosophies about how human beings deal with this part of life? My intentional study of this topic is being supplemented by the real life experience of it -- and it feels like every time I turn around, someone else is enduring a loss and I am the filter through which it runs.

We are all “filters” in this sense. The grief of others touches us and we are transformed, even if it is in the tiniest way.

But this time I am having a selfish grief experience. Or maybe internalizing it in a way that is bringing up “old stuff.” Whatever it is, it is familiar to me. As I think about my cousins losing their father at the robust age of 90, I am instantly compelled to thoughts of my own father’s mortality.

This is not a new one for me, folks. I have always dreaded the death of my parents, knowing that it would happen one day and knowing that I am never going to be ready for it.

For the record, neither of my parents is going anywhere anytime soon. I am thinking about this because I am empathising with my cousins in their sadness, and relating to their experience because I know it will one day be my own.

There is a term for this, though it escapes me now. I think it is called “anticipatory grief.” For people who have experienced the loss of someone very dear and close to them, this syndrome is the dread that you carry knowing that this life is fragile and temporary.

It means that somone you love will one day not be there when you stop by for a visit, or won’t be on the other end of the phone when it rings. The laughs, the struggles, the comforting hugs, or the playful teasing will only remain in your memory, which is where you will return to frequently to soothe the pain of separation. It will require a tremendous adjustment in your mindset to move from the opportunity for direct contact and human exchange to a strictly spiritual connection.

The feeling that you live with when you begin to slip into this anticipatory grief can be painful all by itself, even though it is self-inflicted and largely within your control to dismiss.

The feeling is fear.

For me, it can reach not-quite panic proportions and I think it explains a lot about my personality and the way that I need to document every event and important person in my life. Photographs, video, jotting things down -- these are the things I resort to, no, the things that I run to, so that I can capture the tidbits of my loved ones before they disappear. I need to collect all that I can, so that I can wrap myself in those tangibles and memories when they are all that I have left.

Now before you dig out your contact list to recommend a good psychiatrist, let me just say that I am not dwelling on that which I have no control over. I simply have a keen awareness of the “life is short” concept, and have a distinct philosophy that compels me to keep my life in the “Play” position, instead of putting things on hold for a more convenient time.

Author C.S. Lewis wrote An Observed Loss about the death of his wife, and in sorting through his grief, suggested that the experience of grief is forever. Not what I want to hear at the moment, but it may be why I am feeling “stuck” in the grief mud. Lewis said, “In grief, nothing ‘stays put.’ One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?’ (Lewis, 1961: 46)

Not a happy thought, but evidence that to grieve means to hurt in our experience of love. That really is not a bad thing. If you really think about it, it is a wonderful outward expression of a deep sentiment that means we have shared life with someone, we have melded spirits with them in some way, and we have been blessed with the precious gift of love.

The fear that anticipatory grief renders is manageable. Fear suggests the absence of faith, and if I step back from the anxiety, I know that the meaningful relationships in my life will last forever. They will just move from one realm to another. Faith has shown me that.

I believe that the only way to overcome fear is to face it squarely. So the thought for today is this: In the song of life, just push play. Then dance your way through it fearlessly.

Memories are the comfort

Today my family said goodbye to Auntie Effie. On a day that, on its surface, should provoke sadness, I am feeling buoyant after the services this morning that brought together a gathering of perhaps a hundred or so, give or take.

Auntie Effie would have been 100 years old on October 18, just a week from today, and that itself is a remarkable feat that most of us can only wonder at. She was born Stephanie Stochmal, but came to be called “Effie” in the family by her 16 brothers and sisters and all the nieces and nephews eminating from that amazingly large brood. She later became Mrs. John Pczonka, but always, to most, she was "Effie."

I asked my father where “Effie” came from, trying to get the goods on the back story that may be there. My husband had suggested that perhaps one of the younger siblings had trouble pronouncing her given name and could only manage the “EFFIE” part, so it stuck.

My Dad, who is 20 years younger than Auntie Effie, didn’t know. He remembers his parents called her Stefania, the Polish version of her beautiful name. Neither of my grandparents spoke English, having come to America in the early 1900s from Tarnow and Kolbuszowa, Poland, so Polish is what was spoken at home -- even down to the names of the children.

