In this together

Pardon my veering off the research path here, but my mind is full this week with thoughts that I cannot set aside, so I’m just going to share a bit of it with you in the hope that it may be good for all of us. 

This is about the fragility of life as we know it. You can be moving along through your day, comfortable with whatever your routine may be, and doing everything you do to keep that groove going. Maybe you are planning a vacation, or talking over a gameplan for buying a second car. It could be something as simple as chatting over what to have for dinner, or who will run out to the grocery store later. 

It is different for each of us, of course, our daily schedules, our life stories, but we tend to go through the routines that we have established for ourselves practically on “autopilot.”

We all do it, and why shouldn’t we? We fill our lives with activity out of necessity, passion, interest, or boredom. Many of us find a partner to share those activities and build a life with, and the result is the ongoing story of our life unfolding into the future.

Until life throws you a curve ball.

Someone you love takes ill. It is sudden, and it is stunning. All of a sudden, you have no control over the routine you have accepted as your “life.” The life story you were living now seems like someone else’s, and you don’t recognize the future that is being suggested or, rather, threatened, by this uninvited visitor disguised as illness.

Naturally, fear takes hold because when we love, we attach ourselves to those we love and we want them to be with us, always. Anything that jeopardizes that peaceful existence scares us because we cannot “fix” it, stop it, or make it go away. All we can control is how we’ll deal with it.

We “go there” immediately when a loved one takes ill. Why? Perhap it is a natural human response. But why wouldn’t the natural response be a positive one? Because these are high stakes, that’s why. Losing a loved one is a nightmare, and even though we know it must happen one day, none of us is ever ready for “one day.”

It’s difficult to reject fear until you remind yourself that fear is really just the absence of faith. Nobody makes that leap instantly, however, especially when someone you love is thrown into a frightening, possibly life-threatening illness that no one saw coming.

This could be an accelerated experience of anticipatory grief, which I’ve talked about before, but more likely, it is a natural reaction to the potential for devastating loss. The difference, to me, is that the former is related to an expected, eventual loss while the latter is an instantaneous reaction to the unexpected news. We “prepare” ourselves through anticipatory grief; with unexpected illness, there is no way we can be “ready” so our worry escalates at an accelerated rate.

I don’t think it is because we are a species of pessimists. I think it does give us an opportunity to reflect on the human experience. We are all in this together. That is one of the reasons we share our losses with others, why we mourn openly, why we let others see our fear. 

We need each other. When we open up to others, we give ourselves a fighting chance to get through whatever the difficulty is. We allow others to feel our pain because we know, at some level we know, they will be there for us. 

I have been chirping this week -- to myself and to others around me -- about the power of positive thinking. I know these are only words, but there is power behind the words. When summoned from the masses, the energy of good thoughts must surely be an amazing thing. 

It only takes the presence of mind to focus your thoughts on the good, and to let those good thoughts take root. Then pass it on. 

Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan

Honesty and resilience

“Listen, Paula, I am going to tell you a story, so that when you wake up you will not feel so lost.” 
(Allende, HarperCollins, 1995.)

    
These words of author Isabel Allende appear near the beginning of her memoir, Paula, named for her 28-year-old daughter who died in 1992 after a nearly yearlong battle with porphyria, an unusual blood disease. Allende’s storytelling begins as a sincere plea to encourage her daughter to good health. By the time you reach the end, Allende’s impetus for writing has evolved into something else.

As I reviewed the hundreds of books, articles, and other materials for my dissertation research, Paula was among the first memoirs to catch my attention and touch my heart.

I suspect this, at least in part, is why so many of us are attracted to memoirs about the loss of a loved one, though the reasons are unique for each of us. These are stories that touch us, comfort us, change us, because they let us in to another person’s suffering and allow us to share their pain.

Something happens in this process, though I am not a psychologist, so my observations are those of a grad student sorting through the issues of grief communication. Of course we feel empathy for the author, as we relate to their pain and understand it. We may feel admiration for the author’s ability to express her feelings so powerfully. We may just appreciate the honesty.

This form of memoir writing -- the grief memoir -- has grown in popularity for at least the last 10 years, not coincidentally in the years since the terrorist attacks of 9/11. While I am still researching data to validate this apparent rise in popularity of memoirs that share stories of a loved one who has died, I can say that I have had no trouble finding relevant examples.

