Keeping in Touch with a Friend Who Died

Delle Chatman

I was helping my mother sort through old papers yesterday morning: bank statements, tax returns, paid bills. The shredder simply stopped twice, overheated and tired. On one of its breaks, I picked up two envelopes addressed to her in my handwriting. Puzzled, I opened them both to find copies of emails I had shared with my parents: emails from my friend, Delle Chatman.

When I realized what they were, I had to smile. You see, today is eight years since Delle died. I’ve felt her presence on occasion – so strongly at times I’ve heard her voice and once even felt her arms around me. My first thought upon seeing the emails was, “Gee, you’ve been quiet for a while. Where have you been?”

Those of you who have read my books or this blog for a while will recognize the name. Delle is the reason I’m a writer. I told her when she was in remission from ovarian cancer that I wanted to write a book about people who are grieving the death of a friend. She was enthusiastic about the idea, and made me promise to do it. It took a while, but I did.

The first email was dated New Year’s Eve, 2004. I won’t go into detail about it. It was deeply personal, reflecting on both her cancer battle and that of my father. She closed it saying she wanted us to get together the following week for coffee because she wanted some guidance from me on a new project.

I’m struggling to remember that project. It might be one of several; she always had something percolating. But I was a little surprised to see in print that she had asked for my help. I know we’d ask each other for input on various things, whether related to our daughters or our work. But still, it gave me a little comfort to see confirmation of her respect for my opinion.

The second email was dated Feb. 18, 2005, exactly four months before my father’s death. Delle, herself, was just out of the hospital after another recurrence of what she called “the beast”. While the first email was only for me, this one was sent to “Delle’s Elves”, those of us who had rallied around her since her initial diagnosis in 2002. It was one of her occasional emails bringing us up to date on her condition, outlook and needs.

As usual, she cut to the chase and related the bad news first. But most of the three page email was devoted to good news, exciting projects and her love of her daughter, The Remarkable Ramona. And she ended it as only Delle could: giving hope to those who sought only to hold her up:

I just wanted to let you all know there’s fresh cause to give thanks and to praise God. I wanted to share the depths of it all with you because for a few years now for some of you (thank Heaven for new friends!) you’ve walked with me in spirit, truth and love. I’m grateful for your company and your friendship.

This is what matters.

This is all that matters.

As you pray for me and Ramona, know that we are praying for each of you.

God has given us to each other.

And I, for one, am very, very glad about that.

Peace,

Delle

Like I said, I’ve “heard” from her many times since her death. Whether it was a candle flame sparking a fire on the side altar at our church during a Mass being said for her, or the sun blinding me through a stained glass window during my daughter’s confirmation (Delle was supposed to be her sponsor), each occurrence has been marked by a certain…theatricality. That’s how I know it’s her. Nothing subtle will do.

“God has given us to each other.”

I know all of Delle’s friends feel that way.

And we always will.

Letting Your Friend Die

benawyn.wordpress.com

I think most people agree that everyone has the right to make decisions about their health. No one wants to be forced to have medical procedures they don’t want. And who wouldn’t want to decide their own end-of-life care?

But theory can be very different from practice, especially when it comes to our friends.

I remember when my friend, Delle Chatman, announced she was discontinuing treatment for yet another recurrence of ovarian cancer. Before that, she’d led us to expect miracles each time it came back. But after a month of treatments, she emailed her friends to say her body couldn’t take anymore. Everyone agreed in theory that the decision was her right. But that didn’t mean we weren’t angry. Yes, it was her decision, but no one wanted her to go.

Recently, a Facebook post to members of ACT UP NY told the story of a man who’d decided to stop taking his AIDS meds, knowing full well that he’d die. The reactions of his friends ranged from sadness to anger to outright rejection. He was lucky to have a friend who drove him cross-country, so he could die surrounded by a few people who supported his right to make that decision.

He didn’t go peacefully, as Delle did. He lashed out at those who rejected him, who tried to talk some “sense” into him. I don’t blame him.

Did they commit suicide? I don’t know. I guess in the strictest sense, they did. But this wasn’t making a decision to end your life without telling anyone.

This was different: they told everyone that they were refusing further medical treatment. They’d struggled for years with painful treatments and toxic drug regimens. They made the decision we believe they had the right to make.

And boy, were we pissed off.

The classic movie The Big Chill is about a reunion of college friends at the funeral of one of their group who committed suicide. Their responses range from shock to anger to guilt. Some of them felt they could’ve stopped Alex from killing himself if they’d only known he was considering it. They believed they had that kind of power over their friends: to keep them alive.

They were wrong.

No one wants to watch their friends die. No one wants to get that call or email, or read the news on Facebook. We expect to outlive our parents. Who expects to outlive their friends?

