Sarah,

I’m sure you’ve been inundated with people looking for advice after last week’s tragedies.Even so, I hope that you can give me a little guidance.

Last May, I fell in love with the man of my dreams.I came out of the closet fairly late in the game (all the mental gymnastics and rationalizations throughout college couldn’t make the heterosexuality stick) after entering the working world.I was prepared for cutthroat office politics and asshole bosses and long hours — but not for meeting the guy who so levelled me that to describe him seems like a kind of idolatry.How can one pay homage to oneself?Because that’s what he was; he was ME.I finally understood why people write cheesy love songs and bad poetry and emails that are so mushy that you could have a hypoglycemic attack just from glancing at one of them.

He was killed on September 11th.I can’t play the games that others do, saying that he’s “missing” and that I’m “waiting for good news.”I knew he was dead the instant the first plane hit.

Other people are trying to support me, and for that I’m eternally grateful.But they don’t get through to me.No one does.My parents call me every 45 minutes, trying to make sure that I haven’t gone off the deep end.Co-workers look at me with the kind of bizarre, ingratiating look of concern that’s usually reserved for idiots or people with something stuck in their teeth.Passengers on the subway give me looks of pity that could bend metal bars, because they can tell.They just can.

I’ve been to the priest, the grief counselors.I’ve been referred to a shrink who is supposedly an “expert” in her field.(Why, I wonder to myself, would anyone want to become the leading authority on crisis counseling?What unspeakable trauma or God complex must such a woman have?)No one can penetrate this raw force-field that surrounds me; but the sad thing is that half the time I feel like it’s everyone else who has built it there, because they can’t begin to know what to say.Who can?

I’m so tired of the platitudes.”Feel your feelings” and “let time pass.”I feel the feelings in every cell of my body, every minute of the day — and they scorn me.They advance, they retreat, they plot their courses in a game which takes place in my body, but to which I’m not invited.As for “time”: a sick cosmic joke, the diminution of everything to an infinitesimal crawl.Seconds last for five minutes; minutes go on for hours; hours telescope into days on continuous loop.Time moves so horribly slowly.It stretches out in its vast, terrifying way, taunting me with its recklessness; and it just hurts so impossibly much.

I know without a doubt that I am going to get through this, and that I will get my life back.I was just hoping that you might have a sentence or two that could dull the pain or speed up the time for five or ten minutes.More than that I don’t expect from anyone, and I sincerely hope that this letter doesn’t make you feel some awful pressure.Maybe I shouldn’t send it.But it just feels natural; a couple of times, I read him snippets from your articles and they made him laugh.He printed out your “Fashion Plotz” essay and showed it to his parents.Once in a while I would read him parts of The Vine (he loved it when you ripped people apart) and he’d yell, “OUCH! OUCH! OUCH!” on the way to the refrigerator, with the biggest smile on his face.

I remember being amazed in ninth grade biology class when our teacher told us that the human skeletal system actually isn’t very solid: hard minerals surrounding an empty core.But now I understand the concept.I feel hollow inside my bones, as if they’ve been scooped out and made so brittle that they could snap.And I wish that it would just happen, or wouldn’t happen, or that somebody would tell me whether it will or won’t, because then I would actually be sure of something.

Ben’s Shadow

Dear Shadow,

I’m so very sorry.

Occasionally, on the news, a camera pans past the remains of the World Trade Center — the seven-story chunk of the building that looks like a gravestone knocked to one side by frost heave.”God,” I think to myself, “it’s so small.”And then I see the ant-sized rescue workers walking around in front of it, and I think, “God…it’s still so big.”That’s how I feel these days, as a human being and as a writer.That’s how I feel every time I try to comfort another person in a time of grief.I work with words.Words should work here.I throw words at it — cite Auden, maybe, or talk about how I felt when my grandma died, or give the gallows humor a shot, but it’s never any good.Anything I say is an ant in front of that giant hulking grave.It’s still so big.

I could try to tell you that your true love has gone to a better place, or that you should feel grateful for the time you had with him, or that you’ll live, laugh, and love again, the longest journey begins with a single step, that which does not kill us winds up as a t-shirt slogan, on and on without end amen.Or I could try a different tack and remind you that the universe sucker-punched you and that it’s still standing over you, waiting for you to get your wind back, so it can sucker-punch you again.

I could try to talk to you about your own pain.I could keep hauling metaphors out of the closet and holding them up to you to see if they fit (see?).But all the platitudes and cutesy-poo images in the world won’t help.

I can’t tell you how much I hate that.I hate that I have nothing to offer you, that the one thing I’ve got is no good, that the only thing I can do is sit here and bitch at a guy who stole a can of tomatoes and hope that, someday, when the sun is out and you’ve just had a good cry, you read it and the lines around your eyes crease a little.

