Memoir, Untitled. Excerpt 1.

This blog has taken a backseat to the book I've begun to write (again).  I've decided to start sharing pieces of it here to let you see what I'm working on.  Many people have assumed that the book would be some form of the blog, but it's actually an entirely separate project.  I plan on posting more excerpts to the blog site, as well as releasing chapters to my mailing list.

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The front door was left wide open for days, due to the summer heat.  It also made it easier for people to come and go as they pleased.  Our little house on the hill felt like a sanctuary for grief, or a suffocating hell-hole, depending on how you wanted to look at it.  Everyone who came to our door bearing food and flowers and tears had a look of devastation and helplessness in their eyes, and somehow I’d received the memo that it was my job to fix it.  They all needed to know that I was going to be okay, and I told them that I would be.  They believed me, because they wanted to.  I believed it too, but mostly I just needed everyone to stop looking at me with their eyes full of fear.  My situation was precarious, and none of us knew how I was going to survive, but we needed to agree that I would.

Aside from the sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves, there were things to be done, and Judy took charge.  Traditionally, she was not one for tears and drama and heartbreak — I’m not sure I’d ever seen her cry — and her way of supporting me those first days was to take action.  What kind of help would I need?  Where would our visiting family members stay?  What about a Memorial Fund?  Who would help me after the baby came?  Friends piped up from all over — “I want to help!” was a common declaration, to which Judy firmly replied, “Ok, GREAT.  What exactly are you going to do?  When exactly are you going to do it?  Can I put you down for that?”  

An online Helping Hands calendar was created.  A Fundrazr Memorial Fund was created.  Local papers would call, and Judy would provide statements.  She was my contact person, my spokesperson, my left brain.  She would sit with her laptop on the hardwood floor of my dining room (too many people, not enough chairs), and tap-tap-tap, task after task.  More than once I looked and saw tears welling up in her eyes, but she never cried out loud.  She tried so hard to hold it together.

Most everyone, in fact, tried hard to hold it together for me.  They looked to me for emotional cues.  Is it okay to cry now?  Is it okay to talk about how devastated we are for our own loss, for the friendship we mourn?  Certainly we were all grieving, because we had all lost George.  But my friends and family were also grieving for me, because I had lost him the most.  This meant that their grief took a backseat to mine as they assumed the support role instead of seeking support for themselves.  They would sit in my living room and put on strong faces for me, while I did the same for them, all of us stuffing ourselves back into the shock so that we wouldn’t have to touch the grief.  Opening the floodgates in each other’s company would create a mess that I didn’t want to have to clean up.  I held the unsubstantiated belief that if I showed them what I was really feeling inside, they would not trust me to have this baby.  They would commit me to 24/7 supervision and I would never get my life back.

Meanwhile, Senay took a week off work and came to my house every morning with Jeffrey and a homemade smoothie (the only thing I could stomach for the first two days).  With a calm smile and clear eyes, she would stay until the evening, helping with tasks, comforting George’s parents and me, holding my hand.  Before driving home she would sit in her parked car, somewhere down the block, and sob.

Even George’s parents, who had given him life, raised him, and known him for 38 years, were quick to tell me that although their loss was great, mine was greater.  On the afternoon of George’s death, I spoke to his mom, Karen.  She and George’s dad, George Jr., were driving back to Pittsburgh from Maine, where they’d been vacationing on a boat when they received the news of their son’s death.  “We’re sad about George,” his mom had answered when I asked if they were okay, “but we’re mostly concerned about you.”  This did not strike me as unusual at the time.  I too, was concerned about me.  

In fact, I was unable to have true empathy for anyone besides myself and my daughter for quite some time.  I did not feel good about this, but it couldn’t be helped.  The world according to George’s death revolved around me, and even though I tried to hold compassion for the hole he’d made in other peoples’ lives, mine was so vast that I couldn’t see the ends of it.  And though I wanted people to tell me how much they loved and missed George because it made me feel less alone in my grief, when they’d tell me the story of how heartbroken they were to reach for their phone to call him the other day before realizing he was gone, I only wanted to scream:  Do You Have Any Idea How My Every Waking Minute Feels?

My self-centeredness was not a high point.  

As time moved on, I began to understand how much George’s loved ones must have suppressed their emotions in order to care for me.  I hardly ever saw anyone else cry, including his parents, with whom he’d had a close-but-distance-bound relationship built on trust and equanimity.  I knew they were devastated, and I understood that they were grieving in their own private, somewhat stoic way, but they also had a rather pragmatic way of viewing their role within the landscape of our shared nightmare.  George, they said, had moved away from home 20 years ago, and they had said goodbye to his childhood long ago.  Although he never missed a trip home to Pittsburgh for the annual Christmas reunion, the majority of their memories of him remained in the past. 

“He was our son, but he was your future,” his father George said to me in the living room the day after they arrived.  

I nodded, feeling the gravity of my future without George.

“I’m just so sorry that our son has caused you so much pain.”  His eyes filled with sorrow and regret.  

The statement took me off-guard.  A man who had just lost his son was apologizing to me for his share of the responsibility, of creating the man who was now my source of grief.  The pain in his voice made it clear to me that I regretted none of it.  

“I would do it all over again,” I told him.  “Without hesitation.”  It felt vitally important for him to know this.  George had shown me a love that I never knew possible.  “I feel so grateful to have been a part of his life.  Please don’t be sorry.”

That conversation would turn out to be a grounding force for me as I set out to navigate the sheer torture of widowhood and motherhood.  I was, without doubt, more grateful to have known and loved George, than sad to have lost him.  This had also been the message of the daydream that ultimately brought Nova into my life — somewhere in my soul, I knew my love for him would trump all else.  

But there was a mountain ahead of me.  And though I had tools to guide me and boots to hold me, it was tricky and complicated terrain.