But the sad truth is that sometimes we do. It’s not that our friends don’t love us, or believe that we love them. But the heartbreaking decision they make is one that is their right: theirs, not ours.

Let’s be honest: we’re being selfish when we argue with them to change their minds. We don’t want to let go of them, no matter the physical cost. We want more time, more fun, more memories. Who wouldn’t?

Except…

Sometimes the best way, the only way, we can love our friends is to let them go. Let them make the hardest decision they’ve ever made without feeling guilty for upsetting us. Let them take some control in a life that has become, for them, unbearable.

You may be in this kind of situation one day: your friend has announced they’re stopping their medical treatment, a decision that will hasten their death. What will you do?

Will you try to take control, convince them to change their mind?

Will you scream and curse when they refuse?

Will you cut off all contact until and unless they come to their senses?

You’ll want to do all that and more, believe me.

But don’t – don’t let their last memory of you be of your anger and disapproval. Instead, put your pain aside, and let them know that even though you don’t agree, you’re there for them. You didn’t always agree before then, did you? Of course not, but you stayed friends.

Prove just how good a friend you are.

Let go.

 

 

Death Ends a Life, Not a Friendship

Delle's was grey & mine was black

It’s no secret to anyone who reads this blog that I have “heard” from my friend, Delle, many times since she died in 2006.

The time that has passed since she died is actually longer than the time we knew each other. But I still find myself talking about her in the present tense.

I’m not the only person who feels that way. It’s going on seven years since she died, and I still hear her friends say “I think about her every day.” She had that kind of effect on people.

Maybe you have a friend who changed your life, and maybe they’re dead. Does that mean your friendship is over? I’ve learned in many ways that the answer is “no.”

As I struggled with writing the book I promised her I’d write, I could hear her voice when I first told her my idea, “Just do it.”

When I worry about money I can hear her sigh, “If you’d write the damn book, you wouldn’t have to worry about that.”

On my desk is a postcard that Delle sent me from Paris. It shows the Eiffel Tower at three different times of day. It’s propped up, but now and then it flops over for no apparent reason. That’s when I know she’s making her presence known.

Other times have been more dramatic: light shining through a stained glass window in church at an important moment; a candle flame shooting up without warning. A couple times a gun-metal grey PT Cruiser (like Delle’s) has pulled up next to me, and when I look over, it’s a beautiful African-American woman who looks like her in the driver’s seat.

Not long ago, I was in our favorite coffee house, Metropolis. My first book was out and the second was close to being released. I was talking about them to two women who are also regulars there. Suddenly a woman said “excuse me” and slipped past where I was standing. When I looked up, she smiled at me: she looked just like Delle. I hope I didn’t look like the deer in the headlights. A few minutes later I checked, but she was nowhere to be seen. I knew it wasn’t her, but still…

I realize that in a different time, say, the Middle Ages, I might be burned at the stake for admitting any of this. But as I’ve talked to people around the country – around the world, actually – about their friends, I’ve learned that these kinds of things are very common.

Many people admit to talking to friends who have died, feeling their presence, hearing their voices. They talk about the impact that person had on them, often, inspiring them to change their lives for the better.

So, if you’ve had experiences similar to these, you can breathe easier now. You’re not crazy and you’re definitely not alone. There are a lot of us out here, keeping the friendship going, long after our friend has died.

Friend Grief and Anger is Finally Here

After a number of fits and starts – too many to list, but including Mercury in retrograde – I’ve finally released the ebook version of the first book in my Friend Grief series (paperback version coming soon).

Friend Grief and Anger: When Your Friend Dies and No One Gives A Damn grew from a conversation I had with my friend, Delle Chatman, in 2006. We were sitting in Metropolis, the coffee house we frequented, and she was in remission from ovarian cancer. An idea had been bouncing around my head, and though I was nervous, I told her I had an idea for a book to write. She was enthusiastic as always, and I promised her I’d do it.

I guess it was writers block that I suffered from for a long time after she died that November. I would interview someone and try to write their story, but couldn’t. I despaired of being able to keep my promise and put the project away.

It wasn’t until August, 2009, that I broke through that block. Suddenly it became clear – format, tone, topics – and two months later I was on my first research trip. This blog started in February, 2011, coinciding with my first writers’ conference. The rest, as they say, is history.

So today I sit at Metropolis once again, still glancing occasionally at the door, half-expecting Delle to walk in. I’ll do a book signing here, because there’s no more appropriate location. I owe this all to her: for not being offended by my idea, for encouraging me to embark on a career that deep-down I’d wanted to do all my life, for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself. I hope she’s pleased.

 

Here’s an excerpt:

I’ve had friends who died from enemy gunfire and cancer, car accidents and suicide, AIDS and the 9/11 attacks. Not one of those deaths made sense to me. Not one of those friends deserved to suffer - sometimes for years, sometimes for seconds. Not one of those deaths could be justified in my mind as being necessary.