But you know all these things, and the things you don’t know, I can’t help you with.I wish I could.I wish it with my whole heart.But telling you that, wishing you the very best of luck and hope, is all I’ve got.I hope it helps a little bit.I’m happy to do it any time.

Hey Miss Sarah,

I want to let you know that I thought your response was perceptive regarding the poor woman who celebrates her miscarried child’s birthday.When I found out I was pregnant with my last child, I was really very upset.It wasn’t a good time, we didn’t really have the money, it would involve me putting off for a good long while a lot of things I had been counting on doing…et cetera.My first child was also an “accident,” and it had been a long couple of years trying to balance going to school and being young while having this completely different outlook on life than other students.I thought and thought about not going through with that second pregnancy and finally came to the decision that I was okay with having another child and that, in fact, things would just work themselves out as they had with the first.

Which, I’m happy to say, they have.I’ll tell you, though, that when I was lying prone on the examining table being slicked up with jelly for the ultrasound, I had a deep deep sense that something would be very wrong because I deserved it.Because I had deliberated back and forth whether I wanted to have the baby or not, because maybe dividing my time meant that I wasn’t a good mother, because there is a crapload of emotional guilt women in this society are forced to take on, particularly when it comes to maternal issues. The baby was fine and I’m fine.My older child is fine and my husband is fine.(And thanks for asking, I think the birth control question has finally been resolved.)

If I had lost that baby, I would have gone through exactly what you described — feeling terribly guilty and horrible because of previous ambivalent emotions.A lot of women feel this way.I know personally many women who have confided that they felt a miscarriage was “all their fault for not loving [the baby] enough.”I took from your original comments that it was not so much the loss of a child that the woman should get over or move on from, but the terrible debilitating guilt that she seems to be feeling (and I thought so too, from the description).

Sask

Dear Sask,

Yes, that’s my impression.I want to reiterate that I don’t think the loss of a child itself is a “get over it” proposition, at all.But as Sask points out, there’s a lot of psychological and societal baggage that motherhood carries with it, and all of that gets mixed up with the grief.It’s natural, but a woman who has lost a child might need help to untangle it.

I’ve exhausted all of my real-life advice sources, and I’m hoping you might be able to help me get my head back together.I have two problems, really, but they’re branches of the same tree.

My mother has been sick for about six years.She had a liver transplant almost four years ago, and since then, she’s had continued problems (rejection, more liver failure, kidney trouble, and seizures).That was to be expected, and she’s actually done pretty well, considering.Lately she’s been in the hospital at least one week out of every month.Usually it’s that she wants to go in there, knows that she should be there.

However, a few days ago she went into a seizure, and I called an ambulance.She’s been in the hospital since, in the ICU, and she’s not doing great.The doctors, apparently, are saying that it’s only a matter of time.My aunt won’t let me talk to them directly, but today she sat down with my brother and me and explained the situation.(In short, we had a conversation about the fact that my mom probably only has another week or two, without ever using the word “death” — I’m learning new euphemisms every day.)Now, my aunt told us this because she (and the doctors) felt that we should be “prepared.”I understand the concept.My brother refuses to acknowledge it.He doesn’t believe that there’s even a chance that she’ll die.

That brings me to my first question.He’s 14.He’s had a not-so-great life already, and he’s going to have trouble dealing.I know there’s no way I can make this easier for him, but is there anything I can do to help?Anything?I can’t talk to him if he won’t accept it, and while he’s off in Egypt, I’m worrying about him.Even if, through some miracle, my mother comes out of this and is relatively fine, there’s always going to be a “next time.”And the final time is probably going to come while he’s still a kid.I’m just afraid that if he can’t even deal with the possibility, it’ll be a shock and hit him even harder.The thing is, there’s already been a million instances where my mother has “beaten the odds.”After her transplant, they gave her a year.Two years ago, they gave her a week.I’m scared that he’s gotten so used to those situations that he…I don’t know.Like I said, I know I can’t make it easier — but is there anything I could possibly say or do to help him deal with the fact that this is real?

As for my second question.Well, I’m trying to think into the future.I’ll be 18 shortly, and I’d like to leave home.I was planning to wait a year or so anyway — I’d like to have enough money saved that I won’t need to work full-time while I’m in school.I’m living at my grandmother’s home currently, with my mother and brother.If something does happen to my mother, my grandma (who’s 80) wants custody of him.She wants my brother to stay here with her, which I understand and love her for.But my brother is not an easy kid to take care of.I’ve been doing it for most of our lives, and he’s had problems with truancy, vandalism, et cetera.Normal-ish things for someone his age, but slightly worse.He also has a pretty bad temper.