Cousin Kenny -- the oldest of Auntie’s three grandchildren -- spoke genuinely about the woman that his brothers and their children came to call “Babi” (pronounced Bobby -- I really don’t know how they spell it, but since it is the mispronunciation of the Polish word for grandmother -- Babci -- I am spelling it with the “c” missing, hoping it will suffice to make this point.)

Auntie Effie was born in Poland in 1910, apparently the only one of the 17 children to have that distinction. It just happened that my grandmother -- a teenage bride living in America with her husband and two small children -- was visiting her own mother in Poland when Stephanie was born. It was just one of the ways that Destiny said Effie was meant to stand out.

In most other ways, Auntie Effie seemed to be much like her siblings -- tough, “old school,” but practical and creative in assessing most situations. Kenny highlighted the three lessons handed down to him by his beloved “Babi,” and they were on-the-money accurate in reminding us of Auntie’s essence.

Be strong.

Be independent.

Be kind.

What great advice to pass along, and now they will be a mantra connecting me to her. I don’t remember much about Auntie Effie, but I do know that my experience of her throughout my life was consistent with those attributes. She was one tough lady, capable and strong, but sweet and caring at the same time. I bet she was a wonderful grandmother, because I could see it reflected in the way her daughter, son-in-law, grandchildren, and great grandchildren presented the united picture of respect and love for her today and always.

It is comforting to have rituals for saying goodbye to our loved ones. In my family, it is the Adzima Funeral Home that has handled arrangements for most of the family funerals. It was no different for Auntie Effie. Adzima’s and St. Michael’s Church -- which my grandparents helped to establish -- were the familiar combo. This is where our ritual had to be.

Following the funeral mass, I drove with my parents to the cemetery service, and kept quiet to allow the opportunity for my father to express whatever he may have on his mind as we left the graveside of one of the sisters who had undoubtedly been like another mother to him as a child growing up in such a full household.

It took about five seconds. My father mentioned how he had looked at Auntie Effie the night before at the wake, as he and my mother approached the casket to say a prayer at her side. Auntie looked perfect, right down to her manicured fingernails.

“I was looking at her hands,” my father said. Funny how we both had noticed something about her hands, folded with a delicate rosary wrapped loosely within them. I had noticed the light pink polish, but Dad had connected much more deeply.

“I was thinking, ‘I wonder how many times she smacked me on the rear end when I was a kid.’” Then, without missing a beat, he said, “But I wonder how many hugs she gave me too.”

Loving hands. Strong hands. Hands that carried and held and supported. A fuzzy memory, rooted in reality, tied to a bond that only siblings know. Wrapped in the bow of family love.

I was blessed throughout the morning to hear the anecdotes of other relatives, all of which reminded me of the aunt whom I mostly recall walking Derby Avenue back and forth from her home on Mount Pleasant Street. She walked with a stateliness, strong in her step, and firm, like the very task of walking carried an importance that required her diligent attention.

One of my younger cousins noticed a bottle of wine on the table at the repast, and commented on it because it reminded her of her own connection to Auntie Effie. Auntie liked a glass of wine now and then, and had saved an empty Chianti bottle that she and her husband had shared. The bottle was transformed into art work -- I don’t know by whom. It was colorfully decorated with the multicolored drippings of candles. I’m not sure if I am remembering the details correctly, but they aren’t the point of this.

This is the point: When this cousin expressed a genuine appreciation of the memento, Auntie’s reaction was one that might be described as typical of her. "T," upon seeing the bottle one day, exclaimed, “I love this!” To which Auntie Effie replied, “Take it.”

I wish I had thought to ask "T" where she keeps that special memento, but it doesn’t matter. It is a lovely sign of a life that was here and now lives on in another dimension in time. Just as our memories of Auntie Effie do.

There is comfort in the knowing.

Why is this so hard?

I’m late with this blog posting but I won’t make excuses. My goal of posting new insights each week still remains, but sometimes the “process” hits a bump in the road. For sure, the journey to dissertation is doing a little four-wheeling at the moment.