But all forced me to admit that I could not change what had happened, and for a control freak, that’s a tough lesson.

We’re all control freaks when it comes to death. We have no control over the circumstances of our birth and very little over the circumstances of our death. And since we tend to be adults when the second one happens, we believe we should have a say: not only about our own deaths, but about those of the people we love.

If possible, all of us would do whatever was in our power to spare our friend’s suffering and death. Love does that: it makes you want to protect the ones you love. The hardest lesson of all is that, ultimately, you can’t.

But instead of throwing a much-deserved tantrum because we have no power, we have to sit back and say, “I hate that this happened to my friend. I hate it with every breath I take. But I can’t change it, and that kills me, a little, too.”

 

Ordering information is available on the Books page.

Dead Friends Who Still Talk To You

Delle Chatman

Four of us sat in the front of St. Gertrude’s Church one November morning. It was a year after our friend Delle Chatman’s death.

Kim, Rina, Jeannie and I originally met Delle because our children attended Sacred Heart Schools on Sheridan Road in Chicago. Now the four of us decided to remember her with Mass followed by red velvet cupcakes at Metropolis, the coffee house where we all hung out.

In November, St. Gert’s puts up an ofrenda: a small, temporary altar displaying photos of parishioners who died during the previous year. Prominent on the table, just to the side of the main altar, was a joyous photo of Delle and her daughter, dressed in traditional African robes, dancing. It was definitely a symbol of how we wanted to remember her: happy and healthy.

Also on the table was a candle burning unobtrusively. But just as Father Dom came out on the altar to begin the mass, the flame shot up and caught the linens on fire.

“Oh, shit,” were the first words out of my mouth, not the preferred response from the front row in a church. Rina was on her feet first, and the flame was quickly extinguished. No harm was done to the memorabilia, and Father Dom missed the drama because it was out of his line of vision. But it was a challenge to not laugh out loud. There was no doubt in our minds who was behind it.

A month before she died, Delle announced that she was discontinuing her cancer treatment. Her body just couldn’t take any more. That email unleashed a flood of emotional responses, friends from all over the country pouring out their love for her.

“I’m not dead yet. Save it for the funeral – I’ll be there,” was her embarrassed response. She was indeed.

Her memorial service was, as my husband called it “the shortest two hours I’ve ever spent in church.” No one wanted to leave. We needed to lean on each other.

Delle’s daughter, “the remarkable Ramona”, was eleven. She had told her mother she wanted to sing at the service “so everyone will know I’m all right”.

We were sitting directly behind the family, close to the front. I remember when Ramona stood and walked over to the microphone. When she got there, a shaft of light broke through one of the stained glass windows and shined on Ramona. There was a gasp from people around us. Not everyone could see it; it depended on where you were sitting. But after my initial shock, I just shook my head. “That was pretty melodramatic, even for you,” I thought to myself.

Those were two of the times I’ve felt Delle’s presence. There have been others, and I hear her voice now and then.

Maybe you hear voices, too. Maybe you just walk into a room and feel the presence of your friend. Wishful thinking? I guess that’s possible. But I like to think our friends are always with us, stalking us long after they’re gone.

 

 

 

How Long Should You Grieve Your Friend?

Sometime last year I was on my parish Yahoo group. I mentioned my friend, Delle Chatman, whose encouragement led me to begin writing about grieving the death of a friend. One of the women on the group posted:

“I think about her every day.”

When she typed this, it had been five years since Delle died.

“I think about her every day” doesn’t mean she thinks about her in a sad way, of course. It might mean that she simply walks by Delle’s apartment building, or sees a gun-metal grey PT Cruiser like the one Delle used to drive. Something triggers a memory.

There are times when I walk into the coffee house we used to frequent and even now, six years later, I’ll look around, half-expecting her to be holding court as she nurses a green tea latte.

Is that grieving or not?                

The incredible First Selectman of Newtown, Connecticut, Patricia Llodra, has begun the delicate process of removing public memorials to the children and adults murdered at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Concerned that the flowers, teddy bears and other gifts were ruined in recent storms, she gave the order that they be removed – after the families of those lost had one last opportunity to visit the sites.

Is that grieving or not?

Soldiers talk about their lost comrades decades after combat, memories sometimes tinged with survivor guilt.

Is that grieving or not?

There’s been much talk of the definition of “healthy” grieving, as opposed to a grief that spirals downward into serious, clinical depression. But I don’t think even the American Psychiatric Association can define just how long – or how - we grieve our friends.

Throughout this coming year, we will look at ways people remember their friends. They are as varied as the friendships themselves, but all are about preserving memories: memories that sometimes never move from bad to good. And we’ll look at the toll that can take.

Everyone grieves in their own way. You may be surprised to find that you grieve people differently, depending on how close your friendship. You may be surprised to find you grieve more than you expected – or less.

