The Question

1993

“Excuse me, I don't mean to be insensitive, but can I ask you a question?”

“Yes”

“I hope you don't take this the wrong way; I don't know how to ask, but you don't seem sad enough for someone who's lost...”

I was silent for a moment as his voice trailed off. Slowly raising my gaze, I saw it was one of the younger members of my class, a highly gifted illustrator. The question was meant only to gain insight and not to be hurtful; his demeanor was hesitant, but he didn't look away. Day-to-day, I was barely holding it together. I hadn't thought about being sad or how I was appearing to the rest of the world. I was still in that alone place, that foggy, floating above myself place I'd go to whenever I was in the early stages of grief. Sad was too small a word to encompass what I was feeling. I'd assumed people saw the disastrous turmoil that was living just below the surface. That's the problem with assumptions: they are seldom seen in the physical realm and are rarely true. When he told me...asked me, the sad enough question, it confused me.

The confusion must have shown on my face because he tried to explain how, from his perspective, people experiencing extreme grief would not be able to function. Surely, grief that deep would cause a person to fall apart. They certainly shouldn't be able to give a presentation or attend class. That's when I realized that on the outside, the people at the art school thought I looked normal. I wasn't normal; normal was far from where I was. Function; that's where I was. Just function. Get through this moment, this project, this conversation; tomorrow would be different, tomorrow would be OK, get through this minute.

If only I could lock myself away and throw things at the wall of my room or run to the middle of Great-grandfather's field and scream at the wind as I did as a frustrated teenager. But I couldn't. For one thing, the children needed me, but it was much more than that. Fear- it was fear so strong that even while falling apart on the inside, I couldn't. At least for a while, that part of me had to be private; I couldn't let anyone see that version of me. Then the thought came: what if I couldn't get back to normal? Grief had touched my life so many times, but never like this. This was not the expected kind of grief, like losing an elderly family member. That was sad, but it didn't tear apart and stomp on the deep parts of what made me, me. What if grief had finally won and this version of me was my new normal? I wasn't any use to anyone as long as I wasn't dealing with this. I had to get away from all the places and people that made it impossible to think of anything other than death. Someplace secluded, and somewhere we'd never been. Having lived all over the United States made choosing a place that didn't remind me of you would be impossible on my own. After explaining all my requirements to a travel agent, she recommended St. Croix.

Lounging in an Adirondack chair, I photographed wild horses who were so close I could have touched them. They are protected on the island, and I was a visitor. The beach still had driftwood remnants of the last hurricane lying in pieces, scattered randomly along the shore. The medium-format camera stowed carefully in the bag; I sank deeper into the chair; the sound of the ocean had a transporting effect on my mind. Thoughts of that day and that student's question brought reflections of the past.

November 1963

In a living room, a toddler sits clothed in a short-skirted dress, white socks, and heavy leather corrective high-top shoes. She fidgets as the gray wool carpet makes her little legs itch. On the surrounding furniture sat her parents and paternal grandparents. Grandma had insisted that everyone watch the news. Grandma always watched when the president was on, but this day was extra special because a parade was scheduled. On the screen, the president was in the backseat of a dark convertible with the First Lady. The cars were creeping along the parade route too slowly. To the toddler, this went on forever. Dressed in a suit, the First Lady was beautiful, and the announcer’s voice was interesting, even if what he was saying was not. The toddler had her attention focused on the first-lady when everything changed. Suddenly, the television screen was alive with activity. No one in the living-room moved. Something terrible had happened. The president had been shot. The parade was over. Later, a different announcer said the president was dead.

I was... that toddler.

New Year’s Eve 1971

My maternal grandmother, dressed in a Chanel-style suit, was rushing around getting us ready to leave for the potluck. Grandma's church had a wonderful potluck every New Year's Eve. Waiting to leave for the celebration was agony for nine-year-old me. Grandma's church had these amazing miniature barbecue ham sandwiches on the New Year's buffet, and the anticipation made me fidgety to leave for church. I loved those sandwiches. Between weather reports and shots of happy party-goers, the news on the television was blasting the normal New Year's Eve reports. Watching the news on New Year's Eve was usually different from the everyday news, but something about this report drew my attention and held it. I couldn't put a name to what I was feeling, but it wasn't good. Then the reporter said his name.

