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A month ago, I had two brothers.
Now I have one. A week ago, three happy dogs romped on Meadow Breeze Farm. Now
there are two, and they don’t seem as happy.
Since January 21, 2018, I have been reminded that the waves of sadness, helplessness, anxiety and
depression that come to shore after the death of a loved one become more bearable
when surrounded by others willing to reach out with gestures of kindness and
support. This return to Prairie Pondering is meant to convey my deepest thanks
for those gestures and to encourage the same selflessness on behalf of others
in need.
There’s a scene in Robin and
the Seven Hoods, a 1964 Rat Pack classic, where Frank Sinatra’s Robbo is
asked by Peter Falk’s Guy Gisborne if Robbo wants help taking care of the
crooked sheriff who arranged the ambush of Robbo’s mentor, Big Jim. “We do
our own laundry,” replied Robbo, declining assistance.
As is the case with much of my
training in the Tao of Frank, that scene has stuck with me over the half
century since I first heard the words. Handling problems without relying on
others and maintaining control is etched into my psyche. To be clear, I have
availed myself of the assistance of many a guardian angel, but my inclination
is always to go it alone.
What I’ve referred to as my “firstborn
syndrome” during conversations outside my comfort zone requires that I be the
stoic in the family or circle of friends, taking charge in the event of a
crisis or tragedy. Grieving is typically internalized and providing comfort to a
fellow despondent sustains me until the shock fades with time.
If I grieve openly, I am losing
control. I am losing my ability to rise above the whirlwind of emotions
surrounding me and be the stable influence needed to dial back the storm.
The problem, of course, is that
doing that much laundry over so many years takes its toll. Repeated internalization
of grieving becomes chronic anxiety over the pressure to continue on as the
paragon of stability.
Such was the case when I received
a phone call from my nephew on the evening of January 21st, telling
me through sobs that my brother Harlan had fallen at home alone and died. The
momentary glee at seeing Adam’s name on caller ID instantly transformed to
numbness.
I shed no tears. I opened a very expensive bottle of Scotch that I had been saving for the right occasion (never
dreaming), drank it neat, went into firstborn mode, and started making calls.
Without breaking down, I delivered the horrible, horrible news to my 89
year-old father, my surviving brother, some first cousins and a few others who
needed to hear the news from me and not on social media.
When the news did break on social
media and in a more traditional obituary, the response was overwhelming and
enlightening. I was inundated with condolence messages from extended family,
friends, friends of my brother, friends of other family members, acquaintances
of varying degrees, down to the most tenuous of relationships, and even persons
with unknown connections taking the time to offer words of comfort.
Harlan’s funeral and the gatherings
at synagogue in the evenings that followed were similarly therapeutic. Temple
of Aaron, which I last attended in October to watch Harlan receive a lifetime
award for his volunteerism, was filled as if it was the High Holidays. The family
was sequestered beforehand, so I was unable to interact with attendees, but a
subsequent review of the guest book made me realize how many people attended
just to show me their support. These attendees were friends and colleagues who had
never met Harlan. Yet, they left the warmth of their home or office on a
bitterly cold day to drive to St. Paul to spend a couple of hours making their
presence known. For my benefit. To help me heal. To help with my laundry.
This week, I had to call the farm
vet to come to the house to put our 14 year-old Basset/Shepard CJ to sleep. CJ's recurring violent seizures, despite being on strong medication, were clearly
terrorizing him and were becoming more frequent. With Deb out of town and me at the office, I could not stand the thought of our boy going through another seizure alone and I made a heart wrenching decision to allow him to find peace. There is a big hole at the
farm without CJ’s presence. He’d been here for all but 11 months of our 14
years in the country.
I posted about the loss on
Facebook and, again, was deluged with words of support and understanding in
response. In fact, the 212 reactions and nearly as many comments may be the
most in response to anything I have ever posted on social media. What I had
intended as a tribute to one of my best friends became the vehicle for
replacing my dejection with loving support. There are constant, depressing,
reminders of CJ’s absence from Meadow Breeze. I have taken to mitigating the
impact of the reminders by returning to the Facebook comments and taking
comfort from both their words and the mere fact that the authors cared enough
about my emotional well-being to announce their concern.
We all die. We all experience the
death of others. The fact that so many individuals would take time from their
regular routine to reach out to me and my family to contribute to the healing
process is as reaffirming a testament to the humanity of our community as I
have thought possible in recent years.
Communicating about death need
not be difficult. I am not unique in my reaction to the kindness conveyed by as
little as the words “sorry for your loss”. Even if your relationship to the mourner
is no closer than the fact that you are aware of the loss, let them know that their
grief is not being suffered in isolation. Social media postings, cards, phone
calls, emails and personal visits each provide solace to the recipient and help
them adjust to their new reality with the strength inherent in knowing that
they are not alone in the task.
I was taught decades ago that
consoling the bereaved is one of the greatest mitzvot (good deeds) God commands
us to perform. As one recently consoled, I am reminded of the wisdom of the commandment.
Having been elevated from the depths of despair by so many of you, I am
determined to be better at contributing to the uplifting of the spirit of
others suffering losses of their own.
