All the Way to Mexico

rear-view-mirrorWe drove down from Maine. Just hopped in the car and hit the interstate, spur of the moment. Headed south. It was mid-winter and the snow was falling down in sheets as we drove. The car stereo played 90s on 9, one of the perks of having XM radio, and we pretended it was 20 years ago, Melinda and me. We rocked out to Sugar Ray’s “Every Morning” as the mile markers blew past in a blur.

“Where are we even going?” I asked over the noise of the car and the song.

“All the way to Mexico,” she replied without looking over.

“But I don’t have my passport,” I said, like a kid who doesn’t want to eat his spinach.

“Neither do I,” said Melinda, laughing.

“So how are we going to make it into Mexico?” I asked, confused.

“We’re not,” she answered with a twinkle in her eye.

And the conversation was closed, like what usually happened with her. She was spontaneous and exciting, but when she didn’t want to continue a discussion it died a quick death, stinking like sulfur when it was done. The road stretched out behind us for miles while ahead was a mystery wrapped in 90s nostalgia and blank space. Melinda hummed as she drove further into it.

The landscape changed from white to gray as we kept heading south, and night fell like a curtain in the distance. We seemed to be getting closer to Mexico with every rotation of the car’s wheels, but what that really meant eluded me. Melinda’s white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel reminded me that she hadn’t been the same since Leah left, not as sure of herself as she used to be.

“You know it wasn’t your fault,” I told her while we drove through Tennessee in the early morning hours on the second day.

“That doesn’t make it any easier,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

“And it shouldn’t. She’s still gone, but you can’t go on blaming yourself,” I insisted.

In the background Shanice was singing “Smile” even though neither of us had that expression on our faces. Instead it was like we had just fought a war and were reluctant winners. The silence between us had the finality of a dirge and the weight of five years behind it. That night we slept in the same motel room but in separate beds as we had done before, but in the middle of the night I heard the sound of wracking sobs across the empty space. Instead of ignoring them to preserve her dignity I got up and crawled under her covers. We fashioned ourselves into a seamless spoon with no words, and I awoke alone in her bed.

Then it was back on the road with no discussion of the night before. That was her way. It had become our way, and I found some solace in the familiarity of it all. And I noticed there was something different about the mood in the car, that it was somehow lighter than it had been the previous two days. While Young MC rapped about busting a move I tried to place my finger on it, but it still didn’t hit me until I saw the next road sign.

“Hold up. We’re going north again,” I told my mercurial driver, astonished at our trajectory.

“I know,” she replied, eyes firmly fixed on the road.

“But we’ll never get to Mexico,” I almost said, but it hit me before I opened my mouth. The trip had never been about Mexico at all. Maybe it just took a change of scenery for her to really open up in a way she never would have if we had stayed in Maine.

All the way to Mexico indeed, I thought, as Depeche Mode told me to “Enjoy the Silence.” And I did.

Sam

The Definition of Grief

Grief is visceral. It rips and tears at you from the inside, desperate to claw its way out. If you don’t keep a tight lid on it you could go insane focusing on it and nothing else. It can lead to a soul wrenching depression that threatens to shove you down and leave you for dead. But grief exists naturally in this world for a reason and a purpose. It reminds us that we are still alive, that no matter how horrible this life can be we do make connections that give us some relief, and some release. Grief is a universal truth that resists denial like the plague. It has to assuaged or it festers, am open sore that oozes out pain and anger. So much anger. It makes us lash out at others and at ourselves because it proves us as helpless as babies in the face of fate.

Grief is the best and worst of life tied up and twisted together until you can’t tell which one you’re left with. And when you think it’s over there is always another chance to indulge yourself in it. Because for better or for worse, that’s grief.

Sam

I Grieve, Too

night-moon“Though it takes all the strength in me, and all the world can see I’m losing such a central part of me… I recognize how much I’ve lost, but I cannot face the cost.” -Peter Gabriel

I can’t remember the last time I cried because someone died. Maybe it was when my Nana died. Odds are that I didn’t cry then either. And as the years go by, as I get older, there are more people I know who have passed on. Their deaths affect me deeply, every single one of them, despite the lack of tears. Because, in my own way, I grieve, too.

I wasn’t raised to hide my feelings. That’s a misconception when it comes to a lot of guys. The knock is that we are taught to deny and suppress those emotions in favor of stoicism, as if nothing affects us. But I grew up in a house of all females, and my emotional ceiling has always been pretty high. I know I can ride that roller coaster, but death is different.

You see, when faced with death I go inward. And not to press it down but to remember. I cycle through every memory I have of that person and I relive them. I feel those same feelings I felt at the time. And I honor them with those memories. So I don’t cry in sadness. I appreciate what we were able to have together in whatever form it took.

But I grieve, too. Because every one of those memories is finite, and no more will ever exist, not like that, not with them. I can go back to those places in my mind, or even physically, but no ghost haunts them to give me comfort. So I grieve… for what is now shackled to memory, to the shared experiences that are now just mine, and for the love that bound us no matter how far apart we were physically.

I grieve, too.