We’ll be sharing lots of these stories, as well as the publication of the six books in the Friend Grief series (see the Books and Events pages for updates).

It’s going to be an exciting and interesting year here on Friend Grief. I’m glad you’re along for the ride!

Big Changes for Friend Grief

UPDATE - 11/1/12

HURRICANE SANDY-RELATED DELAY FOR E-BOOK LAUNCH. DON'T WORRY - IT'S COMING!




If I’ve seemed quiet lately, there’s a reason. I’ve been attending a conference and doing research, which took a lot of time. But November will be a big month for Friend Grief.

On November 2, the first in a series of small books on the topic of grieving your friends will be released. Friend Grief and Anger: When Your Friend Dies and No One Gives a Damn will expand on a few earlier blog posts on anger. It will be available on all e-book platforms, and the links will be posted here as soon as they’re available. For my followers in the UK, Canada and Australia, you’ll be able to get it right away, too. If you’re keeping score, November 2 is Day of the Dead.

The print version (about 60 pages) is targeted for release on November 19, which was Delle Chatman’s birthday. I felt it was appropriate, since I wouldn’t be doing any of this without her. I’ll be doing a book signing/launch at the coffee house in Chicago that was our hangout.

My plan is to release the second book, on grieving friends who died of AIDS, on Dec. 1, with subsequent titles in the series released every other month through 2013.

As soon as they’re confirmed, I’ll list additional information – reviews, book signings, etc. – here on this blog. New resources – on and offline – will also be added in the next few weeks.

And after the first of the year, there will be a redesign of the whole blog/website, but let’s get through the holidays first. J

Your feedback is always welcome and appreciated. If you have an opinion about something I wrote, please comment. If you’d like to share a story about a friend of yours who died, email me. If you know of someone who would benefit from what we discuss here, share this link. As always, remember that I’m not a medical professional, and this blog is never intended to be a substitute for therapeutic help.

One of the terrific aspects of this new career of mine is that I believe I have a deeper appreciation of my friends. I find myself reaching out, sometimes self-consciously, in ways that often surprise me.

For example: I don’t have a picture of myself with Delle, just the two of us. I have pictures where we’re with a group, but no picture of just us. We were always the ones taking pictures and never thought to include ourselves. I regret that a lot.

Last Friday I asked the wife of a friend of mine to take my picture with him. I have lots of pictures of him, but again, none of just the two of us. I was a little embarrassed to ask, but I got over it.

I don’t know if anyone can live their life without regretting things they didn’t do. But I’m trying more and more to risk that momentary embarrassment: to pose for that picture, to make that phone call, to say ‘I love you’ while I can.

Try it. You’ll be glad you did.

 

 

Sharing Delle with StoryCorps

Delle Chatman

If you listen to NPR, you’re probably familiar with StoryCorps. They provide the audio recordings of ordinary people talking about their lives: sometimes about a person, sometimes an event.

They’re in Chicago right now and I made an appointment to talk about my friend, Delle Chatman.

I knew I’d have plenty to talk about, but I brought a few things with me, along with a list to jog my memory. I had a weekly bulletin from St. Gertrude’s with her picture on the front; her obituary, written by her brother, Gregory; a mailing from 30 Good Minutes, a local PBS program about religion where she frequently appeared; the note she wrote in the hospital announcing that the cancer was back (I have it because it was my job was to disseminate it to her Yahoo groups). And of course, I brought her scarf, the one I selected at the gathering after her funeral.

I talked about our unlikely friendship and how she made everyone feel like they were her best friend. I recounted conversations and impressions. I believe I spoke with great affection most of the time, though with sadness and anger occasionally.

I was afraid I’d talk too fast, and be done long before my forty minutes were up. But I was still going strong when Erin, my StoryCorps partner, asked one final question:

“What would you say to her now if you could?”

My eyes filled with tears so quickly I had to pull myself together to answer. It was the only time I choked up.

In truth, I talk to Delle often, and at times I hear her voice: coaxing me, prodding me, scolding me, though always with the intent to push me to do better.

But I knew without a doubt what I would say if she were sitting across from me at Metropolis, green tea chai latte in front of her:

“Thank you. Thank you for seeing something in me I didn’t know was there, for pushing me into a new, frightening and exciting career, for directing my life even now. I wouldn’t be who I am today if not for you.”

And thanks to Erin and Leslie at StoryCorps, for allowing me to share the story of my remarkable friend.

For more information on this terrific organization and to learn how you can make a recording, log onto StoryCorps.

How Do You Honor Your Friend?

ehow.com

For the next few posts, I’m going to look at the ways some people have honored a friend who has died.

In many ways, this blog is a way for me to honor a friend. Before she died, I promised my friend, Delle Chatman, that I’d write a book about what people go through when their friends die. She was enthusiastic and supportive, as always.