My favorite actor had shot himself. He was dead. Suicide, as it was later reported. It's the first time I can recall hearing the word suicide, and I thought, “Why, why would he do that?” Grandma didn't notice the report. She didn't know that he was my favorite actor, but it wouldn't have stopped us from going to the potluck had she known. We went to the potluck, and I ate my grief at the buffet, although I didn't know that was what I was doing. Intently stuffing the little ham sandwiches into my face meant not having to talk to anyone. No one would notice that I was trying not to cry or feel sad, confused, or angry. I didn't really want to talk about it, but that wasn't something my family did, anyway. I was a 1960s kid living in a 1950s family, which meant no talking about emotions. Even if I knew the right questions, I'm not sure anyone would have had an answer. Suicide isn't like a car crash, or a disease, or murder. Can there really be a logical answer to suicide?

Another New Year's at Grandma's house. The news is on again, but this time, the car on the television screen was flat and unrecognizable. I was the only one in the living room who noticed the car because my grandparents were busy getting ready to leave. We left for church, ate the little sandwiches, and rang in the new year with prayer, hymns, and Auld Lang Syne. I was still wondering about who was in that car I'd seen on the news. The next day, I went home, and my dad told me that my cousin had been killed in a car accident. Details ran backwards in my head: church, Grandma's living room, the floor-console TV that took up an entire corner of her living room, the joyous anticipation of the evening's potluck; nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But now, everything was different; it only took one moment...one news report. I was in our living room at home when my dad told me that my cousin wasn't driving that car; he was a passenger. They were on their way to a party. No, they hadn't been drinking. My mind reached out to process the information, but I was close to this cousin. He was older, and I looked up to him, and now he was gone. Closing my eyes to shut out what I was being told didn't work. Behind closed eyelids, I could still see the news report with the flattened car on the darkened road, flashing police lights, and scattered debris.

Over time, I grew to fear New Year's Eve, expecting bad news. Guy Lombardo left us, and Dick Clark’s show took over. Grandma and I didn't watch the news or go to the potlucks anymore. Grandpa would make sandwiches, and we'd sit on the couch watching the ball drop in Times Square. At first, I was afraid that something would happen to Dick Clark because, by this time, I'd formed the opinion that nothing good comes to those I cared about, especially on New Year's Eve. And I was a fan of Dick Clark even before he did Rocking' New Year's Eve, back when he did the American Bandstand TV show.

Remember that time when you and I talked about how we had the same opinion about death? How we were careful about who we got close to, because somehow, us being close to them would cause death to take them? You told me that the more you cared about a person, the more the likely-hood that they would be taken too soon. It was an odd connection for us to have.

Winter 1993

1993 brought record snowfalls to Pennsylvania. From the end of February through the middle of March, everything was affected by the storm. As the snow fell, road crews struggled to keep up: roads, buildings, trailers, cars, and trucks- nothing was safe from the white, sticky cold. In the middle of the storm, visibility was nonexistent. It was so bad that the guard had to be called to shut down the highways. Pittsburgh was buried. It came to be called the Storm of the Century, but not even snow and ice could stop the storm that was about to befall our family. A storm that forever transformed everything.

You were on a job in New York. I was finishing school in Pennsylvania. Driving back and forth between PA and NY, we only saw each other on weekends, but that was alright because we had formed a plan. Before long, we'd be happily living our future together. It was a good plan. You'd rekindle your photography, and I would do graphic design. You, me, and the kids together...always. Our happy little family. Or so we thought...

