A couple of days ago we received the following email update from friends who lost their son, Michael to Burkitt’s lymphoma in April 2005.
I wanted to share it with you on Ben’s half birthday October 18. Joanne, Michael’s mother, has captured this incredible journey so well. I cried and smiled as I totally emphasized, unfortunately, with their letter and coping. I too believe that grief is more of a cycle rather than a linear progression. I am hopeful that the cycle time is shorter as we move forward in time and that the “acceptance” or happy memories are more clearly prominent.
Happy 7 ½ Birthday Ben. For those of you that know Ben and us know that we took every opportunity to celebrate life and half birthday we always a great excuse to make a birthday cake, have a party and play. We miss you and hope that you and Michael are celebrating your earthly birthdays and having fun.
From: Joanne Weiss
Sent: Sunday, October 16, 2005 2:43 PM
Dear Friends and Family,
It seemed an appropriate day to send out an update on how we’re doing. Six months ago today was Michael’s funeral. Today is my forty-eighth birthday. And today would have been Michael’s fourteenth birthday. It’s a day overly fraught with significance, so we’re marking it by sharing some thoughts with you. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been looking forward to writing this email – it’s been so long since our last “Michael Installment.” But now that the time is upon me, I find myself a bit at a loss for words. What, exactly, should I share with you? That we’re doing okay; that we’re getting on with our lives; that we miss Michael but keep him in our hearts. All clichés, I know; but clichés are rooted in truth, and these are no exceptions. Grief, as those among you who have lost a spouse or child or sibling or grandchild know, is hard to describe because it’s so individual, so unpredictable, so ragged around the edges. Nonetheless, what we wanted to do in this letter was talk a little bit about our grief and our lives now.
We each have many identities in our lives: mother, son, spouse, colleague, friend. We move seamlessly among these identities in part because they’re so well-defined externally – each one has its own audience. When I’m talking to Aaron, I’m a mother. When I’m at work with my colleagues, I’m a professional. On the phone with my mother, I’m a daughter. But “grieving parent” is a persona, too – it’s a persona with a missing audience; it’s a private persona. Yes, it spills over into all of the other identities. But making “appropriate” room for it in your life, I have found, is not easy. You can give yourself over to it; you can deny it; but short of these extremes, it’s challenging to integrate grieving into your life. Paul, Aaron and I – each in our own ways – continue the very real struggle to find ways and means to grieve.
A favorite approach of mine, lately, is what Joan Didion (and the psychiatric profession) call “magical thinking.” It’s not something I indulged in a lot while Michael was sick – I was nothing if not brutally honest back then. But now that Michael’s gone, I often find myself roaming in irrational territory, feeling (despite myself) that Michael might walk in the door any time or answer the phone when I call home. He would ask me for his iPod back (I’ve taken it over), but he wouldn’t be mad that I’d been using it. He would, however, be very angry with Aaron for using his computer monitor and TV without his permission; we’d have a major fight on our hands about that one. Michael would think our new caller ID feature is neat, and when I called, he’d say, “Hi Mom. I knew it was you.” He’d have a chorus role in Oklahoma, the play they’re doing at Jordan Middle School this year, because his good friends Ethan, Bowen and Julian are all in it. And he’d be playing violin every Monday (when his teacher came for his lesson) – and rarely in between. I see his favorite gray and black snow jacket in the closet – the one he lived in throughout his chemo-cold stage – and I think, “Oh good, I’ll know right where Michael’s coat is when he comes home and asks for it.” Sometimes these thoughts feel sad; more often they make me smile. And magical or not, it’s a comfort to keep Michael’s memory warm. The monumentality of the loss is just too much to handle all at once; absorbing the loss over time helps.
What else have we discovered about grieving? That it’s a lonely process. When we were caring for Michael during the last year of his life, our family all shared a common mission: to take care of Michael. We were in the same boat, rowing in the same direction. Grief, however, is altogether different. We’re alone now, each in our own boat, heading in our own direction and charting our own course. It’s a shock after being so close, suddenly to find ourselves alone. It has been hard to stay glued together as a family now that our experiences are no longer shared, our emotions no longer linked to each other through Michael. Don’t get me wrong – the bond is still tight. But it’s easy to understand how families drift apart in grief, just wander off in their own directions and when they finally look up, everyone around them is gone.