It took almost 3 years to finally get going, but later this summer, I’ll be self-publishing a small e-book, My Best Friend Died and No One Gives a Damn. The bigger book is still in progress, though it’s getting close. She’s taken over my life, changing my career path in a very unexpected way. That’s not a complaint.

Connie Ragen Green wrote last summer in EzineArticles.com about her closest childhood friend, Tory.

“We had been close friends for more than thirty years. He died suddenly the day before Christmas by choking on some food while he was alone.”

Not surprisingly, her grief continued for months, especially when considering the ‘what ifs’ that consume us when someone dies in a way that might have been prevented. She could have wallowed in that forever.

Then she realized she had hundreds of photos of him. She spent several months transferring them to CD’s, choosing background music, creating tributes. She sent the CD’s – a new one each week – to his family. Sharing the good times helped her heal.

That was a great thing to do, you’re thinking. And it was. You don’t have to be a computer whiz to do it. But she took her love for her friend a step farther:

“The year after he passed away I set up a scholarship fund in Tory’s name. He had not been a good student, so I set the academic requirements very low for the person who would apply for it. He also loved animals, so I made the scholarship for someone who was studying to work with animals as a career. I remember meeting the woman who received it the first year. She wanted to be a veterinary assistant, and this money was going to help her to finish school and go on to this career. I told her a little about why I had set up the scholarship and wished her well with her studies.”

Not everyone has the financial resources to do that, but I liked that she tailored the scholarship to someone like her friend: a normal guy who liked animals.

In the midst of grief, it’s often difficult to think of good ideas for honoring our friends. I hope this post and the next few will give you some ideas. Feel free to share yours, too.

Caregiver to Your Friend: Compassion Fatigue

I thought this was a great topic to address after Tracey Carruther’s beautiful guest post here on Tuesday.

In it, she made it clear that she was deeply affected by the experience of caring for our friend, Delle Chatman, during the last two months of Delle’s life. Having already been through the deaths of multiple loved ones, Tracey still wasn’t prepared for the deep physical, emotional and spiritual effects that took her a year to address.

Patricia Smith is the founder of Compassion Fatigue Awareness Project, and author of To Weep for a Stranger: Compassion Fatigue in Caregiving. Though Delle – and Tracey’s family and friends who died before her – was hardly a stranger, Smith’s insights are relevant to anyone who cares for someone. Smith’s recent article on www.mcknights.com focused on nursing home employees.

I was teaching a workshop 20 years ago on grant writing, and two of the attendees were from a hospice. I asked them during a break, “How do you handle it?” I’d worked in the AIDS community long enough to understand the emotional toll on caregivers and friends. One of them replied, “You have to find a different definition of success.”

Caregiving fatigue is normal and often expected. The physical demands alone of taking care of someone who is seriously ill – whether family member, friend or patient – can be severe. But there is something beyond that, and it’s called compassion fatigue:

“Called secondary trauma, the symptoms of compassion fatigue can surface when caregivers identify with the patient and begin to experience their own suffering. This is often the result of unresolved pain and trauma in their own lives.”

I’m not a psychologist, but I think Tracey might agree that this is a fair description of her year after Delle died. As she said in her article, she was “good at death”: the activities and rituals surrounding a person’s final illness and death. But until Delle died, she hadn’t truly, deeply, allowed herself to grieve.

I have a friend whose father died a few months before mine. She told me later that she’d started seeing a counselor, because she was having trouble adjusting. The counselor told her she hadn’t fully grieved her mother’s death – 25 years earlier. I remember that my friend was initially outraged by that diagnosis, but at no time did she deny it.

Grief has a way of biting you in the butt when you least expect it. Like Tracey, you might be really good at the “business” of caregiving. But part of that business has to be self-care.

If you find yourself unable to move on in any way, obsessed with feelings of guilt for what you think you should’ve done, please consider getting help. There are support groups for little or no money available through hospices, hospitals and funeral homes. Don’t be surprised if your grief is fueled by unaddressed grief from your past.

Caregiving is a calling, whether you do it as your job or for a friend or family member. Not everyone’s cut out for it, which does not, by the way, make you a bad person.

But if caregiving is – or was – part of your life, if you had the privilege of helping care for your friend in their final days, remember that airplane analogy:

“In the event of a loss of cabin pressure, put your oxygen mask on first before helping anyone else.”

And keep it on as long as you need it.

