Friend Grief and Closure for 2011

In my last blog post of this amazing year, I thought I’d revisit a topic that came up a few months ago. Last May, after the death of Osama bin Laden, I wrote about what I called “the myth of closure”. It’s supposed to be something you aspire to, but it often feels just out of reach: because it may never be possible.

“Closure: the sense of finality and coming to terms with an experience, felt or experienced over time.” – Encarta Dictionary

“Closure” is a word frequently invoked in grief-related literature. Events are said to bring “closure” to people who grieve: discovery of remains, burial, 1^st anniversaries, etc.

But the news of the death of Osama bin Laden may only be initially considered closure.

Certainly, the death of the most wanted terrorist in the world is a cause for celebration, even not knowing how other terrorist organizations will respond.

But for those who lost family or friends on 9/11, there is no closure.

Osama bin Laden is dead, but so are their loved ones.

Don’t assume everyone is happy and “all right” now.

Don’t assume the grieving is over. In fact, this news will likely re-open painful memories for all of us who knew someone who died that clear, blue September morning. My first reaction on hearing the news last night was, “but Carol’s still dead.”

“I hope it brings some comfort to the families. No closure. That word should be stricken from the English language.” - Lee Ielpi, whose son, Jonathan, a firefighter from Queens, died on 9/11 (quoted in the May 3, 2011 New York Times).

The death of Osama bin Laden has been heralded as closure for those who lost family and friends on 9/11, the end of the grieving. Now we can finally get back to normal and forget about what happened.

For some people, death is closure, after a loved one has suffered a long illness. For some people, getting to the first anniversary of someone’s death is closure, proof that you’ve survived your grief. Others can point to specific “signs” that made them feel better.

But for society to imply that one event – dramatic though it was – can end anyone’s grief is simplistic.

At my father’s wake, my girlfriend’s mother, who had lost her husband the year before said, “You don’t get over it; you just get used to it.”

For many people, bin Laden’s death will ease their minds. “Justice” has been served.

But make no mistake: their grief has not ended. For them, there can be no real closure.

At least not in this lifetime.

Best wishes for a safe “closure” to 2011!

Friend Grief and Laughter

This post originally appeared last March, about one of my favorite TV series, The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Although something very tragic had happened, the resulting humor is something we can all identify with - for better or worse.

Laughing at funerals is generally frowned upon (Irish wakes notwithstanding).

People are expected to act a certain way: maybe not grief-stricken, but at least respectful of those who are and the person who has died.  You get a lot of dirty looks if you’re the only one laughing.

In recent years, there has been a movement to make wakes and funerals and memorial services more of a celebration of life.  Laughing – in the context of shared memories – has become appropriate. 

Considered by the Chicago Tribune to be the funniest TV comedy episode of all time “Chuckles Bites the Dust” on The Mary Tyler Moore Show concerned the death of Chuckles the Clown.  Dressed as Peter Peanut, he was trampled by a rogue elephant during a parade.  Mary’s coworkers immediately began to make jokes, and she was horrified by what she saw as nothing less than cruelty.

But at the funeral, she suddenly finds herself unable to stifle her laughter.  Now it’s everyone else who’s disgusted.  And in a complete reversal, as soon as the minister encourages her laughter – because Chuckles hated sadness - she breaks down in tears.

Have you ever been the one to laugh when no one else did?

Maybe your memories of your friend made you giggle.

Maybe something absurd – something your friend would have thought funny – happened during the wake or funeral.

Everyone grieves differently.

Sometimes they even laugh.

Don’t be afraid to laugh, even in the midst of your tears. You can probably hear your friend laughing right along with you.

Friend Grief and the Holidays

I wasn’t going to write about grief and the holidays. There’s a lot out there already, by people much more knowledgeable than myself.

But there’s not a lot out there about dealing with friend grief during the holidays.

Is it different? Is grief just…grief?

The thing that complicates friend grief at this time of year is the same thing that makes the holidays - at least theoretically - great: family.

We are in the midst of several holidays - Thanksgiving (in the U.S.), Christmas, Hanukkah, New Year’s, and Valentine’s Day - that are family/romance oriented. These holidays are defined by family gatherings and traditions.

Many of us take time during these holidays to remember family members who are no longer with us. In fact, the holidays may be incredibly difficult if that loss is recent.

So where does that leave us when it is a friend who has died?

It leaves us…nowhere.

It leaves us with a sense of profound loss, a loss that is sometimes magnified by the lack of rituals surrounding our friendships. Where do we go and what do we do, during this very family-oriented time of year, to remember/grieve/celebrate our friends? And how do we excuse ourselves from our families to do so?

