Grief and I

Allow me to introduce you to my friend, Grief. He has been walking with me since April and I do wonder when I may be left alone...

Is there an FAQ for losing someone? Asking for a friend - not Grief, but me this time.

It's been a little busy in my mindspace recently - you see, Grief is quite popular and since he started hanging out with me, he has all these other friends who've decided to join the party.

Confusion. Waking up and feeling like it may be an ordinary day - but something, somewhere feels off, what could it be? Confusion. Having those around our family think that we're doing fine - how can they not see?

Rage. She kind of roams around with no clear target - sometimes she's concerned with how modern medicine failed us, how they didn't detect how serious it was in time, how something, SOMEWHERE, might have saved my uncle.

Gratitude. 26 years - I had 26 wonderful years to learn from him. Cut short though they may be, I'm grateful for every single day of these.

Fear. Fear whispers in my ear - what if what if what if? What if you have to go through this again? This time you broke, slowly and surely. Next time, you will surely shatter, and there won't be any putting you back together.

Fearlessness. Strangely enough, Fearlessness and Fear have found a way to coexist. Nothing could ever be scary compared to the last few months, right?

Anger. So much of it. The future we got cheated out of. Sometimes, unjustifiable toward my other family, who got more time with him then I did - and immediately followed by

Shame. We all lost him. I don't get to prioritise my friend Grief over his cousins who've found homes with my family at this time.

Hope. She's the gentle hand on my shoulder, telling me to stay strong, to be strong, to be happy - because that's what he would want.

Hurt. So many conversations left unspoken, questions left unasked. Things that only Shiri uncle would know - moments where I forget, the past, the usual, comes rushing back, I think of picking up the phone and shooting him a quick message and then boom! Hurt reminds me of that which I dared to forget.

Weariness. She's the loner standing at the corner of this whole party whispering softly

I'm tired. I'm exhausted. When does this ever end?

Strength. He's the friend who has a direct connection to my support network and has managed to keep me going - keep us going - as this party goes on. I'm thankful, everyday, for his perseverance.

When I Go

One can argue that one of the things that unites us as people is the inevitability of death. Yet, despite knowing that this end will come for all of us sooner or later and we have no way of controlling it, we refuse to make the most out of today. Sure, we don't want to actually live like we're going to die tomorrow; no work would ever get done that way. But at the same time, we sometimes act like we're going to live forever. Why is that, I wonder?

Photo courtesy of Death to Stock

 
I won't move to that new country just yet; you see, I'll have all the time after I'm gone.

That holiday my kids have been dying to go on? We'll go, definitely, after they're gone.

I have a friend in Hong Kong I've been meaning to call and catch up with; but no rush, I can do it after she's gone.

That person I've been wanting to ask out? Why rush it, I have all the time in the world.

There's a song I've been wanting to write for years now, but hey. I'll do it after I'm gone.

I had a teacher who really pushed me to go get my MBA; I've been meaning to call and thank him, but not today. No, I'll do it after he's gone.

After I leave this place, I'll be sure to travel to places I've never been. I'll make time for all my friends and family, I'll tell that stranger on the street that she looks beautiful. I'll go check out that new Thai restaurant two blocks away; I've been too busy to go, you know. Oh, I'll definitely adopt some dogs from the local shelter; been meaning to do that for a while, just never got around to it. I make sure to enjoy my job and current situation, and stop anticipating the future. I guess I'll finally realise that I have 24 hours in a day.

I'll have all the time in the world you see, after I'm gone.

A Tribute to Dave Goldberg by Sheryl Sandberg

I didn't write this, but read it on Facebook and thought it was well worth sharing! Death is one of the hardest things that we have to deal with, and I think many of us struggle to find meaning when presented with the loss of a loved one. Sheryl struck a chord with what she wrote, and I thought you all should read it too! 

Today is the end of sheloshim for my beloved husband—the first thirty days. Judaism calls for a period of intense mourning known as shiva that lasts seven days after a loved one is buried. After shiva, most normal activities can be resumed, but it is the end of sheloshim that marks the completion of religious mourning for a spouse.

A childhood friend of mine who is now a rabbi recently told me that the most powerful one-line prayer he has ever read is: “Let me not die while I am still alive.” I would have never understood that prayer before losing Dave. Now I do.