Because grieving is unique, there’s also no blueprint, nothing to hang onto. It has no beginning and no end. You don’t “get over” the death of a child or “resolve” your grief into a neat package. This seems obvious, I know. But it’s surprising how desperately I have craved a “how-to manual.” I think it’s all Kubler-Ross’s fault for making us think there really are stages of grief; that it’s a prescribed process. Even the word “stage” denotes progression and order. There’s nothing orderly or progressive about it. It’s messy. It’s jagged. It’s circular. You’re fine one week (or moment) and uncontrollably weepy the next. Seeing parents and children at the park might delight you or depress you – there’s no telling. You walk through your days hoping that if you behave as if you’re fine, your attitude will come around to match; some days it even works. But the notion that you begin in denial, then move to anger, and after a couple more stages finally arrive at acceptance – well, that’s just not how it works.
So how do we get through this ordeal? Each of us has our own coping mechanism – our own drug of choice, so to speak. And through this lens, you can get some perspective on how each of us is doing.
Aaron is sixteen and a junior at Palo Alto High School. His clear drug of choice is denial. Aaron is firmly entrenched in a world in which he’s exactly like all the other kids and nothing bad has happened to him. This mostly works, except when some reminder (often in the form of a story he’s reading for English) punctures this bubble. Then he falls apart and can’t believe that everyone around him is so insensitive, treating him “like nothing’s happened.” But missing the obvious is a special talent of all teenagers, and our son has put it to excellent use. He’ll be okay eventually – but he’s on the extended plan for getting there.
We’re not sure what Paul’s drug of choice is. There was cooking, computer Solitaire, Linux, writing poetry, reading, dog walking, and contemplation. But mainly, he got back to a midlife career crisis that was upon him before Michael got sick. Never content with doing anything career-related in a moderated manner, Paul is expanding the upheaval in our lives by considering a change of career. He has returned to school, but plans have not solidified. We’ll keep you posted.
My drug of choice (and this will surprise no one) is purposefulness. As long as I’m busy and engaged and doing work that matters, I’m fine. I threw myself back into work soon after Michael’s funeral in April, and it has been a wonderful refuge for me. My colleagues are terrific; the work is interesting and fulfilling – I can’t ask for more. At home, I’m the great communicator. As the resident female, it’s my job to force interaction – to probe, nag, wheedle, cajole, and generally ensure that the three of us talk. We’re each allowed to drift in our own little boats, as far as I’m concerned, just as long as the boats don’t drift too far apart. I am the one who draws us back together, keeps the other boats in sight.
And lest we’re leaving you with too glum an impression, let us assure you that we’re taking pleasure in life as well. We’ve seen every movie that’s been released in the last couple of months; we’re eating (too) well; we’re exercising (too) little; and we’re spending time with friends. And while it’s not true that every day gets a little easier, it is true that time and distance are helping. For over a year we stepped out of the normal stream of time and put our lives on hold. We’re sticking our toes in the stream, now, and slowly slipping back in.
I wanted to close this already-too-long email with a thank you to everyone for your cards, letters, visits, and calls. It eases our burdens to know that we are in your thoughts – so even if you didn’t hear back from us, know that your words are much appreciated. I will let Michael’s words tell you how we feel and why we value you so much. When Michael was in the hospital, he read S.E. Hinton’s classic novel, “The Outsiders,” for seventh grade English. I recently found in his backpack an essay about family that he was writing but hadn’t finished. It was like receiving a belated gift, a cherished memento. Those of you who know Michael will hear his voice ring out in these words which (together with grammar and punctuation) are all his own:
“Family defines in technical terms: n. 1. Set of relations such as parents or siblings. 2. A persons child. 3. Lineage. 4. Group of related plans animals or things. I can’t add much to this other than that family could be defining people that are close to you while they’re not siblings or parents and have any real blood relation. S.E. Hinton re-defines family in the sense of what I said above. While family might be parents or siblings, it isn’t always. Families can consist of people who are very close to each-other, such as kids in an orphanage or your best friends. To S.E. Hinton, family is people who love and care for each-other very much.”
In that spirit, you are all family to us. Now while you might think that this is a lovely thought to end on – giving each of you a final thank you for being such wonderful “family” – you’d be wrong if you thought we’d end on such a Hallmark note. Michael goes on to write:
“S.E. Hinton’s example of family is different from mine.... The only way her definition of family is similar to mine is that I consider my dog, my snake, and my hamsters all as family. Paragraph three supports my statement/thesis about family in the way that I consider my pets family, and while they may not be related to me by blood, or even species, I care about them almost as much as my brother.”
That was Michael – always reminding us of life’s complexities and absurdities. We miss him.
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
contemplative
tired