Even those lucky enough to have Norman Rockwell-style holiday celebrations can find themselves in need of time apart from family. So here are a few suggestions, if you haven’t thought of them already:

-          Was there a place you and your friend liked to hang out - a park, a café, a neighborhood, a bar? Go out, even for an hour or so, and revisit that place.

-          Was there something you and your friend enjoyed doing - shopping at a particular place, jogging, going to the movies? Do it alone, but “take them” with you.

-          Seek out a mutual friend: call them, meet them, tell stories and raise a glass in memory of your friend.

It may be difficult, at least the first time, to be there without your friend. But it may be surprisingly comforting. You may feel their presence.

Two years ago, I went to Christmas mass at an Ecumenical Catholic Church (Sts. Clare & Francis in Webster Groves, Missouri), one that welcomes women priests. My friend, Delle, was called to be a priest, but the Roman Catholic Church does not allow that (at least not yet).

I sat in the pew, watching a woman concelebrate mass, and couldn’t stop thinking about Delle. That should be you, I thought to myself, tears overflowing. That should be you. Suddenly, I felt arms around me, as if someone was kneeling behind me and leaned forward (no one was there). And I heard Delle’s voice: “it’s okay.” My tears ended, and I felt a wave of peace.

So, I felt both reactions: pain and joy. And as this holiday season continues, my wish for you is to feel the joy along with the pain, for that is what makes it bearable.

Friend Grief and "The Concert for George"

This post originally appeared in February, but I’m quite partial to the documentary of this concert. At first I was drawn to it because I’m a huge fan of George Harrison. But as I watched the special on PBS, I became more and more entranced by the commentary from Eric Clapton and others. You’ll see why:

“All I wanted to do was really share our love for George and his music with the people.  I need to do this for him, but it’s for me most of all – I need to be able to express my grief in this sort of way.” – Eric Clapton

How do we memorialize our friends?  How do we show the world how much that person meant to us, how much our lives changed for knowing them?  There’s more than one way to remember your friends, just as there is more than one way to grieve.

Some people give eulogies.  Some people donate money to causes that were important to their friend.  Some people have the opportunity to do something a little bigger.

One year after George Harrison died, a group of his friends gathered at The Royal Albert Hall in London for a ‘memorial service’.  It was called The Concert for George, an evening to celebrate the music and the life of the “quiet Beatle”.

People came from all parts of his life: his wife and son, the two surviving Beatles, his favorite comedy troupe (Monty Python), musicians he’d played with and admired.  They shared his music and entertained an audience not just in attendance that night, but around the world via PBS and a commemorative concert DVD.  Their efforts supported the Material World Charitable Foundation, established by Harrison in 1973.

There were no eulogies, in the traditional sense.  But as you listen to them talk between songs and during rehearsal you realize the true meaning of that night for his friends:  to work through their grief while honoring their friend. 

“A lot of our grieving has been dealt with by playing this week,” Clapton said.  “This is a blessed occasion for me because I can share my love of George with you…and I think most important of all is that his wife Olivia and his son Dhani can experience and witness how much we loved him, through his music tonight.”

Most of us don’t have the chance to memorialize our friends in this way.  But the sentiment Clapton expressed is universal.  We want the world to know and love that person who meant so much to us:  who they were, why they were important to us, and why the world is a sadder place without them.

And as we close in on Christmas, perhaps now would be a good time to let them our friends - the ones still here - know how much they mean to us.

Singing is optional.

Your Own Personal "Big Chill" Moment

This post originally appeared in February. I think it’s a good reminder to not wait until it’s too late to re-connect or keep touch with our friends. The holidays are a perfect excuse, don’t you think?

Karen: “You'll never get this many people to come to my funeral.”
Michael:  “Oh, Karen, I'll come. And, you know... I'll bring a date.”

You’re going about your day – conference calls, grocery shopping, carpool – when you get a call, a text, maybe an email with the subject line “sad news”.  Someone you know – a friend – has died.  And the world stops.

It happens to us all eventually.

The iconic film about this experience is The Big Chill, the 1983 film about a group of people who reunite for the funeral of one of their college friends.  It was a blockbuster, and not only because of the soundtrack (who can forget JoBeth Williams playing “You Can’t Always Get What You Want?” on the organ for the funeral recessional?).  It was something everyone can identify with:  the death of a friend.

Not all of us will spend the weekend with our friends in a sprawling Southern mansion: playing touch football, getting high, or having sex with our best friend’s husband.  But reconnecting with friends on such a sad occasion can still have a profound effect.

Sometimes – too often – you lose touch with those friends.  Life gets in the way: jobs, families, living hundreds of miles away – all prevent you from keeping in touch with the people who at one time were the most important people in the world.  Still, you wonder how and why you let it happen.