I think when tragedy occurs, it presents a choice. You can give in to the void, the emptiness that fills your heart, your lungs, constricts your ability to think or even breathe. Or you can try to find meaning. These past thirty days, I have spent many of my moments lost in that void. And I know that many future moments will be consumed by the vast emptiness as well.

But when I can, I want to choose life and meaning.

And this is why I am writing: to mark the end of sheloshim and to give back some of what others have given to me. While the experience of grief is profoundly personal, the bravery of those who have shared their own experiences has helped pull me through. Some who opened their hearts were my closest friends. Others were total strangers who have shared wisdom and advice publicly. So I am sharing what I have learned in the hope that it helps someone else. In the hope that there can be some meaning from this tragedy.

I have lived thirty years in these thirty days. I am thirty years sadder. I feel like I am thirty years wiser.

I have gained a more profound understanding of what it is to be a mother, both through the depth of the agony I feel when my children scream and cry and from the connection my mother has to my pain. She has tried to fill the empty space in my bed, holding me each night until I cry myself to sleep. She has fought to hold back her own tears to make room for mine. She has explained to me that the anguish I am feeling is both my own and my children’s, and I understood that she was right as I saw the pain in her own eyes.

I have learned that I never really knew what to say to others in need. I think I got this all wrong before; I tried to assure people that it would be okay, thinking that hope was the most comforting thing I could offer. A friend of mine with late-stage cancer told me that the worst thing people could say to him was “It is going to be okay.” That voice in his head would scream, How do you know it is going to be okay? Do you not understand that I might die? I learned this past month what he was trying to teach me. Real empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay but acknowledging that it is not. When people say to me, “You and your children will find happiness again,” my heart tells me, Yes, I believe that, but I know I will never feel pure joy again. Those who have said, “You will find a new normal, but it will never be as good” comfort me more because they know and speak the truth. Even a simple “How are you?”—almost always asked with the best of intentions—is better replaced with “How are you today?” When I am asked “How are you?” I stop myself from shouting, My husband died a month ago, how do you think I am? When I hear “How are you today?” I realize the person knows that the best I can do right now is to get through each day.

I have learned some practical stuff that matters. Although we now know that Dave died immediately, I didn’t know that in the ambulance. The trip to the hospital was unbearably slow. I still hate every car that did not move to the side, every person who cared more about arriving at their destination a few minutes earlier than making room for us to pass. I have noticed this while driving in many countries and cities. Let’s all move out of the way. Someone’s parent or partner or child might depend on it.

I have learned how ephemeral everything can feel—and maybe everything is. That whatever rug you are standing on can be pulled right out from under you with absolutely no warning. In the last thirty days, I have heard from too many women who lost a spouse and then had multiple rugs pulled out from under them. Some lack support networks and struggle alone as they face emotional distress and financial insecurity. It seems so wrong to me that we abandon these women and their families when they are in greatest need.

I have learned to ask for help—and I have learned how much help I need. Until now, I have been the older sister, the COO, the doer and the planner. I did not plan this, and when it happened, I was not capable of doing much of anything. Those closest to me took over. They planned. They arranged. They told me where to sit and reminded me to eat. They are still doing so much to support me and my children.

I have learned that resilience can be learned. Adam M. Grant taught me that three things are critical to resilience and that I can work on all three. Personalization—realizing it is not my fault. He told me to ban the word “sorry.” To tell myself over and over, This is not my fault. Permanence—remembering that I won’t feel like this forever. This will get better. Pervasiveness—this does not have to affect every area of my life; the ability to compartmentalize is healthy.

For me, starting the transition back to work has been a savior, a chance to feel useful and connected. But I quickly discovered that even those connections had changed. Many of my co-workers had a look of fear in their eyes as I approached. I knew why—they wanted to help but weren’t sure how. Should I mention it? Should I not mention it? If I mention it, what the hell do I say? I realized that to restore that closeness with my colleagues that has always been so important to me, I needed to let them in. And that meant being more open and vulnerable than I ever wanted to be. I told those I work with most closely that they could ask me their honest questions and I would answer. I also said it was okay for them to talk about how they felt. One colleague admitted she’d been driving by my house frequently, not sure if she should come in. Another said he was paralyzed when I was around, worried he might say the wrong thing. Speaking openly replaced the fear of doing and saying the wrong thing. One of my favorite cartoons of all time has an elephant in a room answering the phone, saying, “It’s the elephant.” Once I addressed the elephant, we were able to kick him out of the room.

