About Grief

 “Grief is a sneaky bastard,” a dear friend told me after the death of my father when I broke into tears while visiting Cape Cod. What had set me off was a sympathy card I saw in a store. It had a cardinal on the front, my dad’s favorite bird, with a quote by James Joyce: “They lived and laughed and loved and left.” Inside it said: “And the world will never be the same.” A perfect description of my loss.

Since then, I’ve lost other friends and family. Most recently our beloved cat, Rusty. He was 18. And smart. I wrote a letter to our very caring vet remembering him this way:

He knew how to indicate his every wish – from when it was time to light a fire for warmth, to opening a window where he could bask in the sun, to helping him burrow under a soft comforter, to walking over Tim on the sofa to get him to move so he could have his spot, to when he wanted fresh water from the tap. He communicated with his eyes, the direction of his gaze, a poke on our arm and sometimes a more demanding meow. All precious memories.

Soon after his death I had a post-cataract operation appointment. I could barely see the eye chart, not even the biggest E. It was blurred with light flitting across the image. When I began to cry while the technician tried to examine my eyes, she became alarmed. I told her about losing Rusty. “Have I damaged my eyes with the floods of water?” I asked. Still recovering from RSV with raging coughing fits, perhaps that had affected my vision, I said.

Normally cool and all business, she became another person. Sweet, sensitive, sympathetic. Told me she too had lost pets and said if I hadn’t been sick, she would give me a hug. She assured me that I had not damaged anything and that crying, ironically, caused eyes to dry.

Having shared my loss with this veritable stranger, I felt just a little better. It also reminded me of when my mother died years ago. I had barely cried, busy making arrangements for family and her funeral. I went to the supermarket for food to have at the house. When I approached the service counter with a question, I blurted, “My mom died this morning.” Tears soon followed.

The woman behind the elevated counter immediately climbed down and gave me a hug. Telling this stranger, feeling her warmth, lessened my grief in that moment. Which is all we can ask for.

Grief is a great leveler. Whether family, friend or precious pet, we all go through it, feeling loss with the same intensity. Sharing grief with people we don’t know may actually bring the most comfort.

Even Hemingway had an editor

Some of us were lucky to have great teachers. Others may have had a caring mentor who helped us get started in our career. Dick Elsberry was my manager and mentor in the GE News Bureau (where Kurt Vonnegut got his start). Dick was an irascible character who cared deeply about good writing. When, as a 25-year-old publicist, I turned in my first newsletter copy for his review, it was so bad that he didn’t bother with editing. Rather, he wrote me this pointed letter, pounded out on his manual Remington typewriter, to teach me a lesson about writing which I’ve never forgotten. I am forever grateful to him.

“Joyce -- In future, please submit to me copy as you write it, rather than holding onto it. Thus, if it needs work, you’ll get that direction right away.

On recent copy I detect (no, it is more obvious than that) a very tutorial approach. For example, the energy story starts out by citing the name and title of the energy czar for sector.

The only time you start with someone’s name is if he is (a) the president of the U.S., (2) you are doing a personnel announcement, or (3) it is the Second Coming (i.e. “Jesus Christ, the only son of God, arrived on Earth today and turned the South Bronx into the Garden of Eden.”)

You are not writing term papers anymore but copy to be read by real people, not professors. Thus, we must grab their attention immediately; which sometimes requires a baseball bat. We do not have the luxury of a long, leisurely lead-in. We are writing tight and to the point…there is no room for rambling, or repetition.

So, new rule: as soon as you write it, show it to me. You have a lot to learn about the job you are doing, and you aren’t going to learn living in a vacuum. When you can write copy with proficiency that I believe no longer requires someone else’s review, I’ll be the first to tell you. At that time, you should also realize that you will still benefit from showing someone certain stories … even Hemingway had an editor.”

When Book Characters Become Friends

 

Maybe it started with the pandemic, but the detectives JK Rowling (Robert Galbraith) created in her Cormoran Strike books have become like friends. In particular, I’ve noticed in her fifth book in the series, Troubled Blood, she has painted an even more vivid view into the lives of Robin Ellacott and Strike. While Rowling’s plots are imaginative and intriguing, albeit complex and often difficult to track, the two main characters hold it all together, drawing readers into their growing friendship, hoping that their attempt to veil a longing for each other will ultimately be shed.

Without being able to visit with friends in person, Robin and Strike filled the void as I brought them into my home daily. Checking in with them as I turn each page is like hearing from long-time friends, our relationship spanning more than seven years, since A Cuckoos Calling was published and the duo first met. In one of the latest entries, Robin is suffering through a nasty divorce from the easy-to-hate Matthew, while Strike is showing a side rarely seen when his Aunt Joan dies from cancer: emotional grief.

Others I know, who have been caught up in their story, have shared equal interest in these two and we discuss them as if, indeed, we know them well. Which we do!

As I develop the protagonists in my own novels, I try to generate the same level of interest and intimacy as Rowling has so that my lead characters, Hannah Hart and Mike Gavin, become as real to my readers as they are to me. Gratefully, Robin and Cormoran continue their frequent visits as I devour subsequent additions to the series.

There’s one more thing I must admit. I’ve been watching the C.B. Strike series on TV and have been enthralled by the actors’ depictions of these beloved characters. This is the first time I have found the visual experience as rewarding as the written word. This is a tribute to Tom Burke and Holliday Grainger for having so successfully brought the two detectives to life.

Mother Hamlin

She was feisty, sometimes harsh, but typically amusing in her own special, outspoken way. Her mind remained sharp, and she was the best damn proofreader I ever had. Mother Hamlin, as I called her, loved to catch typos in my manuscripts, which I welcomed since she was always a first reader before publication.

Because of Covid, I spent nearly every Sunday evening with her and her family on Zoom. These were bittersweet visits, especially after her youngest daughter, Liz, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. Together we traversed Liz’s fight, witnessed her courage, and ultimately her surrender to the hideous disease. During this period, however, I got to spend time with Mother Hamlin, which never would have happened if not for Covid. I saw her own amazing strength as she faced her daughter’s inevitable end.

And now I, along with her family, grieve her passing at age 87. Much of the blame falls squarely on Covid for this as well. It kept her isolated for nearly two years, avoiding doctor visits, only venturing out for vaccinations. What should have been minor ailments for a woman her age, bloomed to the point that hospitalization was ultimately the only recourse. This was followed by a stint in rehab where Covid ran rampant not long after her arrival.

Although sent there for physical therapy, the virus quickly took its toll. Eventually, despite her weakening condition, the facility sent her home since insurance would no longer cover her stay if she wasn’t participating in PT. Sadly, getting a doctor to see her and redesignate her condition proved impossible.

Despite 24-hour home care, her condition worsened. When her breathing became labored, an ambulance was summoned, but it was clear she had little time left. Her son, Bob, convinced the EMTs not to take her to the hospital. Before she expired, he was able to hold her hand in the ambulance, in her driveway and tell her that her wish to die at home had been realized. Her daughter-in-law, Linda, then sat sentry over her in the living room of her beloved home until the funeral transport arrived.

This is just one tragic story, out of millions, during this time of Covid. The healthcare system, clearly overburdened, has resulted in many dying needlessly. With every loss, our own lives are irrevocably altered. 

Beyond clinging to memories, I try to find solace or at least perspective. Neuroscientist and philosopher Sam Harris offers this:

“The process of dying, whatever it is, will be a finite experience. Which is to say that however painful it might be, there will come a time when it ceases to be painful. Even if one suffers a long illness and a blizzard of medical interventions, there will be a moment when all of that ends.”

In the heaven she has long believed in, Mother Hamlin, Ann, is at peace.

Poof

One minute, she was here, full of life and laughter. Then she was gone. Or so it seemed, when after eleven months of battling cancer, on a sunny day in June, we laid Liz to rest at age 52. Although, in truth, we watched that burst of energy that always surrounded her, diminish each week during the regular video call, on the suddenly all-pervasive Zoom technology. That was how we shared her final journey.

She left us to ponder how, with all she did in life and how she lived that life, that insidious disease could choose her. A health-conscious vegetarian, with a passion for yoga, she was not only a practitioner, but also an instructor. Exercise, we’re told, is a mainstay for longevity and not many could compete, as Liz did, in two Ironman Triathlons. What it took to prepare for the 2.4 mile open water swim, 112 mile bike race, and 26.2 mile marathon, would challenge anyone to understand how that level of endurance could be vanquished by unforgiving, multiplying cancer cells.

Yet, over and over, it takes away people we all know who seemed destined for long, healthy lives.

Admittedly, I’m among the baffled. Meant to be a mystery, perhaps. Still, maybe there’s an answer in the First Law of Thermodynamics. We’re told that energy cannot be created or destroyed. However, it can be changed from one form to another. Is that what happened to Liz? Is she still with us, here on earth, just no longer visible?

I wish that could provide much needed comfort. Because just the other day, she was vibrant, laughing, and now ... poof. 

Starting Over

Excited to be nearly finished with the final editing of my second murder mystery/thriller, Sanctuary. A trusted, critical first reader has been invaluable with editing, finding typos (although there will always be more), and suggestions for improvement. Would love to have a publisher take on my new novel, and will send it to a few who do not require agent representation, but I’m more interested in getting it out to my “public.” It’s been about three years in the writing and time to move forward, so will take the self-publishing route again as well.

Now ahead lies the task of coming up with a fresh idea for my next project. The Westport Writers Workshop panel discussion on Writing Through the Holidays inspired a number of ideas for how to get started again, like:

• Turn to real life occurrences as the impetus for your novel (which is what I did for The Incident and Sanctuary).

• Read the best writers in your genre. In my case, I will again read PD James beginning with An Unsuitable Job for a Woman.

• Start the novel with an inciting incident, in my case – murder. An inciting incident is the plot point or event that hooks the reader into the story. It’s the particular moment when an event thrusts the protagonist into the main action of the story.

• Write every day – or at least set aside dedicated time to think about what you want to write.

• Create an outline of how your story will proceed. This is not cast in stone and can be easily altered as the writing and plot line unfolds.

• Get out and walk most days to clear your head.

The ideas have begun percolating in my head and will soon find their way onto my computer screen.

The Art of Death

 

Like many of us, I’ve held an almost ghoulish fascination along with a healthy fear of death since a young age. Perhaps it started at Catholic Sunday school. I could barely tear my eyes away from that page in the catechism depicting a sinister devil with his pointy tail, horns and pitchfork surrounded by fire and young children burning amongst the flames. But even now, where my leanings are more toward dismissing the Bible as more of an elaborate set of often grisly stories passed down through the ages, death is captivating in all its mystery. Whether devout religious or pragmatic atheist, the idea of death looming ahead surely gives most of us moments of contemplative pause. It is rarely a dignified process, not unlike birth. It reaches each of us no matter the course or length of our life – everyday Joe or famous actor; evil-doer or stunning vocalist; even a genius like Stephen Hawkings, who had one of the better grasps on how we all got here.

The renowned cosmologist had faced death since his diagnosis of ALS at the age of 21. Mr. Hawkings said, “I’m not afraid of death, but I’m in no hurry to die. I have so much I want to do first.” Rejecting the notion of life after death, he said the brain is not unlike a computer. It will stop working when its components fail. He proposed, quite simply, that while on earth, "We should seek the greatest value of our action.”

Still, to paraphrase Diane Butler Bass, author of Christianity after Religion, “Very few people can function without some fear of death hanging over them. We’re human beings and we’re very fragile. And so long as we’re fragile and there’s the fear of what comes next, God will be hovering behind our shoulders. When you look over your shoulder, you look up to the stars and ask the question, why?”

But rather than looking up to the stars, where I’m pretty sure no answer will be forthcoming, I’ve stayed grounded on earth to explore what I see as the tangible art of death. I wander through cemeteries and grave yards. It is there that I find a quiet, dignified beauty. It can be found in the epitaphs on head stones, or the rolling terrain of ancient burial grounds. It is here that we can luxuriate in the breezes that rustle the leaves in trees that stand guard over the bodies buried beneath them.