Life, Loss and Legacy: Guest Post by Tracey Carruthers

Tracey Carruthers

I met Tracey in October, 2006, when she came to Chicago to move in with our friend, Delle Chatman. Her devotion to making Delle’s last days as meaningful and peaceful as possible was inspiring (if sometimes annoying when I was feeling most selfish). Her reflection on those days is longer than my typical posts, but worth every word. I'm grateful that she was there for Delle and has shared her experience with us all:

Thought doesn’t get much more personal and unclear than during a time of loss. In a way, in the matter of how we feel and how we deal with our feelings, it really doesn’t matter what the loss is; a job, a bet, a game, a tradition, a loved one…the important thing to remember is our feelings are our first clues to the quality of our thinking—our state of mind—and that’s what creates the quality of our experience of Life.  In this case…our experience of loss.

But Death feels so final, so absolute. We are consumed with feelings of guilt, despair, regret and so much more. We want to know, “Why?  Why Now?”  And yes, in those ominous times of terminal diagnosis, we want to know, “Why me?”  

As a coach I often engage in these most intimate of conversations with clients and relatives and friends.  The recurring theme revolves around how it feels: how it feels to lose someone who is the center of your life, how it feels to imagine the rest of your life without the presence of such a vital force, how it feels to face your own immortality and even…how it feels to die.

From 1980 to 2000, I was intimately involved as personal care taker, minister of last rites and planner of funeral arrangements for all of my immediate family members; my father in 1980, my husband in 1995, my fraternal grandmother in 1999 and my mother in 2000. There were other losses just as intimate and just as traumatic during those years—my maternal grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins, close friends and lovers—that touched me just as deeply. Yet, no matter how many touch my life directly; it is clear to me that I am connected to and called to acknowledge all death. Every death, everywhere, touches me; enjoins me to justify my existence. There is no death, anywhere, that does not oblige me to look for something good—some meaning, some reason, some validation of the underlying purpose of Life.

Over those 20 years, I became adept, almost routinely conditioned to “handle” the ceremonial relationship I had established with Death. Those who knew me well were deeply concerned and wondered how long I could keep up the pace.  “It seems like you’ve had more than your share,” one friend said.  “I worry about you.”

She had cause to worry, because there was one phase of the life-loss-legacy experience that I had avoided or perhaps just hadn’t taken time to fully explore…Grief. 

2006 was a time of transition in my life.  I had recently retired and was weighing my options, in search of direction.  I was seeking discernment, learning to listen to my intuitive voice, and studying with Dr. Ron Jue, internationally recognized for his work as an executive coach.  His training—focused on integrating life, work and spirituality for greater effectiveness and fulfillment—prepared me for my most revealing rendezvous with Death.

In October I went to Chicago to help out a friend who had been living for four years with ovarian cancer.  Delle and I had known each other since my early days in California in the 80’s.  She wrote in Hollywood for many years, creating ground breaking characters such as an African American cowboy for the ABC series, “The Young Riders.”   She wrote the original screenplay for the award winning Showtime film, “Free of Eden,” starring Sidney Poitier. She authored two books, “The Unteachable Ten,” and “Death of a Parent.”

In Chicago she taught, preached and ministered at St. Gertrude’s Catholic Church and expanded her reach through a television ministry on WTTW’s “30 Good Minutes.”  She taught radio, TV and film writing to high school and college students as Associate Professor of Creative Writing at Northwestern and DePaul Universities.  She was an accomplished photographer who printed and sold her photographs as computer-augmented works of art.  And as if all that wasn’t enough, she gave birth to a remarkable daughter, Ramona, who is destined to do great things.

My search for direction and discernment had led me to understand that my purpose in life was to serve and coach those who were led by the Spirit. My immediate assignment was to take care of this incredible woman.

Everything I had learned from 1980 to 2000…every encounter with hospitals, doctors, cancer treatments, hospice care-givers, accountants,  lawyers, bureaucracy; every exhausting experience of contacting loved ones, writing obituaries, completing funeral arrangements, nurturing, disseminating personal effects…everything came into play for Delle.  Most of it was accomplished without conscious thought, sometimes executed in a thoughtless, robotic manner.

The key, the thing that made it all possible was the help of others. During the almost two months that I spent with Delle, her home was filled with visitors, friends and volunteers. A selected group that we called Delle’s Elves was the core.  They arranged and delivered a daily, nutritious meal service for the entire family. They drove her daughter to dance lessons and cancer support meetings. They meticulously catalogued and archived Delle’s intellectual property; thousands of photographs, works of art, manuscripts, journals, lectures, lesson plans, sermons, video and audio tapes, books, journals, office and art supplies.  They sorted clothing and personally delivered it to Delle’s designated charities. They filed her taxes, packed her effects, recommended a mover to ship it all for safe keeping and engaged a trusted real estate agent to sell her condo.

They worked tirelessly day and night, pausing only to sit and minister to and receive a blessing from the special servant who had been so faithful to them over years.  When she made her transition, they carried out Delle’s wishes to the letter, serving a gathering of hundreds at her Memorial Mass, and hosting and contributing to a grand celebration after the service. They nurtured her daughter, her brothers, her extended family, each other and me.   