At the same time, there are moments when I can’t let people in. I went to Portfolio Night at school where kids show their parents around the classroom to look at their work hung on the walls. So many of the parents—all of whom have been so kind—tried to make eye contact or say something they thought would be comforting. I looked down the entire time so no one could catch my eye for fear of breaking down. I hope they understood.

I have learned gratitude. Real gratitude for the things I took for granted before—like life. As heartbroken as I am, I look at my children each day and rejoice that they are alive. I appreciate every smile, every hug. I no longer take each day for granted. When a friend told me that he hates birthdays and so he was not celebrating his, I looked at him and said through tears, “Celebrate your birthday, goddammit. You are lucky to have each one.” My next birthday will be depressing as hell, but I am determined to celebrate it in my heart more than I have ever celebrated a birthday before.

I am truly grateful to the many who have offered their sympathy. A colleague told me that his wife, whom I have never met, decided to show her support by going back to school to get her degree—something she had been putting off for years. Yes! When the circumstances allow, I believe as much as ever in leaning in. And so many men—from those I know well to those I will likely never know—are honoring Dave’s life by spending more time with their families.

I can’t even express the gratitude I feel to my family and friends who have done so much and reassured me that they will continue to be there. In the brutal moments when I am overtaken by the void, when the months and years stretch out in front of me endless and empty, only their faces pull me out of the isolation and fear. My appreciation for them knows no bounds.

I was talking to one of these friends about a father-child activity that Dave is not here to do. We came up with a plan to fill in for Dave. I cried to him, “But I want Dave. I want option A.” He put his arm around me and said, “Option A is not available. So let’s just kick the shit out of option B.”

Dave, to honor your memory and raise your children as they deserve to be raised, I promise to do all I can to kick the shit out of option B. And even though sheloshim has ended, I still mourn for option A. I will always mourn for option A. As Bono sang, “There is no end to grief . . . and there is no end to love.” I love you, Dave.

Life and Loss

Today, I'll be featuring a guest blogger, who also happens to be one of my closest friends. He recently experienced the loss of someone very dear to him, and articulated his feelings in ways that I felt needed to be shared. Take some time to appreciate the people in your lives, because we can never fully appreciate how important life is until it's gone.

       
Shock. Shock and disbelief is what I felt when I received a phone call informing me that a very close childhood friend of mine passed away. It's been close to a month now and I'm still not sure if the full impact of his loss has really hit home yet. I had just finished my last class on a Thursday and was on my way to a coffee shop near my apartment when my cell phone rang. It was my friend Jordan's number. Usually when he called me it was to ask if I was in to town or when I might be able to hang out. I had received an unusual voicemail earlier that day from his mother, sent from his phone, telling me to call her back, so I knew that this probably wouldn't be one of our regular calls. My first thought as I stared at the name flashing on my phone was that my friend had fallen gravely ill, but a well-intentioned reminder imparted to me a few years before loomed in the back of my head. "You know, people with his condition often don't live much into their late twenties or thirties, son," my mother said, one evening as the sun was setting and Jordan pulled out of our driveway. He had begun feeling bad and had to head home for the night. I decided to research it myself and was foolishly reassured by a web page that claimed, due to medical advances, that people with my friend's condition frequently lived more normal lives than when my mother grew up. I know now that I had completely missed the point that my mom was trying to make that evening. 

