only way i know how

True to form, I'm getting ready to lose my baby sister finally by doing the only thing I really know how to do in a case like this: research the hell out of it.  Read whatever I can find, watch anything recommended, basically absorb all available information, writing a footnoted report in my head.  But I'm not kidding myself.  Like parenting books when you're pregnant with your first kid, none of these resources will really and truly prepare me for what it will feel like, for the irrevocable tectonic shift in the landscape that will ensue when finally, finally, our Carla is no longer with us but with, as I'm sure she plans, the angels.

But still there's some comfort in the preparation, in facing in any way possible that which is coming, ever closer with each passing day.

And so today I watched The Gifts of Grief, a film by Nancee Sobonya, which asks how we might "transform the tragedy of our losses into a life-altering experience that deepens and enriches our lives."  Sobonya interviews seven people about their grief, about their process of going on through their pain and bereavement, how they faced their pain, how they came back, at last, to life.  Grief, says author Isabel Allende who is interviewed in the film about the death of her daughter Paula, is like birth.  The pain comes, the pain subsides, we think we can't survive the next contraction, the next paroxysm of grief, but then it passes and we're still here.  

For me, the most helpful words in the film came from Rev. Cecil Williams of Glide Memorial.  There's something so comforting about his face, about his voice -- so much kindness, such a deep wellspring of love.  He talks about the acceptance of pain and grief, about seeing pain for what it is -- a force that occurs to set us free.

Basically I cried my face off for the entire 52 minutes of the film, triggered early on by one of the interviewee's tears recounting her always-healthy husband's cancer diagnosis.  There's so much in the film that is helpful, even if it just gives you a way to cry, to break open the dam so the tears can come. So many illustrations of how you might approach the situation in your own life, what you might do differently and what the same.  I'm passing the film on to the rest of my family so they have this chance, too: to really face, through the experiences of these 7 people, what we can't avoid.  I'm not suggesting that we're all not in our own individual process around this.  Nobody in my family is denying anything.  It's just that this film brings those fears we have, the horror of it really, into the light of day, makes it possible not just to lay awake in the middle of the night, sick with anguish over it, but to go there in the daytime with a bit more light and with a little company.  I'm super-grateful to Nancee for making this film, and glad to own a copy, to re-watch as needed and pass on to others.  

I need to get ready any way I can, even if these preparations of mine prove to be wildly insufficient.  At least I have the feeling that I'm doing something, I'm thinking about what's coming, trying to stock myself with tools to help me through it.

It may sound weird to introduce at this juncture that it was almost exactly a year ago that we lost our sweet Jasper, our beloved dog and companion of fourteen years.  I learned more about pain and grief from the experience of losing our boy than I ever imagined.  Even though I'd fretted from the day we adopted him about the fact that someday we'd lose him, never in my wildest imaginings did I plumb the true depths of how devastating, almost annihilating, that loss was.  That heartbreak was the worst thing I've ever felt.  Truly, I didn't think I would survive some days. There just didn't seem to be any point. I share this only as a way of saying that that grief, for me, is still fresh, and something that I know I will be drawing upon, too, in whatever comes next, whenever it comes, for Carla.

Besides the film, I also spent about an hour dreamily walking through a bookstore today, leaping from author to author, section to section, following my train of thought, and left with a copy, among other purchases, of On Grief and Grieving by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and David Kessler.  Basically, Kubler-Ross and Kessler take the 5 stages of death with which we're all so familiar, having heard about them for years now -- denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance -- and apply them to the grieving process.  I'm tackling this book next, after I complete The Night Circus, which should be sometime later this week if all goes according to plan.  But I took a little peek already, read about "Anticipatory Grief," the place where we are now, precisely, taking particular heed of the warning provided

Anticipatory grief is the "beginning of the end" in our minds.  We now operate in two worlds: the safe world that we are used to and the unsafe world in which a loved one may die.  We feel that sadness and the unconscious need to prepare our psyche...  Such anticipation may help us brace ourselves for what is to come, but we should be aware that the anticipation of an event may be just as powerful as the event itself...  Forewarned is not always forearmed...  It is important for us to remember that this anticipatory grief stands alone from the grief we feel after a loss.  For many, anticipatory grief is just a prelude to the painful process we face, a double grief that will ultimately bring healing.

Some years ago, while rock-hopping around the interwebs preparing to blog about green burial, I discovered that there is such a thing as a death midwives, people who train to assist the dying and their families to transition to death and to hold in-home funerals.  It's a return, in essence, to what people have done for most of our history.  Certainly, it's what happened when our aunt Pauline died in France in 2001, her body remaining in the house for so long until we transported her to the graveyard up the road in the village.  Now, facing Carla's death, I'm really thinking about this death midwifery thing.  It kind of makes sense for someone like me, who embraces death on a regular basis in the garden, who used to teach composting which is all just a celebration of death and life, if you think about it. 

I feel like we've been just hammered as a family for the past few years, just pounded by cancer and heartache.  Things have also been wonderful and full of love and beautiful and awesome.  I can't complain, really.  It's just that sometimes I look back at all that's happened since 2008 and I marvel at how many dramatic stories there have been.  Pretty crazy for people who really do pride themselves on being lo-maintenance, you know?  And thank goodness we're drama-free, since there seems to be enough REAL drama to go around.

Look, if nothing else with all this research, I'll know what the resources are. If nothing else, when it's your turn, I hope I can help you, point you in a good direction, in case I find something that's particularly helpful.  Who knews: maybe by the time you need me, I'll be certified as a death midwife and can help you navigate this sorrowful place with some peace in your heart.  None of us go down this path alone.  It's just maybe that when it's the first time, it might feel that way.  I know you're coming with me now, so I feel better about it.  And if I have my footnoted report to guide us both, better yet.

XX

Comments

[Eileen]

I am blown away at how well you articulate the known and the unknown emotions and feelings that swamp us in the face of impending death and once the loss become a reality.
Beautiful, just beautiful.