 
I also can say that the grief memoirs I have discovered each seem to offer a distinct reason which compels the author to share his or her personal grief in such a public, tangible manner. I expect I will mention some of these books here as I walk, because I am finding them so valuable in the human experience as much as they are contributing to my scholarly pursuits. 

Allende is such a wonderful writer, you don’t even realize as she begins her tale that she is drawing you into a history lesson. Her memoir weaves the tale of her childhood through the horrors of dictatorship after her cousin, Chilean President Salvador Allende, is assassinated.

While her childhood left the mark of tragedy on her memory, Allende writes about her daughter’s illness as the second tragedy to “put its stamp” on her existence. What she says next is a recurring point of discussion in my grief research: “I will never again be the person I was.”

Here, Allende is undergoing the heartbreak of her daughter’s incomprehensible and frightening illness, and she realizes a clarity that for many people does not emerge for months, perhaps even years, after the death of a loved one.

That recognition of the irrevocable change that has taken place can be a critical, even pivotal, acknowledgement.  Adjusting to that truism, however, may take time. We will get “reminders” over time and they will be difficult to accept. These are the moments when we remember that our loved one is gone, and the familiar patterns of our lives are all mixed up.   

By the time we reach the deeper chapters of Allende’s heartache, we are given the hard truth. Allende confides: “I am no longer writing so when my daughter wakes up she will not feel so lost, because she is not going to wake up. These are pages Paula will never read….” 

Again, Allende demonstrates a clear understanding of what she is going through. The fact that she is able to put the words to paper -- to commit to them in a way that makes them real -- is astonishing. The writing experience is a personal one, regardless of what one is writing. The words come from our innermost selves, calling for honesty in expression and accuracy in the selection of words, tone, and emotion.

I have one other reason to suggest why we are drawn to grief memoirs like Allende’s. She is a survivor. She has survived the tragedy of losing her beloved daughter, and found a way to transform that painful experience into a story to be shared with others. 

I think, deep down, we admire that resilience. We want it for ourelves, but are not sure we have it in us. I’m going to take a risk here and reassure you, you do.

For more information on Isabel Allende and her works, you can visit her website at www.isabelallende.com.

Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan

“Getting used to it” means you're connected

You would think after more than two decades, one would have adjusted to life without a loved one in it. This has been the case for me, learning to be whoever it is that I am, without my sister in my daily life. But every now and then, I will have an experience that reminds me that things were different once, and that they would be different now, “If only.”

The “If only,” obviously, is “If only Joyce were here.”

This idea is related to one that I have been studying in my dissertation work. It is the idea of “relearning who we are” after a loved one dies. Dr. Robert Niemeyer, whom I have referenced in this blog before, is a noted psychologist who is an expert on grief-related issues. Niemeyer has written extensively on this process of adaptation for those who grieve, suggesting that we are compelled to confront the essence of who we are when we undergo the grief process. 

Your whole world changes when you lose someone, because that person held a special place in it, contributing to your life experiences by being a part of them. The hobbies you enjoyed together, special occasions that you routinely celebrated together, traditions you shared, all are different when a key person in the equation is missing.

In the first few years after Joyce died, I did many things by myself. That is, I did many things by myself once I developed the fortitude to do anything at all.

I declined party invitations, “Happy Hour’s,” even wedding invitations, because I simply did not know how to venture out socially without my sidekick, Joyce, to accompany me. Mind you, I was in my early 20s when I lost my sister, so I had not developed my “adult life” yet and was only beginning to figure out what that might amount to through full-time employment and the development of adult relationships.

At the time, I was free-falling through my grief. I did not have a handle on my emotions, so tears were always just below the surface if not obviously spilling forth.  I wasn’t in control (insofar as we ever are “in control” of our feelings) and I was not strong enough to put myself in a position of vulnerability, particularly around anyone outside of my “inner circle.”

So I spent a lot of time alone, or with my parents, or occasionally with my brothers.  There were occasions when a cousin or friend would call or stop by out of the blue, to take me for a ride in their new car, or treat me to an ice cream cone to get me out of the house and offer a chance to vent. 

In hindsight, I can see how the relearning experience was working for me. I began to develop new relationships -- close kinships with a couple of cousins, new friendships with coworkers -- wow, looking back, it is like reading a scientific study, the way I “found” people to fill something of the void. 

Gradually, I became stronger. I also found ways to avoid grief. I buried myself in work. Any work. My job as a newspaper reporter became nearly round-the-clock, which isn’t saying much, perhaps, since reporters tend to be “on call” all the time. What I mean is, I spent far longer hours in the office than I should have, using that space as a haven for distracting my thoughts and keeping me busy.