You see, my buddy Jordan inherited a rare disease known as Sickle-cell Anaemia, and for the majority of his young life he fought it with mixed results. Sometimes he seemed like he was on the verge of beating his disease back enough to lead a somewhat healthy, normal life, more often, however, he suffered frequent and severe bouts of pain, and he spent many hours in hospitals and waiting rooms. Years of various surgical procedures, experimental medicines, and outmatched medical care yielded small victories often followed by discouraging setbacks. I had seen my friend go from lively and energetic to wheelchair and oxygen bound and back again. Still, nothing could have prepared me for the news his mother delivered to me on that sunny Thursday afternoon. I continued my walk to the coffee shop because, frankly, I had no idea what else to do. I walked in, placed my order to the barista, and sat down. The local high school had obviously just finished for the day and the crowd began to build a bit in the shop, and all I wanted to do was stand up and yell. I didn't even know what I would yell, I just wanted to do it to let something out because there was no way I could just sit there quietly forever. My better judgement took hold, and I immediately began texting my closest friends and people I knew who had known Jordan through me. At least they would have some idea of what a loss this was, not so much for me, but more for anyone who never got to meet him. My friends came through for me, of course, and I made it through the following weeks with the better part of my sanity intact. I have a few parting thoughts that occur to me as I think back on the events of my dark September.

First, I think that death often has an odd way of making us look on a person more favorably. No one ever goes to a funeral and says "well ya know, it sucks that he died, but he was kind of a jerk to his wife and kids anyways." We try to look for those things worth celebrating in a person and focus on those things, while many people may keep the other things in the back of their minds, no one wants to bring it up as the final impression one leaves on this earth. I imagine if you live long enough it can all get to be a bit hypocritical and tiring, although it also depends on the type of people you surround yourself with in your life. I say that to make this point. It really drove the loss home for me as I sat in my friend's service and realized that no one had to focus on one single good trait of Jordan's because my friend was truly a wonderful person.

Second, I realize now that my mom, when she reminded me of the grave nature of my friends condition, was not necessarily trying to mentally prepare me for a situation such as the one that I recently faced. I believe she wanted me to understand that my time with him was truly precious, and that I should enjoy it as much as I can. I had always thought she was just trying to get me ready for the worst, and so I looked for a different point of view elsewhere and kept my hopes up. Thinking back on it, I wish I had seen what she was really trying to tell me, because there are so many things now that I wish I had done with Jordan when I had the chance.

To close, I think that if anything can be gotten out of this, for me, it's this simple lesson. Don't let opportunities to share something new and exciting with a friend pass you by. If it's out of your comfort zone, take a chance, take a risk, do it anyways, not because your friend may not always be there, but because they are there now, and so are you, and the moment will only pass you by if you let it, and after it's gone you can never get it back no matter how many times you try to replay what could have been in your head. Our friends and family and the memories we make with them are our greatest and most lasting treasures. And for God's sake, take a picture or two. Trust me on this one, it seems silly and obnoxious at the time, but you'll always be glad you did it later.

-R.L.J

Love, Loss and the Land Beyond

This weekend, our family lost its eldest member, Dr. Rip Daman Singh; my paternal grandfather. He was 89 and had been ill for about 2-3 months, so this was not entirely unexpected, but it still came as something of a shock. He lived at home with us in Nairobi, and had been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.

Soon enough, the news spread far and wide, and his family members all over the globe were overwhelmed with calls, messages, and so much love and support. In these two days, I understood more than ever before how loved he was and just how many people looked up to him.

My grandfather was a doctor in Kenya during colonial times and after, and was in fact a British citizen. He travelled to quite a few places and made friends wherever he went. He was a 'tale twister' for Lions Club (quite an important distinction from 'tail twister' in a Lions' Club!) I remember whenever people came home to visit, he was always ready to laugh and share a joke or story or two from back in the day, and it always surprised me to see the wealth of experience that someone I lived with everyday had. 

Death is not an easy thing for humans to confront. In a society that has done as much as it can to make itself immortal, this final end is a harsh reminder of just how fleeting life can be. 

At this time more than ever, I wished that I could be home with my parents and the rest of the family, but also realised just how united the family was. Over three continents, this past weekend, we came together stronger than ever to celebrate the legacy of a wonderful man who is one of the reasons we are so united, and that none of us is ever truly alone. Today, he and my grandmother celebrate their 65th wedding anniversary in the land beyond. They are together again after about 21 years, and those of us left here are all celebrating a life well lived with an abundance of love and laughter. Already, we've seen signs of him smiling down at us, and we know he'll be watching over us forevermore. 

"Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on the snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die."

- Mary Elizabeth Frye, 1932