Their acts of kindness provided living testimony to Delle’s goodness. Their unconditional love proclaimed a legacy most aspire to but few achieve. Finally I understood the meaning, the reason, the purpose of a life well lived. Delle’s life and the homage her friends paid to that life, was the ultimate validation, the proof positive that it’s the good that we do that makes the difference, that leaves the mark that lasts for all time. 

I am grateful to have witnessed this manifestation of true love, and when I finally returned home there was one more blessing waiting for me.

In the year that followed Delle’s death I experienced grief that was, at times, overwhelming.  I functioned, traveled, worked, coached, completed a book and lived a relatively normal life.  But there are months of 2007 that are still a blur. 

There were times when I couldn’t bear to leave my home.  I would get dressed for an event and then cancel at the last minute. I missed holidays, jazz festivals, birthday celebrations, hair appointments and nights out with the girls.  I avoided my family and friends.  When I did go out, I would shop as close to home as possible, avoiding eye contact with others, praying that no one would speak to me or require me to acknowledge their presence. 

There were other, miraculous times when the grief process was truly enlightening. I somehow managed to travel to the Caribbean, France, Montenegro, Chicago, Atlanta, New Orleans and San Francisco that year.  I knew that I was running away, trying to avoid the deep feelings that had engulfed me. I also knew that I needed to be with close friends, experience new adventures and revisit traditional, familiar haunts. 

It took a year.  I can’t tell you that I went through any specific phases in any regimental order. I can’t even say that I was consumed with the loss of such a vital, important, and loving spirit. Nor can I say for certain that it is over. The experience was all-encompassing, dynamic and purposeful. I believe that I was grieving for all those whose deaths had touched me so deeply. In truth, I had never taken time to fully recognize their lives or my loss.

In her book, “Death of a Parent,” Delle writes, “You’ve buried one of the giants in your world—your mother or your father…maybe both…Yet, everything else in your life is to a large extent just where you left it.  The load at work is just as heavy, the kids are just as rambunctious, the bills are piled just as high…The sun still shines, rain still falls, gravity still works, and none of the forces of nature seem to care one bit that your personal universe has been altered forever.” 

She goes on to observe, “Many cultures have gracious traditions of mourning built into their social customs.  But here in our society there is no set of rituals that allows people to hang their head after the funeral, no such thing as formal bereavement leave from our responsibilities.  Maybe there should be.”

Well Delle, thanks to you I took my leave. I used 2007 to transition to a greater, personal accountability to live a life of legacy, and to touch others in-kind. I am so grateful for the gift of that year, and the friends who stood by me, calling and checking on me to make sure I was okay…giving me the space and privacy to do what I had to do…allowing me to come to terms with my experience of loss.

I came out of that year with a bright and glowing relationship with my self and my spirit.  I learned to pay attention to the feelings that tell me when I need a moment of reflection to commune with my intuitive voice for options and solutions that take me forward with a more informed certainty and direction. We all owe ourselves and our future those moments. And even if they stretch out from moments to an entire year, we deserve the gift of that time for our healing and our blessing.

My gift, my blessing, is a deeper awareness that loss, and in particular Death, can inspire us toward a more intimate relationship with Life. For me, that’s the greatest legacy of all.

Tracey Carruthers is an author and Executive Coach. Her clients include CEOs and senior teams; entrepreneurs; civic leaders, coaches and consultants. Her philosophy embraces the wisdom and intelligence of the heart.  “Leading and coaching from the heart engages the intelligence of our innate wisdom,” says Tracey. “Listening from the wisdom of the heart reconnects us to the spirit within us, inspiring us to look at the possibilities of life with a brand new perspective.”

For more information, or to contact Tracey, log onto www.CoachCarruthers.com

Pitching My Book at Writers Digest Conference

George Davis tweeting at WDC12

I've taken a few days off here to attend the Writers Digest Conference in New York.

In addition to workshops and speakers addressing the craft and business of writing, there is a Pitch Slam, where hundreds of writers pitch their books to brave agents. I was one of the hundreds.

I spent most of the conference with friends (not all of whom I'd ever met in person before). A few of us had met there last year, our friendships deepening over the phone and internet. We practiced our pitches on each other, tweeted madly and bared our souls over calamari and frozen custard (not at the same time).

As I stood in lines 10-deep to wait for agents who'd braved what passes as a winter storm in New York City, I felt pretty focused. Just before I'd walked into the room, a video had popped up on my Facebook newsfeed: a video of my friend, Delle.

Seeing her and hearing her voice was initially jarring: it had been taped a year after her cancer surgery. My first reaction was "your hair looks awful". But the timing - just minutes before I pitched the book she inspired, while wearing one of her scarves - was nothing if not perfect.