I learned that going to the movies can be a good escape. Outside of the discomfort I felt initially in stepping up to the window to utter, “One, please,” I could hide in the comforting darkness of the movie theater and let the film take me away. Today, it is rare that I see a movie alone, but it has become a comfortable form of relaxation for me whether I have company or not. 

For all the “growth” and relearning I have experienced through the years of “Life Without Joyce,” I am sorry to report that there are still bursts of unexpected sadness and regret at her absence in my life. Guess what? This is normal.

My latest reminder: After several months of kicking around the idea of taking an exercise class, I finally picked a start date and decided to check one out. A friend had planned to meet me there, so I felt good about trying out an unknown place to do something I had never done before, at an age in which my flexibility and coordination are, shall we say, not what they used to be. It would be fun to try this out with someone I know, who will laugh with me when I misstep and encourage me through the hour of potential torture. That's how it was with Joyce and me, so I jumped into this activity with a familiar mindset.

Unfortunately, my buddy was a no-show. Most days, it may not have bothered me. It just so happens, I had dreamt about Joyce the night before, and it left me feeling a bit out of sorts and sensitive. There must have been something reminiscent of my teenage years with Joyce that made this particular experience difficult, but I had no way of knowing it would whack me on the head this way. 

“Joyce would never have blown me off,” I was thinking. “Joyce would have at least called me.” She was true-blue, dependable, and respectful. These are high standards to hold everyone else in my life to, but that’s the way it is. 

The short of it is, I got through the class just fine, laughing at myself instead of with someone, when I didn’t quite master the moves. The “lesson learned” for me was a bit difficult. Yet, valuable. Thinking through this little episode reminds me of how far I have come since losing Joyce. I became an extremely independent person as I embarked on the process of discovering myself in a world without her. 

Thanks to my friend’s unintentional absence, I recaptured an old memory of Joyce and me in our sweats at the old Gloria Stevens fitness center, and can give new thanks for that time in my life. Getting used to her absence may be a lifelong practice, but I know that there are good memories keeping us together.

Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan

The ramblings of an insomniac

Cursed insomnia. It strikes randomly, so I never see it coming. I believe this is one of the impairments of a PhD candidate and probably the curse of many creative people. The brain will not shut off for solid sleep because the work it has been doing, entertaining brilliant ideas and examining questions or artistic exploits is just too enticing to leave alone even for a much-needed break.

It’s quite annoying, even when you are able to explain it in this fashion. “I am unable to sleep because I am a genius.” This is what I suggest we tell ourselves, to feel better about this maddening state of sleeping fitfully, during which at least one hundred ideas come flying through our minds. 

Some of you have been through this with me before so I will not repeat myself here. (New readers to this blog can go back to a post from last August to catch up if you like. Just stroll through the archived posts at the left of the home page, and you’ll find it. It’s called, Hoping That Sleep is Overrated.) Instead, I’ll share with you the eclectic mix of thoughts that are keeping me from sleep tonight. 

First, it is the excitement of a potential job opportunity for my brother that has been out of work for more years than any decent, hardworking, reliable, goodhearted human being should be. I am (codependent that I am) thinking of all the guidance I can offer to help him prepare for his interview next week. 

He needs this job, in many ways, like so many of the unemployed people out there who are looking for work in an extremely competitive job market. The emotional and financial strains of being out of work take their toll, and I think my brother has paid the piper long enough. He is due for some good fortune.

So I am thrilled that he has an appointment that may bring the start of a new phase of career and life for him. I cannot stop thinking of the details. I want this job for him about as much as he does.

Then, my brain flips around to material I was reading shortly before bedtime. I am rereading some of the research articles I am using for my dissertation as I explore the question of grief and how people are more openly sharing it in public ways through electronic media and the grief memoir. I am taking a systematic approach to try to bring my thoughts into a narrow focus, so I can finish my proposal and get it past my committee, finally. This must happen, and it must happen soon. I cannot stand the agony of watching my potential graduation dates jumping into the future, out of reach.

I keep coming across key terms in the works I am reviewing that resonate with me: “drive to story,” or just simply “stories.” This has been a common thread throughout my life, especially in my career, as I have been a journalist and professional communicator for nearly 27 years. 

