There is a book about grief that I have been wanting to write for about five to ten years. When I think, "Katy, you should get started on that book about grief," my second thought is often, "Why would someone want to read a book about grief? That's not very fun." (And also, aren't there very many books about grief and loss and mourning, anyway?) And my third thought is, "But, I think it would be a really good book."
From my possibly warped way of thinking, Life, basically, is grief. One loss after another. We lose and let go of time itself, all the time. From the time we are babies, to the time we are old and someone else has to help us to the toilet , we let go of what came before. We let go of sucking our thumb, we let go of reading Dr. Seuss (at least as a primary source of fiction), we stopped taking naps, we moved houses, we changed schools, we lost friends, we lost grandparents, and pets, and opportunities. We lost our ability and desire to stay up late and party, we lost the freedom of not having kids, we lost parents, our health, jobs, marriages, ideas, faith. Sometimes the primary change was good (like having kids), but there was still loss of something that accompanied it. And every time we lost or lose something or someone, we mourn or we celebrate or we change. And sometimes all three at the same time.
So, if we know we can't stop time and we can't make things NOT change, and we know that some of that change will be painful - like down on the floor howling like an animal painful, where is the good in reading about it?
The last time I really thought I was going to start writing this book, I was in the midst of what I thought was a reconciliation with my ex-husband. I thought, "I've been through loss and I have a reason for hope. My writing and stories, perhaps, bring hope." Then, the reconciliation of my marriage failed. I lost that again and for good and I had to mourn different things, including parts of myself.
So, where is the hope? Is that the raison d'etre for writing about grief? To offer hope?
What I have are a lot of true stories about grief, loss, dying, illness, mourning, healing, kindness, laughter, and courage. Some of them are my stories, but many of them are my witness of other peoples' lives.
Here is one:
One of my hospice patients, a ninety-nine year old man lived with his wife in a condo in West St. Louis County and they had been married 75 years. Isn't that incredible to be married 75 years? Because of macular degeneration, he had been blind for some time. When I met him, he was also bedbound and being cared for by hired caregivers, so that he and his wife could stay in their home together. He literally could not shift position in the hospital bed under his own power or see the world about him, but he had a sharp mind still.
When I arrived for my first visit (and subsequent visits as well) , he took my hands in his, clasped them, as I stood by his bedside. "How are you?" he asked. I demurred somehow - "Oh, I'm fine, but how are YOU?" "No, no," he insisted. "I want to know, how are you?"
He really wanted to know.
The charity of that moment, the bigness of it, still strikes me. What a gift for me to have his attention and curiosity in a moment when many people would be overcome by fear and grief. Perhaps, inside he fought fear and grief, but rather than letting that rule him, he came from a place of courtesy and generosity. Or perhaps, he had lived ninety nine years and was beyond fearing his imminent death, so it felt natural to offer kindness to someone else.
I like that story, because it is a picture of the beauty of someone else's person. Their soul. Their humanity. This man did something beautiful by asking a seemingly simple question - "How are you?" and being present, really present, for the answer.
Maybe I want to write a book to offer hope. Maybe I want to write a book to tell stories. Maybe I want to write a book about grief to share some beautiful things.
So maybe the book I want to write, is only on the surface about grief and loss. The same way the man's words, on the surface, seemed so simple, "How are you?"
Underneath that surface is me.
I've thought a lot about death in general, and probably my own death, more than most people, but no more or less than most people I know who have worked in hospice and are similarly warped. One question we ask ourselves is what it will be like on our own deathbed.
If I'm lucky enough to live a long life and get to a deathbed, what and why might I look back over my life and think, 'that was a good one. I loved it!'
I think for most people, a good life is about about their connections to other people and living a life that in many ways is of their choosing, not forced on them by others' expectations. And for me specifically, it's going to be about not being afraid to live adventurously, not being afraid to be vulnerable and take healthy risks.
When I write and share my writing, I feel connected with people (specific people who let me know how my words impacted them and humanity in general), I feel honest and truthful and free, and I feel vulnerable and good all at the same time.
So I've asked two questions in this blog: 1) why write about grief? Easy answer. It turns out, because I like to and it feels good! 2) why read about grief? Because, if you're willing to go along with me on my armchair philosophy, life is grief. (But, also other things.)
I remember hearing an interview with Bruce Springsteen that the song Thunder Road, one of his earliest hits, he viewed as an invitation to the listener to come along with him on a journey. I loved that - the idea of being on a journey with Bruce, and also my experience of really enjoying that journey as a listener (with a few exceptions).
As the intro to the intro on my book about grief, I think that's what I'm saying too.
You're invited.
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