It was as if she appeared at that moment to calm me and cheer me on. Our mutual friend, Kim, didn't know where I was when she posted it, but I thank her for doing so.
The closing speaker on Sunday said something that really resonated, not just with me, but everyone there:

"Someone out there has been waiting their entire life to read your book."

Will keep you posted on the progress of the book.

When to Remember Our Friends?



Happy birthday, Delle



May 29 or November 22?

January 15 or April 4?

What difference does it make what day you commemorate your friend?

Well, in the case of John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr., there’s definitely a difference.

Few people know that Kennedy’s birthday is May 29. The day we forever associate with him is the day he was assassinated.

The opposite is true of Dr. King: his birthday is a national holiday, but the day he was killed is not as important.

My friend, Delle Chatman, died on November 7. Perhaps because my memory of that day is so clear, I tend to not forget it. Her birthday is tomorrow, November 19.

I was in New York on the 7^th this year, and my girlfriend and I raised a toast to Delle. Tomorrow, well, I haven’t decided yet what I’ll do.

I always think of Delle on my birthday. In 2002, we sat at Prize Day at our daughter’s school, and I admitted I couldn’t decide what I wanted to do for my next birthday. She told me what she’d done for hers, and I copied it: a girls-only, wine & dessert evening of laughing and sharing.

Tomorrow will probably involve green tea, which we shared a taste for, and possibly a red velvet cupcake. It will definitely include a good amount of work on the book she encouraged me to write. And I know for sure it will be full of gratitude for knowing her, for having the privilege of calling her my friend.

What day do you remember your friend? The day they died? The day they were born? Or another day?

The day doesn’t matter. All that matters, really, is that you remember them and what they meant to you.

What Else I Learned about Myself from Delle Chatman

When I told Delle I had an idea for a book, I was nervous. I was hoping she wouldn’t laugh, although I knew her well enough by then to know she wouldn’t. Mostly, I was nervous about saying the words, “I have an idea for a book”: a book that I would write, not a book someone else should write.

I’d never written a book before, never seriously considered it. She was supportive, as I expected: “just do it,” she answered, with a wave of her hand. In her mind, there were no impediments to following through. But there were.

I put the idea aside as her condition worsened and she died. A few months later, I started thinking about it again. I even interviewed a few people, solicited stories from customers and friends. But try as I might, I kept hitting a wall. I couldn’t really put pen to paper. The idea was too jumbled in my mind, and I finally gave up. “I’m sorry,” I told her in one of our frequent one-sided conversations. “I just can’t do it.” I felt like I’d failed her.

A couple years went by. Stuff happened: our daughters were growing up, my mother got sick, I suffered a concussion in a car accident. I didn’t forget about the book, but I chose to ignore the whole idea.

Several months after my accident, I was in Michigan with my family. It wasn’t a good time, and one night I had a strange dream. It was so strange I decided I had to write it down so I didn’t forget it. I dragged out my laptop and began to type. Several hours and 11 pages later, I realized the dream was part of a story. Okay, that was odd. But then it got ever stranger.

I stopped typing the story and suddenly the book I’d promised Delle popped into my head: the format, a working title (which I’ve since abandoned), a tone. Everything that had eluded me before was right there, clear as a bell. Two months later, I was in New York doing research.

That was two years ago. I’ve made several research trips and interviewed a number of people. I’ve started this blog, a Facebook page, a Google+ identity, and tweeted like crazy. I’ve built a following and generated interest in the book from potential readers and agents alike. I’m speaking at the ADEC conference next spring.

The book is not yet finished, although it’s getting close. And I realized with some surprise that there will be second book - specifically about men grieving their friends - and a third, which will be about Delle.

So, what else did I learn about myself from Delle?

I learned many things, but mostly I learned that I could reinvent myself yet again, this time in an unexpected way. I learned that I could write, and write about something that resonated with a lot of people. I learned that I could build a new professional life on the bedrock of our friendship.

That sounds a little melodramatic, and perhaps it is. But I know for sure I would have never considered writing a book - much less one about grieving the death of a friend - if I hadn’t known Delle.

It’s taken me a while to accept, too, that this blog and book could help people. In fact, I resisted the whole notion. But I finally had to surrender. I’m not a professional grief counselor, nor do I pretend to be. If someone needs therapeutic help, I’m glad to make referrals.

But it has been made clear to me that people also need someone who’ll listen, someone who’s been there: someone who’s definitely not a professional. And that’s where I am today, or at least where Delle thought I should be.

I like to think that she’s pleased by this idea of influencing me so profoundly 5 years after she died. I feel like she’s responsible for the wonderful people I’ve met, the incredible opportunities that have presented themselves, and of course, the words. She used to talk about writing as taking dictation from God, but it’s her voice I hear as I type away.

So, that’s what I’ve learned: some powerful lessons about what I’m capable of accomplishing. And I trust she’ll continue on this journey with me.