Go Stare

It came to me in the middle of a haircut, seated in my kitchen, in my wheelchair, while Danielle had a go at my locks. You are quite bundled up, she said. This by way of reference to my thick woolen sweater, a natural response to what passes as winter in California. Snip, snip. A couple of gray strands tumbled down the barber's shroud that surrounded me and my chair, only the batteries and backpack exposed to the hair rain. Don't you have the heater on? Snip, snip. At which point I became snippy. The heater isn't on outside, I said. Snip, snip, and Danielle said nothing. I had said everything that needed to be said. I was in one cranky mood.

"You look like you want to cry." A friend told me this after returning from a memorial service. The mother of an old buddy had died. We gathered in his home. A very moderate and well-planned Reformed service unfolded. Readings from Psalms and modern poets. From the latter, one in particular hit home. Love doesn't die, the poet said. Only people do. So love people. Love those around you, giving them what you would give to the one who has departed. Love doesn't die. All of which led to me and the friend talking after the service, and just as with Danielle the other day, I was pissed off.

I will decide whether, and when, I am going to cry...was my response. And get out of my face, grief-wise, I wanted to add.

And so, eight months into bereavement, the one thing I have to show consistently is peevishness. I'm tired of this. I wish it would all go away. I wish the 'it' were clearer in its nature, more easy to describe, and the possibility of getting over this 'it' more certain. There is even the question of appropriateness. I feel like the person at the office party who can't quite grasp that the celebration is over, everyone is heading home, and the janitor doesn't want to try on a funny hat.

My buddy with the deceased mother already feels his grief is a little too much. After all, there was the service. An entire memorial afternoon. Surely we are moving on to the next thing. His expectations, not so different from mine, set things in relief. No, I want to tell him, this is different. And no one knows what 'this' is. For 'grief' loses its punch after a while, and the better word...no one seems to know what it is. Whatever the term, it's an odd state, beyond sadness or any other emotion, seemingly physical, and apparently incurable. Perhaps the entire organism is adjusting to mortality. I don't know.

The experience of a spinal cord injury may even help. I joke about my crew, the supporting team of rabbis (at least three), as many social workers, two psychologists, and of course, friends, who keep me going these days. The joke is that no one knows what they're doing, what their function really is, and how loss or grief or bereavement are supposed to improve on their watch. The joke is that the team is so big. All these folks, none of whom know what's going on, making such a big deal. Which is much like physical rehabilitation. Physical therapists. Physical therapy specialists. Physical therapy assistants. Occupational therapists. Their assistants. Physiatrists.  Rehab nurses. Sometimes you need to be overstaffed.

Overstating helps too. Overblown, that's what the whole experience has been. Overboard with loss. But never over. Not until the fat lady sings, and she isn't even warming up her vocal cords. It's got its own schedule, its own purpose, and I seem to have neither. What I can be certain of is survival. I have gotten through it, without knowing what 'it' can possibly be. And there's more of 'it' to go through. But I have a strange feeling. While 'it' won't go away, and may not get any better, I am getting better at handling it. It's a long-distance journey with a full load of freight. You just keep hauling. At night, you park your rig in an enormous truck stop, engine idling to keep the cargo frozen, surrounded by a vast parking lot of transient others, everyone humming and rumbling in his own little metal world. Keep on truckin'.

What would it feel like to be Igor Stravinsky, premier 'Rite of Spring' -- and find members of the famous opening night audience unzipping their trousers to pee on the theater floor? A bit daunting. Definite challenge to the ego. Teaches you to know what you're about. If you hear the harsh music of the new industrial world, all steam whistles and screeching brakes, that's what you hear. You can't worry about the audience. They will either come along, or they won't. Besides, what does it matter? Outside it's Paris. The loss of a love is not the loss of love, as the poem says. So go outside stare at the Eiffel Tower. It's there as long as it's there, and so are you.