After my last blog post -- Getting comfortable with death -- I received some great insights from readers that surprised me and boosted my confidence that I am on to something here. One reader who cares for hospice patients spoke of the amazing fearlessness of death -- the acceptance that many of them ultimately achieve. She sees a change in the way society has made it OK to grieve.

Another reader shared an example of how the social network sharing of grief introduced her to a young man she never met in life. Through the grief and sharing of that lost life, she now knows him. This is a clear point that runs through my research. The sharing, the memorializing, is the way we keep them with us. So I was nodding as I read that comment as well.

Still another reader hit on a key aspect in my exploration: the privacy element. It’s not just grief that we are sharing publicly; it’s all sorts of things. We know that we can share it, in this public way, and that seems to open the flood gates, so to speak.

What is at work here?

Yet another reader offered a perspective that needed to be noticed: this public sharing through electronic messages -- whether it’s Facebook, email, or some other internet-based communication -- happens with, through, and in, a buffer of technology. If we’re so comfortable talking about death, why do we not make the extra effort to ‘be comfortable’ in person? Isn’t a kind word at a time of grief even more welcome when it is accompanied by a sincere look of compassion, concern, or better yet, a hug?

All good points and all part of my search. Still, I am not speeding forward. Still, I feel like I am in first gear, like my old Wrangler Sahara digging to find its footing in the mud and spinning those larger-than-standard-sized tires until the rocks and sludge are flying.

I noticed tonight that some of my colleagues who are in the PhD program with me are scheduled to present on their topics or, worse, are defending their dissertations in the coming weeks. Meanwhile, I am drowning in death lit.

What have I done? Worse, what am I doing?

The pressure of finishing school is definitely clobbering me about the head. I have other writing to do in my life -- memoir writing, in particular, I think, will be my most frequent style, as I am fascinated by the stories of people’s lives. But I must keep them simmering while I am slugging away at this research, and it really bugs me to have to do so. I promise I will continue this research thread once I have the degree; can’t I just get it over with, so that I can mix it up a little in my writing life?

I suppose I just have to realize that the pull of other creative writing projects will never subside, and I must stick to the task at hand -- REALLY STICK TO IT -- if I am going to finish in a realistic timeframe and not get left behind by every classmate with whom I endured the PhD coursework.

As I started to explain at the start of this post, I hit a bump in the road this week and have made little progress on my research writing. I was beginning to think my Mentor, Professor One, is playing a little game with me: he gives me comments on my proposal that set me back several paces, and tells me that I am “close,” so keep persevering. I just know he is laughing his butt off any time I leave his office after one of these meetings. He’s got me pegged for graduation in 2015, I bet.

I’m not having it. I need to clear the decks. Get really serious. Yes, that is what I must do. Which means I may have to go into hibernation -- avoid all family and friend functions, no football games, no outdoor activities, no crappy television watching. I really have been slacking in that sense -- letting “life” in. Oh, I haven’t been neglecting my research, not at all. I’ve just been allowing myself to do other things to keep a healthy balance. The problem is, I took on a few “extra” things this fall that I probably should have kept on the back burner unti I am finished with this project. So my balancing act is way overloaded.

Hindsight, of course, is the great teacher, and I know what I have to do. The gloves are off. I am not going to be left behind, eating the dust of my PhD colleagues as they prepare to be fitted for their caps and gowns. The competitive gene that runs in my family runs deep. I want it too, so I need to just jump in it.

And I will. Right after I take the dog to the vet, get the oil changed, and vacuum my living room.

Later this week: Parallel grief. I need to blog about the Petit case.

Getting comfortable with death

I have suddenly realized that I have been enveloped by the idea of death these days. Not in the literal sense but in the literary one. It is part of my research for my dissertation to immerse myself in the literature that examines grief, loss, and commemoration of a loved one after he or she dies. So for more than a year, I have been reading books, journal articles, and any other resource I can find that ties in to this topic of grief as I question how our ability to communicate has led us to share our sad moments in life.

It really only hit me today that I am dwelling in a dark place. Also, that I will be doing so for a prolonged time. I wonder, Do I have enough liquor to sustain me in this trial?

