Saturday, February 24, 2018

Help with the Laundry


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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.


11 comments:

Jane said...

O Sam. Lovely. Hugs.

We all have this in common.

Love Jane Burnes Leverenz

Unknown said...

Dear Sam,
I think what you are saying in this post is so important for us all. To be open to offers of condolence and sympathy is to be open to friendship. The vast majority of people want to help others, in whatever small way they can, and by accepting that help, we extend the hand of friendship back to them. Knowing there are others in the world who care for you is one of the most comforting feelings there is, even in the midst of grief and despair.
You know I love you always. Go ahead, break down a little - people will surround you to bear you up.

freps said...

Grief is tough. Just when we think we are through the deepest part of it, it comes up behind us and brings us right back to the pain. This is how we forge lasting memories of those we love. Thank you for these words, Sam. I wish you continued comfort.

Karin Winegar said...

You, Sam, you tender person, I weep for you. And I envy your writing ability. And I know those feelings of losing forever a family member, and that includes the animals, so-called.

wayneklay said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
wayneklay said...

My autistic son was comatose in the hospital, the first time you reached out to me - a classmate you never really knew. A stranger really. I never forgot that simple but enormously healing gesture. You reminded me that we all go through this life together. Because of that, I healed and you and I are strangers no more. We all have these opportunities to reach out to someone who’s grieving. Nearly every day. You have many friends and acquaintances, Sam.
Your words just touched them all.

Kit Naylor said...

Sam, do know that you are not alone, and you need not bear your grief alone, either. Your friends are here for you. I have often observed that the way to have a friend is to BE one, and you prove that to be true every day of your life. Sending you and Deb and your children and grandchildren light and love.

irvstern said...

Thank you Son, you opened your heart and expressed,in words, feelings that so very few have the ability to put those feelings into words. I am, and always have been, so very proud of my first born. On behalf of your entire family, thank you. Your brother loved and respected his older brother so very much.and I know, somehow, he read every word. Maybe a little slower than most, but read it he did. Much love, Dad

Anonymous said...

Sam, thanks. You were there for me...my mom passed away two days before Harlan and you posted a wonderful tribute to her. I am so sorry for your loss of your brother and your beloved CJ. I just wish you the very best life has to offer...one thing we learn from these experiences is to make the most out of our time here on the world. Love you, Maggie

Dan Sloan said...

For Mr. Stern, Sam and all who loved Harlan ..
As you said so well in your post, mine is a ". . . most tenuous of relationships ... ", and it is presumptious to think you remember me after only one or two short meetings in passing during the summer of 1971. However, Jordan was my colleague from the Spring of 1971 through June 1972, I had the pleasure of meeting your father, and neither miles nor years apart lessen my sadness at hearing of your family's loss.
May you remember your brother fondly and may you treasure those memories forever. With warmest condolences, DJSloan/Houston

Sue said...

Thank you Sam...as the world keeps on going, our Laundry needs to get accomplished and we need to move forward to be present for others. At this time I am mourning the loss of two dogs in four months and attempting to feel what this so called New Normal looks like. I went to a retreat in Vermont this past Fall and we were given the task to write our Obituary and found out later that we had to read them to the group. In mine I wrote at the end....make a contribution to give your time to a young person, mentor, put a flag on a grave of a fallen soldier and thank them, spend time with your family and always remember that Each Day is a GIFT....make them count! You are a GIFT in so many ways and your words resonate with me deeply. Thank you Sam.....