I don’t want my grandma to have to deal with him for the next four years or however long.I feel like that’s my responsibility, and if I move out (even within the city), I almost think I’d be abandoning him.I’ll probably be in this city for another two years anyway.Should I stay at home for those two years, or leave after one year like I’ve been planning?This is an issue whether or not my mother is “fine,” because she still won’t be up to taking care of him.Spending an extra year at home isn’t that horrible, and it would be better financially, I guess.I suppose the choice is between moving out and feeling guilty for leaving my brother, or staying here and feeling guilty for mooching off my grandma (who won’t let me pay rent or buy food).

I just need a nudge in the right (or any, really) direction.

Thanks,
Dosi

Dear Dosi,

First of all, I am touched and impressed by how composed you sound, at the age of only seventeen, describing the conditions of your mother’s illness. You say that your brother has “had a not-so-great life,” but the same is (I would guess, based on the circumstances you’ve described) probably also true of you, and the way you’ve taken into account the feelings and particular situations of everyone involved in preparing for and (eventually) coping with your mother’s death is really remarkably sensitive and mature.

Which is why I’m not sure I’m the best person to advise you, since if I were in your shoes I think I would be a lot more selfish, and I think you should be, too — in the sense that you need to consider what is best for you in the immediate future. In the event that your mother does pass away — and I do hope she has another recovery of the kind you’ve described above, but in case she doesn’t — you will, naturally, spend some time being close to your family and dealing with your collective grief. After that, you should (again, in my opinion) leave home in a year, as planned. You haven’t clarified here whether you want to leave home to go to college or travel or get a job or what, but whatever it is, you should do it. Living with your mother’s illness for the past six years has, I should think, rearranged your priorities and put your long-term future plans on hold, but whatever it is you want to do away from home…you know, you’ll be eighteen, and you should do it. It won’t mean that you love your brother or grandmother any less; it just means you have to live your own life. That you want to leave your grandmother’s home is pretty clear from the language of your letter; the prospect of staying “isn’t that horrible” and you’d be saving money, “…I guess.” (I’m assuming you’ll have finished high school by the time you leave home; if not, I’d say you should hang out at your grandmother’s until then, just to allow your time there to come to a natural end, and so you’re not trying to find boxes to pack your clothes in while also cramming for your senior Chemistry final or something.)

I understand your desire to stay and look after your brother, particularly since, as you say, you’ve been doing that most of your lives. But if you’re seventeen and he’s fourteen, regardless of what kinds of trouble he’s gotten into, and despite the parental feelings you may have toward him, that’s a pretty slim age difference for you to take on a formal parental role with him. It sounds more like you’re describing co-parenting him with your grandmother, but either way, when he’s twenty, you’ll only be twenty-three; it’s not like he was in diapers when you learned to drive or something. Again, I don’t know the specifics of your relationship, but if you and your brother and grandmother have been living together for a while, I would think that she knows his behaviour fairly well and that if he were such a hellion that he was more than she felt she could handle, she wouldn’t offer to assume his custody. However, if there is anything really, really bad or worrisome your brother’s done from which you may have shielded your grandmother and that you think would, if she knew, cause her to seriously reconsider taking on the responsibility of being his legal guardian, you should tell her now so that she can make an informed decision before she signs any papers.

My ultimate point here is that your brother is almost as old as you are. As much as you might want to be the Charlie Salinger to his Bailey, it’s not practical — nor is it fair on you — to put your own plans on hold in order to keep a close eye on your brother. Rather, you should find an appropriate time to let your brother and grandmother know that you plan to move out in a year’s time, so that they can start learning how to relate to each other without you to mediate between them.

As to the first part of your question…I don’t know exactly how you could convey to your brother that he might be very close to losing your mother. I can’t tell from what you’ve written whether she is well enough to speak to you and your brother herself; if she is, it would be ideal for you and her to have this discussion with your brother together. Perhaps you might broach the subject by talking a bit about the previous occasions on which your mother’s health appeared, to the doctors, to be irreparable, and how amazing she is that she was able to defy them and hang on. Since you haven’t been able to speak to the doctors, you could allow that you’re not entirely sure what is different this time, but that even knowing your mother’s extraordinary medical history, the doctors are pretty sure that she is not going to survive this hospital stay. If he brushes you off or argues, you can agree with him that doctors don’t know everything and are often wrong, but that they are usually right about things like this, and that they don’t generally tell a patient’s family that death is imminent unless they’re very certain. You can tell him (if your mother isn’t able to do so herself) that she loves him very much and that she knows he will always make her proud, no matter what, and that you love him, too, and will always take care of him as a big sister should, even after your mother is gone. Depending on how deep your brother’s denial is, you may have to have this conversation with him more than once, to make sure he can tell you really mean it. Even then, it still may not completely sink in, but in the event that the worst happens, your brother will, I hope, remember what you tried to tell him, and particularly know how much you love him and want to protect him from grief and pain.

I’m so sorry you and your whole family have to go through this. Your brother is lucky to have a sister like you.

Yours,
Wing Chun

[9/28/01]

Share!