I jest, of course, because I really don’t find alcohol to be a useful medication for me in dealing with difficult things. But if I don’t find the humor in this activity to some small degree, I could get very depressed.

It occurs to me that this is an important strand to pull at, as I dwell in the Village of Rhetoric, located somewhere in the southern region on the map of my Journey to Dissertation.

I have so much I want to tell you. I hesitate, because I think some of you may simply not want to hear it. I also hesitate because others may think it is just plain weird that I would have so much to say about death and the sad losses we human beings bear when a loved one in our life dies.

What’s happening here is interesting. My concern about sharing this topic seems to be unnecessary. That’s because I notice that other people are opening up their feelings publicly -- and not just to intimate friends, mind you -- in a way that suggests we all need and want to talk about this sort of thing.

What do I mean?

The most obvious example has repeatedly popped up on my Facebook page. As I check in periodicallly to see what my Facebook friends are up to, I notice something. Every so often, someone will post a very simple, usually very short, note to mention someone who has died whose death is affecting them in some way.

These mentions are random and usually out of the blue. What I mean is, they usually pop up in an isolated fashion: not as a follow-up post to a prior note about this particular person, but as a distinct, standalone comment. It can be something like, “[Name] is saying goodbye to a wonderful young man who was taken away from us too soon...”

The post then includes a followup sentence asking others to send prayers to his family. In this case, there were at least nine responses to this post on the day that I viewed it.

Perhaps it is because in this social network setting it is easier to express oneself candidly, because any response or reaction will be indirectly conveyed. The original poster can put out the message and not even bother looking back later to see if anyone has responded to this show of emotion. Of course, I’m betting they always do. Most folks on Facebook are there for the engagement, the back and forth discussions if you can call them that.

It’s a way of reaching out, in other words. When you have something difficult to deal with, it is reassuring to deal with it knowing that other people understand, empathize, sympathize or just care enough about you to offer a kind word.

Sometimes, the public expression of sadness over a death morphs into something extraordinary. Another example: the death of a popular professor at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst recently generated an outpouring of grief responses to a Facebook page created almost immediately after the news of his passing.

On September 17, a friend mentioned the page to me, knowing of my doctoral topic and quest to understand the human need to share our grief. George N. Parks had died the night before at the age of 57. He was a music professor and nationally recognized band leader at UMass, and clearly was beloved by the college community and beyond.

The UMass web site notes that Parks led the Minutemen Marching Band to national prominence during his 33-year career. Under Parks’ leadership, the school band received the Louis C. Sudler Trophy from the John Philip Sousa Foundation in 1998. It is apparently the biggest honor a marching band can get in the U.S. And no doubt, George Parks was much more than that, based on the kind of loving comments posted to his memorial wall on Facebook.

When my friend first told me about the tremendous public response to Parks’ death that had exploded on Facebook, there were about 3,000 fans connected to him and a “wall” of heartfelt messages and memories that went on and on. This was in the span of perhaps 24 hours.

Today, a week and a half later, there are more than 11,000 Facebook fans of the man. Clearly, he touched many lives. The fact that so many would take the time to click on to a social networking site to leave a virtual message to the world is nothing short of remarkable.

This is something worth thinking about. While I have been reading about the way early human beings initially kept “death” to themselves -- a private matter that was confined to in-home wakes where only family members were allowed to share in the grief experience -- I am fascinated by the very ease of our sensibilities in accepting public exposure of our losses. Have we gotten comfortable with death or is it that we have begun to recognize the human need for understanding and compassion, that can only take place through sharing of these painful experiences?

To Maintain Focus, Keep Eye on Prize

OK, I’ll admit it. I am tired. I have been going like hell the past several weeks, juggling work-home-family-school, flying off to West Palm Beach on assignment, sleeping an average of 3.6 hours per night for several nights in a row, yaddah-yaddah-yaddah. Boo hoo, poor me.

Get over it.

I’m not doing anything that any number of other people aren’t doing. I may even be a slacker compared to what some folks are juggling, what with their child-rearing activities and all that. We all lead ridiculously busy lives. I just happen to be trying to squeeze in a research project as well. No big whup.

