One of my favorite writers is Atul Guwande (see my link to his works on my sidebar). I just noticed on his website that his dad, of 88 years, died a few weeks ago. I have been meaning to email him about my response to his articles, but have never gotten around to it. He seems like he is a person who truly understand the conundrum of death. So last week I emailed him to offer my condolences on the passing of his father and shared a bit about Jillian and the work I have been involved in since her death. To my surprise, he took the time to personally email me back a day later, and offered his appreciation for my kind words and encouraged me to continue the work I am doing.
This email exchange with Dr. Guwande influenced my ideas for this post. I think that when you lose someone significant in your life, it forces you to look face to face with the entire idea of death and all of its tangential yet intense issues (our faith system, existence of God or a higher being questions, others perspectives and belief systems, our own humanity). It causes you to pause and appreciate the little things. It forces you to take a look at your own humanity and look closely to understand who you really are and what truly makes you tick.
However, for most people death or even talking about death is a scary proposition – most want to run away from any conversation about death - especially when it involves a child. Take for example when I am asked by someone if I have any children. Sometimes I hesitate, but I usually decide that if I am going to be in a relationship with this person (whether as a friend or in a work environment) for any length of time they need to know who I am, and a huge part of who I am is Jillian’s dad. That will forever be true. So to the ‘big’ question I reply, that I have one child, Jillian, who died three years ago. I then gauge their response and if I sense that they are in a place where they can hold this (what I consider) sacred and privileged information, I show them a picture and share a memory or two of Jillian. Then I often invite them to ask me more about Jillian (as I love telling stories about her). And then ask them about their children. After all, any self-respecting parent loves to tell stories and brag about their children. Why should it be any different for a bereaved dad? If, however, I sense that they are having a difficult time or not able to handle this information, I quickly ask them about their family and children or another topic. (You can see it in their eyes…..they just want to run from this uncomfortable situation as quickly as possible...what I call the “runaway factor”.)
I know that this ‘process’ I use is quite subjective and even judgmental, but it kind of goes back to my point about people being afraid of death. My experience so far has been that those that have experienced loss and death and have wrestled with it and even embraced it are better able and more equipped to respond appropriately to a conversation similar to what I have just described. I had one of these meetings this past week. This person I met respectfully held Jillian’s story, expressed appropriate compassion, but at the same time wasn’t afraid of the conversation. Wouldn’t you know, it was someone who was raising a child who has special needs (a unique subset of loss) and has experienced the ‘runaway factor’ firsthand. We had a wonderful conversation about our children and truly appreciating the little things in life that we too often take for granted.
I think that if people really took the time to look at the full spectrum of life, what I like to call from the ‘soup to nuts’ approach, they would accept that birth and death are the most sacred of the sacred. They wouldn’t be so afraid of death, or even just having a conversation about it. Losing Jillian has been the most painful thing I have experienced in my life. I miss her physical existence intensely. I hate that I have to be labeled as a ‘bereaved parent’. But it has been through her death that I have learned and understood more about myself than any other experience in my 46 years of life. And she is still teaching me so much. So I need to honor her death as much as I have honored her life. They are equally sacred. If more people understood this there would definitely be less ‘runners’ in this world.
PS –if you have children that love the entertainer and singer, BRUNO MARS, you can buy tickets for them to a private concert in Atherton, CA. Visit www.summersymphony.org for information.
