Tuesday, September 6, 2016

All The People Who Died



I always forget that one grief is tied to all the others. That one loss revives all the others. That—at least for me—someone else's loss, someone else's pain can reactivate my own.


I experienced my first loss at age four. My father died. His name was Harry. When I was a little older I found out he had taken his own life.

Then three years later, my grandfather died. His name was also Harry. I called him Papa. His second heart attack killed him.

My mother and I moved back and forth through different countries, and the losses kept piling up: Loss of home, of family, of friends, of community, of schools, and even of landscapes.

My family—a dual lineage of stalwart survivors—handled loss with a combination of denial and a stiff upper lip, and therefore, so did I.

We didn't know any better.

More people died. My great-grandmother. I called her Gran Gran.

My three remaining grandparents. Bobba, Zaider, and Marzie.

And, they have kept on dying to this day. 

My two aunts. Beebee and Pam.

My Cousin Al.

And, more beloveds: Beloved friends, beloved colleagues, beloved mentors. Grant, Jody, and more.

And just a week ago, an 18-year old boy I had never met took his own life. His parents are friends of my dearest friend. Their kids were at school together, played together, grew up together. 

I have never met his parents. But my friend's grief, the boy's family's grief, the children's grief, the community's grief, the fact that like my father, the boy took his own life, all of that made a beeline for my heart and ripped it to shreds all over again.

It has taken decades, but over the past few years I have learned that the only way to handle grief is to face it, to name it, to let it live in you, to let it hijack you, to surrender to it. 

The practice does not come naturally to me. It explains why I am so surprised and resentful each time I am overcome with a sadness so acute and painful it stops me in my tracks.

I leave you with the song that says it all for me: Jim Carroll's "People Who Died." Everything about it, the raw, punk sound, the lyrics, the absurdity, it all speaks to me like nothing else.

I chose this version from YouTube as it showcases Carroll's lyrics. 






2 comments:

  1. I love the opening paragraph of this post because it's so true. It's one of the main reasons why I try to advocate for those dealing with metastatic breast cancer. Every time I learn of another death, it reopens the wounds from my mother's and my family's experience. Every loss does indeed revive the others. Every loss feels personal. And as you may or may not know, my dad died recently, and that has reactivated the pain of loss on so many levels. I am sorry your dad died when you were so young. That is incredibly sad. And the young man you mentioned who took his own life...what can I even say? I guess the fact that one loss is tied to all the others is a beautiful thing because it means we never forget and it reminds us how lives are intricately interwoven. Mostly, it reminds me anyway that the love never ends. Thank you for writing this. So timely for me. xx

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  2. Dear Nancy, I apologize for the delay in replying to you. I didn't get a notification that there was a comment to this post and when I saw it and published it I was (and still am!) in the middle of a conference.

    Thank you so much for your heartfelt words, and no, I didn't know about your dad. I send you my deepest condolences.

    These words of yours touch me and I wholeheartedly agree:

    "I guess the fact that one loss is tied to all the others is a beautiful thing because it means we never forget and it reminds us how lives are intricately interwoven. Mostly, it reminds me anyway that the love never ends."

    Thank you! XOXO

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