We are bombarded by stories every day, whether we are telling someone about the fiasco of having our driveway plowed that led to a painful four-hour shovel-fest and an expensive wrecker bill, or we are watching the story unfold of Arizona Congresswoman Gabby Giffords as she miraculously continues to improve from injuries she suffered last weekend when she was shot at pointblank range in a freak act of violence that has the nation talking. 

You see how my stream of consciousness continues to flow, even as I have abandoned trying to sleep for the moment so that I could pour all these thoughts into this blog entry. Perhaps I am expecting to empty my mind here so that it will be quiet enough for me to finally drift off to sleep. There is work in the morning, after all.

I do not suggest that these thoughts are connected, but I am surprised that they are so vibrant and practically simultaneous in my mind. (Not to mention nonstop and out of control.) My research article tonight referenced several grief memoirs and spoke to the growing popularity of this type of memoir writing. I have read some of them already, in my literature review work for this project, including Paula by Isabel Allende, and Eight Bullets, by Claudia Brenner. Distinctly different stories but each a memoir sharing a loved one’s life and death, while the authors bare their souls, their pain, their growth through grief. 

Another grief memoir that I have not yet read but am drawn to download tomorrow to my digital book reader: Your Father’s Voice: Letters for Emmy About Life with Jeremy -- and Without Him After 9/11. The book is by Lyz Glick, widow of Jeremy Glick, one of the passengers on Flight 93 that rushed the cockpit on September 11th when terrorists had hijacked that plane. 

I’m sure there are many more grief memoirs that I have not yet discovered, so by all means, drop me a note to suggest one if you can. I’m a doctoral student. Reading is my life.

Clearly, there is something in the reading public that is drawn to these stories, as there is something in those authors that compels them to make their private pain a public experience. There is a stark honesty in grief memoir writing -- there is no way to tell those stories “halfway.” 

Why do we do it? I’ll let you know what I find out. In the meantime, insomnia, do your worst. I’m making use of the time you’re giving me. 


Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan

“Pardon me, GPS: Directions please!”

Ever get the feeling you are driving around in circles? I have that feeling at the moment as I continue to work through this mountain of research materials on my Journey to Dissertation. I am stuck. Overwhelmed. Stressed. Ticked off that I have lost my way. 

Since I began blogging on this experience last summer, I have been enlightened, empowered, and humbled by the revelations I have had as well as the fascinating comments from readers who have shared their thoughts on various components of my research. 

There is a transformation taking place in modern society, in the way that human beings express, experience, and share their grief. So my bright idea of sharing this research experience -- my oh-so-long walk on this social-scientific path -- has led me to put words to the journey here, because it is indeed that -- a journey. And as I said when I launched this blog, no one walks alone in this life, so this walk is a shared experience. I’d like to offer this correlation: my struggle is not unlike your struggles to get through whatever challenges are pushing you around these days.

I have continued to wade through a pile of interesting information for months, finding idea after idea to be worthy of exploration. But as a PhD candidate, this can be deadly. I am largely left to my own devices, in spite of having a committee of three experienced, highly intelligent professors to bounce ideas off of. They will review my ideas, but they will not go much deeper than that. It’s my deal, so it’s up to me to navigate through the weeds to isolate the key information and bring it forth. 

So, the dissertation GPS is regularly chirping at me: “Recalculating.” 

I am working my way back to True North, perhaps, but we all know how annoying that “Recalculating” message can be. I want to go right when the signal is telling me, “Sharp left.”

I have to be honest, I have thought, many times recently, that I might abandon my “grief research” altogether and opt for something more “objective” for me, or at least, something that I would be able to think about regularly without being dredged through the personal back stories that are the demons forcing me to examine such a heavy but important topic in the first place. 

Truth be told, I am a little sick of all the grief talk. You probably are too. Some of you may recall that, in my introductory blog, I explained that this topic evolved as a “meant to be” sort of thing. Personal loss and tragedy are the backdrop, but I am not interested in being an expert on this, at the moment.

Trouble is, I am in too deep. The only way out is through and up. So I am a little lost, perhaps, but rest assured, this is temporary. If I can offer any positive spin on all this churning, it is this: whatever struggle you are going through, it is just a bump in the long road. Keep going. That is what I intend to do.


Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan

The unforgettable, one of a kind

My husband and I “pulled a John” last week, smuggling our Subway sandwiches into a movie theater to take in the remake of “True Grit.”  We were short on time to do a civilized dinner, so decided to do a quick take-out to make the 7 o’clock show. The fact that we did something that my brother John used to do on a regular basis made us both smile when we realized the connection.