Like the characters in The Big Chill, that gap in contact can create terrible guilt.  You may think that somehow your presence could’ve saved your friend’s life or made it easier.  Pretty egotistical, huh?  But human. 

These characters were all extraordinarily lucky:  they were all able to come to that funeral from their homes around the country.  Not everyone can even get off work to attend a local funeral for a friend, never mind one that is hundreds of miles away.

And most importantly, they were notified.  Sometimes friends – particularly far-flung friends – do not learn of a friend’s death for months or even years.  The friend’s family may not have liked you or even known about you, but to find out after the fact compounds your grief.  And even though the point where you can “do” something is long past by then, the feeling of helplessness can be overwhelming. 

One of my high school classmates, Carol Demitz, died on 9/11.  We’d celebrated our 30^th high school reunion the year before (although she didn’t attend) with the usual ‘we should get together more often’.   But it took Carol’s death – not the first in our class – to put those words into actions: a class gift in her memory, a Yahoo group that’s still going strong more than 9 years later, occasional informal dinners, and a bond that has grown stronger each year.  Her death, I suppose, was our Big Chill moment:  our wake-up call to nurture the friendships that sustain us, and stop relegating our dreams to the “someday” pile.

Take a moment today to contact a friend – just one; it won’t take long – who you’ve lost touch with.  Catch up on news and gossip, reminisce, and make real plans to get together.  Don’t wait until you get that call, that text, that email.

“In a cold world, you need your friends to keep you warm.” – Big Chill poster

What are you waiting for?

Why We Miss Our Friends During the Holidays

We are in the final stretch now, before Hanukkah and Christmas. Many of us are running on adrenaline as we race to get everything bought, wrapped, cooked, served, addressed and mailed. We wonder sometimes why we’re making ourselves crazy for festivities that are over so quickly.

We do it because…well, we’ve always done it, or we’ve let it get out of control. We do it for our families. We do it for the kids. And possibly, we’ll be able to stop and remember the true meaning of the holidays.

Yes, the holidays are about family, no doubt about it. Friends are often pushed aside (family comes first).

I remember coming home for Christmas or Thanksgiving and spending more time with my friends than with family. Friends never seemed to make demands, or expect presents (although they were infinitely easier to buy for). We could just relax and catch up and enjoy ourselves.

I loved the first day back at school after Christmas break, because we’d hug and squeal as if we hadn’t seen each other in decades, when in fact it had been less than two weeks.

Now some of those friends are gone; one even died during the holidays. I knew she was dying, but it was still a shock.

What I miss this time of year about my friends who have died is the absence of pressure: pressure to give them the perfect gift, to make sure everyone gets along all the time, to pretend we’re in the middle of a Hollywood movie.

I miss those friends, no matter how infrequently we saw each other. I miss being able to call them up and say “let’s meet for lunch” or “I can’t wait to give you your present”. I miss catching up and solving the problems of the world (or just our love lives). I miss knowing we didn’t have to “behave”. I miss their friendship and I miss their love.

And after all, that is what the season is all about.

No One Expects Their Friends to Die

I’m reposting again, a blog entry from last March, originally titled “Let’s Be Careful Out There”.

Last night I had dinner with a few of the classmates referred to here. Most of us hadn’t gotten together in over a year, at our last reunion. But thanks to one persistent woman, there were about 20 of us, laughing and catching up. It was, again, as if no time had passed.

We noted several who weren’t there: one woman whose mother died a few days ago, another whose husband is ill, still another who has MS. We’re at the age when we get paranoid when someone’s a no-show.

So for all our friends, enjoy:

At the end of the morning roll call on the 80’s hit Hill Street Blues, Phil would always remind his comrades “let’s be careful out there.”

They were cops. They knew every day could be their last.

Not everyone lives that consciously, certainly not when they’re younger.

But the truth of the matter is, the world is a dangerous place. Stuff happens, no matter where you live.

We can eat healthy foods, exercise every day, do all the things that are supposed to “guarantee” a long life and still not reach that goal.

This photo is from my 40^th high school reunion. Each rose represents one girl from my class of 122 who died; there are 9. One died our senior year, the most recent, two years ago.

As we age, we lose more and more friends. It’s just the law of averages, and not unexpected. What we don’t expect are the “before their time” deaths.

We don’t expect to experience a friend’s death before we’re old enough to vote.

We don’t expect to experience a friend’s death before our hair turns grey.

We don’t expect to experience a friend’s death, period.

So when it happens, we can become skittish, paranoid about our remaining friends. We pester them to lose weight, exercise more, or have that mammogram. We probably annoy them beyond words, and they might even tell us to back off.

Too damn bad.

The price of being a friend is that you are loved.

And you’ll just have to live with that.