That overcast night, it took almost an hour longer than usual to drive home from school. Sharon asked me to drive a friend of hers (I don't remember her friend's name). You remember my friend Sharon; she was the fellow student who carpooled with me part of the way to and from school. Sharon was always so kind to me, and even though I didn't know her friend or the way to her friend's home, Sharon said it wasn't far, so I said yes. A migraine, combined with my lack of navigational skills, was not helping but, after making a few wrong turns, the three of us finally arrived and dropped off our passenger. It was late by then. It was a bumpy ride because the secondary roads were showing signs of wear from Pennsylvania's winter weather. This made the drive even more treacherous. I just wanted to get the kids, drop off Sharon, and get home. I just wanted to get home. By the time we left the kids' school and I dropped Sharon off at her car, the snow was sticking to the windshield, but it was still a soft, gentle snowfall.

Stomping my feet to shake off some of the snow, I removed my gloves, shuffled the kids into the kitchen, and turned on the lights. The kids and I were home, but something still felt off. I couldn't shake this sickening, heavy feeling like something had gone horribly wrong; not wrong with the townhouse, but something deep inside myself. The feeling wouldn't go away.

Our daughter was taking off her winter coat and putting her backpack away. Our toddler son was pulling on my pant leg, stomping around my feet as I tossed my portfolio and bags onto the chair in the living room.

A knock at the door came just as I was lifting our son into my arms to remove his puffy Steeler jacket. As I shifted him onto my hip, with a heavy sigh, I reached for the doorknob. The drive and the migraine had drained me. I wasn't in the mood to deal with anything more tonight. Opening the door, the hot air inside our home was replaced by a whoosh of icy cold. The wind was really picking up.

A police officer was on the stoop. The doorway lighting reflected off the falling snow, revealing that he was dressed in full winter uniform. The officer's ivory skin and red hair were a sharp contrast to his uniform and the velvet-black sky behind him. He shifted back and forth a few times in a side-to-side motion. Time stopped. The migraine that had been hammering my brain since early afternoon was suddenly gone. All the blood rushed to my feet, and the icy wind let in by the open door was making me feel hot and cold at the same time. The slight calm I'd felt from finally making it home gave way to panicked breathing. Why was an officer in full uniform at my door? I'd seen enough movies to know officers don't bring good news dressed like that. As I squeezed our son tightly, my heart was pounding in my ears.

"Are you Mrs...?”

“Yes”

“I regret to inform you that..."

His words hung like ice-sickles in the space between us. Needing tactile verification, I reached out to touch his uniform. He stepped back, but my hand brushed his uniform jacket. Cold, slightly wet from snowfall, this was really happening- not a dream, a nightmare maybe, but real. Still not wanting to believe it, I went to the phone and dialed your number; your voice answered. It was the answering machine. Like a desperate child, I stood there holding the phone in our kitchen. I told the receiver about the officer at the door. The message was one you would never hear: you'd had a massive coronary, a heart attack. I hung up the receiver. Realizing I'd left the door open, I looked out at the emptiness. The officer was gone; the snow was light but still falling. Slowly, I closed the door.

That's how it happened. Just like that, you were gone. I went from being a wife to being a widow. A widow with a baby and a seven-year-old. I'd been alone before, but never like this. My person I turned to when everything was going wrong...was gone.

Maybe because I was in school when it happened, but the first few years after that night, a part of me thought that if I kept enrolling in schools, I could pretend you weren't gone. I could pretend that you were still on that last contract, and the snow-covered night never happened. But after multiple degrees at different schools in different states, even that part of me had to admit that you were gone.

“Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't seem sad enough for someone who's lost (so much)?”

That day, sitting in the hallway outside our classroom, I didn't have an answer. If I could speak to that student now, I'd tell him that when death took you, grief was the piece of you that moved into the cavernous space where you used to be. You were not anywhere that I could physically go, so grief slowly became the piece that grounded my emotions when they were spiraling out of control. For a long time after the funeral, my actions were guided by panic, fear, desperately horrible advice, sometimes all of the above, but when I looked inside myself at that piece of you that remained, a calm would come. A calm that allowed me to function. Sadness doesn't always show on the outside. I can't speak for what normal grief is, but my grief is forever a part of me.