This is the kind of connection that keeps us going when we lose a loved one. The out-of-the-blue rememberings remind us that as long as we remember them, they remain with us.

I’m bringing John around today, on the eve of the anniversary of his death. Naturally, he is in my thoughts as the date approaches, even though I have not consciously been trying to dwell on it. The fact is, I am enjoying remembering him as much as I miss him. 

Like anyone else, I can rattle off a hundred descriptors about my brother John. Fun to be around. Possessing an absolute child-like joy with a passion for sports and movies. Compassionate, generous, and totally loving. 

There are too many words and phrases I could mention, and they all have a place in the definition of John. To say he was one of my heroes would be an understatement. Was he perfect? Heck, no. Was he a one-of-a-kind human being who would support you and love you through thick and thin? You better believe it. 

I have never in my life met a man who was so totally comfortable being himself, expressing his sheer enthusiasm for the things that he loved, and his deeply felt disappointment over the losses in his life. It was one of the things I admired about John, and marveled at, really. He had the ability to let it all hang out, no matter who was watching. 

A few examples: 

It could be something as simple as the offering of my leftovers from the Fortune Pavilion, brought home for him after a dinner out that he was not up to joining. Through an email message, John’s exuberance shouted through my old Dell computer. “I LOVE FANTAIL SHRIMP! I COULD EAT 99 OF THEM!!” was the essence of his message. (Except I think he used about 20 exclamation points after “fantail shrimp.”) That was the thing about John. He could get you smiling with the subject line of an email message all on its own.

Another thing he loved? Pretty women. I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t mention it, because everyone knew that John had an eye for the ladies. Not in an inappropriate, disgusting sort of way, but in a playful, boyish manner that deep down was connected to his desire for a serious relationship that would one day lead to commitment, marriage, and a family full of kids.

Another example of John’s ability for unabashed emotional expression was the time he let his anger fly during a courtroom proceeding that brought our family’s worst nightmare to the public eye. This happened on the first day of the murder trial for the man accused of killing our sister, Joyce. 

For nearly four years, our family had waited an unprecedented amount of time for the trial to begin. After legal tactics and other delays that repeatedly pushed the start date out of reach, we were finally sitting in a courtroom in Waterbury, Connecticut, to learn, at last, what happened to Joyce, and to look upon the man accused of this unimaginable crime.

But before the first witness was called to the stand, the defense successfully made a motion to have all of our immediate family members removed from the courtroom on the possibility that they may be called to offer testimony. Even though a few of us in the family already had been tapped as witnesses, the rest of us had planned to attend the trial to learn firsthand what the case against David J. Weinberg amounted to. We had a right to hear the evidence presented, and to stand up for Joyce when she could not do so herself.

The judge ruled in favor of the defense and ejected our family from the courtroom. While I was sequestered in a witness room near the courtroom when this happened, I heard about the commotion, described to me as John in particular exited the room. Kicking and banging the doors that led to the courtroom as he burst out of the room, John let out a verbal reproach for the system and a loud display of anger and frustration that were characteristic of his honest manner of expression. 

John didn’t hold back. Perhaps this wasn’t always the safe or polite choice, or even the smartest. But it was John. “This above all else: to thine own self be true.” John lived those famous words of William Shakespeare. He was true to who he was.

John and I began talking frequently by email after he became more of a homebody, following a horrible car crash that robbed him of the use of his lower body. Wheelchair bound at the age of 29, John had to adjust to a sedentary lifestyle that rocked his world in an unbelievable fashion. 

This athletic, energetic, vibrant young man who excelled in baseball and basketball, danced at every wedding he was invited to, and bounced his way through life with a smile on his face was reduced to seeing things from the seated position of his wheelchair. High school football games, playing in the snow with our nephew, even driving his car by using hand controls, were some of the ways he had to adapt.

He weathered it the best he could but the truth is, John missed his old life. He had to reinvent it, so he turned to fantasy sports leagues on line, became a masterful bidder on eBay for sports memorabilia, and stayed in touch with his closest friends by email pretty much every day. 

Tomorrow marks nine years since John died, but I want to remember the way John lived. Happy go lucky. Kind and caring. Funny as hell. 

I’m betting you can think of a memory that brings back a special someone. How does it work for you? What sort of things come back to you? Whatever the memory, cherish it, nurture it, keep it real. Because it is. As real as the loved ones who gave them to us.

Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan