For well over a year now I have been deeply immersed in the world of grief, examining the process of getting on with life and work (in my case, teaching high school English) in the wake of great personal loss.
I’m working on the second draft of my memoir, TEACHING HAMLET AS MY FATHER DIED, and besides wanting to birth this story and share it with the world, I have also had a burning sense that I really need to “finish this book before someone else dies.”
Too late. As life would have it, this November, just I was trying to access the visceral sensations that accompany trying to stand up in front of a bunch of teenagers and teach when your heart is breaking, a beloved teacher and mentor of mine died out of the blue. The next day I awoke to the results of the election. Teaching through grief. Standing up in front of an audience when you want to fall down into a hole.
Then, at Thanksgiving, my uncle, my father’s older, vital, super-active brother, was struck with a shocking cancer diagnosis. I had worked so hard at being “ready” for my father’s impending death, which crept up slowly for years then culminated within a month. At the time I defied denial. I said it was okay if my father died. It had to happen sometime. I embraced doing the most we could with the time we had left, and worked on giving him a beautiful send off.
Yet when I realized my uncle was going to die (and probably soon) my reaction was just the opposite: I’m not ready for Uncle Walter to die! I heard myself cry. And instead of spending December working on Act 2 of my memoir, I held my cousins and watched in wonder as my attitude towards death of fathers shifted yet again: Why had I said it was okay that my father died? It was not okay!
One of the blessings of my dad’s death almost three years ago was the chance to connect on a new level with my uncles, and to spend time with talking with them about their lives and memories. Both of my father’s brothers were there for me and my family in different and important ways during the process of him dying and bidding him adieu.
I saw my uncle Walter at the end of the summer at the shore. He was strikingly vibrant for his age and showed me the guest suite he’d just finished and the wet bar he was installing in the kitchen. I presented him with a copy of the original manuscript for my book, which I had told him about when I saw him in May. He made me eggs and we sat on the porch out back with my goddaughter and cousin.
The next time we spoke was on the phone when he was in the hospital. Part of me was scared to call–I felt awkward, we don’t really talk on the phone. I was a little surprised he answered, and my heart leapt when I heard his strong & clear “Hello” in the voice that sounds so much like my father’s.
But then as we spoke more–and he coughed–his voice became thin and far away: like my father’s had in his final weeks. At that point I wasn’t sure how much time he had left, and I just had to ask: So, did you read my book?
Erica, I’m about three quarters of the way through it. And I have to tell you…I’m very impressed with your insight.
Oh wow. Wow wow thank you. Much of that first manuscript grappled with trying to figure out how my grandfather’s early death affected his three sons. I told him about how I have an editor and an agent now, and how I’m rewriting it. He struggled with limited voice and breath and said:
Well, I look forward to reading the next version.
It turned out I was lucky enough to have two in-person visits with my uncle Walter before he left us. There are about a million questions I’d like to ask him, but it’s too late. Even if it’s awkward or obvious you’re only asking now because you think they are going to die: still ask those questions. And write down the answers.
It really sucks to be suspended in space and time between when there are a still some of the older generation left, but their numbers are decreasing. I have a lot of friends, and most of their parents haven’t died yet. We all know it’s coming. What we don’t know is who’s next.
It’s not the wrinkles or cranky joints that make me feel my certain age: it’s the graying losses left and right.
#writinggrief #deaddadsclub #shakespeare #teachinghamlet #teachingthroughgrief #hamlet