Sam

When Michael Jackson Died

I still remember exactly where I was when I found out, sitting in my rocking chair with the TV on mute, trying to make sense of something that made absolutely no sense. In a coma. No chance of coming out of it. Dead. Brain dead. Officially dead. Those words scrolled across the bottom of the screen, interspersed with “The King of Pop,” “Series of dates,” “Los Angeles,” and “coroner’s office.” And I sat there as mute as the television set, with tears brimming in my eyes that just wouldn’t come. Not then. It was too fresh, too unreal to be real.

Michael Jackson was dead. And the world would never be the same again. MY world would never be the same. Continue reading “When Michael Jackson Died”

From the Vault: Five Degrees of Grief (from June 30, 2011)

Grieving is a process, not unlike six degrees of separation. You’re familiar with the concept, I’m sure. Any individual can be traced to any other individual using a series of people in common, be they friends, work associates, family members, or whatnot. When someone dies you find out who is really in that circle, that framework of reference that surrounds you whether you know it or not. Now that I think about it, it’s also like Dante’s circles of hell in that each circle brings you closer and closer to something you don’t want to deal with — death. To that end, there are five degrees of grief that inform your actions at a funeral.

Obviously immediate family members represent that first degree of grief. When they die you’re at least expected to be there, to hold each others’ hands, to cry on command, simply put, to FEEL something. Perhaps you will read the eulogy, many sympathy cards make their way into your possession, maybe you take sole possession of the prayer lists of many of the elderly at your synagogue. Whatever is expected of you, nothing is unexpected. You can be your most dramatic when an immediate family member dies because anything less would be a shocking scar on your family image. In that first level, you need to re-familiarize yourself with the Josh Groban and the Sarah Brightman music you usually despise. It was you who picked it out for the service.

“Even if you didn’t know Great Aunt Hester all that well, she was still kin and her immediate family will need that money in the near future. Funerals are expensive.”

The second degree consists of extended family. Maybe you saw them once a year, or once in the last ten years, but you’re still needed as a family member to pick up the pieces when the mourning begins. In this second degree you are expected to fly out to West Omaha on a moment’s notice (or hopefully you’ve had time to prepare — flights can be wicked expensive), still participate in the hand-holding and tissue-handing, but more importantly, you’re needed for after-funeral duty. After-funeral duty is the cataloging of the meat loafs, the pumpkin pies, and the condolence gifts people have sent. You are of course surprised the first time you deal with this second degree of grieving because you had no idea how many people send monetary gifts to help the family out in their time of need. A lesser person would pocket some of this money but you don’t. Even if you didn’t know Great Aunt Hester all that well, she was still kin and her immediate family will need that money in the near future. Funerals are expensive.

In the third degree of grieving we have coworkers, former coworkers, people you used to go to school with but have since lost touch (i.e. the obligatory facebook adds), friends of family members (Uncle Jed who was never really your uncle), and former teachers. While you might have had some personal connection with these people in the past, they no longer hold that special place in your heart they might have held before. Maybe you’ve spoken to them once in the past ten years. Perhaps you sent them a Christmas card every year because that’s what you felt was expected, plus they always sent you one first so you felt like you would have been remiss not to reciprocate. Whatever the case, you had drifted apart, but you feel beholden to the memories you shared to show up to the funeral. If it’s on a Friday night you’re golden and don’t have to take time off work. If it’s on a weeknight you don’t feel as obligated but you definitely still send a condolence card (with money inside). There’s no need to kill the fatted calf, though, because if you don’t show up to this funeral you won’t be missed. No one will be looking for you to hold their hands or stock their food. They have first and second degree grievers to do that for them.

The fourth degree is even further out. This degree is specifically for supporters. Some people are friends of people who’ve lost those close to them. Your husband lost his step-father so you are a plus-one at his funeral. It’s kind of like being a plus-one at a wedding, though, because while he’s expected to express his emotion, you are just there to show that he still has other people in his life who care for him. You can even smile at this funeral because you’re a sign that life goes on after death. It may even be a good experience for you so that when you become that second or first degree griever you’ve already seen how it’s done. Your husband will appreciate you for coming and his family will remember that when inviting people to barbecues and picnics in the future. You will be at the top of the list.

“They come with a morbid fascination about death, and their curiosity needs to be sated.”

Most people don’t even realize that there is a fifth degree, and indeed, it’s hard to distinguish it from the fourth. However, there are people who fit this category exclusively, because while they haven’t lost anyone close to them, they are always keenly aware of loss. They’re the elderly who frequent funerals, who schedule them like they schedule dentist appointments. They know it won’t be pleasant but they know they should go. They cry the loudest, stay the longest, and accompany the family to the burial plot. If it were possible, they would also lower the casket into the ground while quietly singing “Kumbaya” in unison. They thank god that it wasn’t them this time and hope that the next funeral isn’t one where others will be singing “Kumbaya” about them. Just like the fourth degree, these people want to see how it’s done. They come with a morbid fascination about death, and their curiosity needs to be sated. Usually the first and second degree grievers don’t mind them being there, even though they don’t fit the other categories, because it makes the funeral seem well-attended and we all know everyone’s keeping track of numbers.

So, you see, funerals are not as simple as you may have seen on Six Feet Under. They are complicated, but once you understand which degree you fit into, they can become a lot more manageable, and a lot more interesting.

Sam

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