So where the hell am I with it? Grinding the gears, baby. Yup. Two days of my five-day respite from work (I would use a little known term called “vacation” to identify it, but judging from the way some of my colleagues continue to reach out to me via Blackberry with work requests, clearly I am using an outdated definition of the word. Doesn’t anyone out there respect the phrase, “I am on vacation” even if it means I have not left the country, the state, or even my home, to do this so-called vacationing?)

Have we Americans gone mad, relinquishing our ability or even our inclination to relax? Has the world’s exacerbated economic funk driven us to such a state that we cannot risk taking a handful of days off to find that pleasant life balance that we need, for fear that we might be discovered to be replaceable in our jobs? News flash: No one is irreplaceable in the work place. Move on. Live your life on your terms.

It has taken me well into this second day of my week off -- a week, I dare say, that I had planned to fully dedicate to my research -- to start to feel human. The need for sleep and for a slower pace were apparent by Sunday night. I needed Nyquil to stave off impending flu-like symptoms. Yesterday, I needed a nap by 3 in the afternoon. It’s times like these that you have to listen to that inner voice that’s saying, Something’s got to give, child.

If there is one thing I have learned over the years, it is to listen to that voice. The body knows when it needs a rest, and if you don’t succumb, it will shut you down anyway. You may as well surrender willingly.

So as I sit here noticing that the calendar now shows just three precious business days left in my week off, I am slightly panicked. The good thing is, I am feeling fairly healthy and sufficiently energetic to pick up the ball and start plowing up the middle like Brandon Jacobs. (Look, if I could think of a better runningback on a team other than my embarrassing N.Y. Giants, I would have used it. It just so happens, Jacobs made the news highlights this week so he was fresh in my brain. Besides, it’s a metaphor, for crying out loud. Work with me. Or I’ll throw my helmet at you.)

Reality check: I have just three days this week to get on my horse and get my dissertation proposal in order. That’s because this dissertation process has many hurdles: committees that must approve your topic, deadlines for presentations, and so on. There are many things that slow down the work, even when the student is doing her damndest to speed it along.

Here’s where the panic is coming from: Last week, the new semester started. As a doctoral candidate, I have four opportunities per semester to trek up to Newport and meet with my colleagues in the program. This is an opportunity to air out my topic, ask for suggestions, be inspired by others, etc. Last semester, I missed all four meetings due to work obligations that had me away on business or preparing to do so. The missed meetings set me back considerably for finishing my presentation and obtaining formal approval to move forward.

I am determined not to let the job get in the way again -- even though I am aware that it is my employer who is paying my tuition. I’m sure my employer would like to be finished paying that bill at some point as well, so he would not argue with my desire to achieve that work-life balance that we hear about, if it means I will graduate before I reach retirement age.

I made a point to get up to campus early to meet with my dissertation mentor, Professor One. I had emailed him a copy of my proposal in its revamped form, and was feeling really good about it. I practically stayed up all night the night before, editing it, revising it, rereading it, making sure I had addressed previous concerns from Prof’s Two and Three, while staying on course with Prof. One’s initial comments.

So when I sat down in One’s office, I didn’t expect to hear that I had much more work to do. It wasn’t all bad, though. He recognized the shift I had made in my approach: I am looking at the evolution of the grief memoir, and how technology has affected that evolution. He rattled off a number of literary sources to check out; more reading!

No problem. Love to read. Love to learn. Got it. What else?

Add in a couple of other chapter topics: The history of grief -- right, I do need to look at that; also the history of privacy. The way we have grown to share our grief publicly, it does raise the question, why. Why are we opening up these difficult, painful moments to the world?

Indeed, why. It is the “why” part of the process that I need to explore with reckless abandon. My journalism background has taught me to tie up my stories in a neat little package of “beginning, middle, and end.” Academic writing demands that I dwell in the Village of Rhetoric while I pursue this research. If I am doing it right, I won’t be able to give away the ending too soon, because I will still be figuring out what the ending is.

Aha! So that’s how you do it! Another pot of coffee, please. I need to stay on this for a while longer.