The Mystery of Grief

Grief is a sneaky thing.

On my way to a job interview two days ago, I was feeling particularly buoyed, having had the benefit of several almost back-to-back sessions with a new (and apparently very capable) therapist. As I drove, I reflected back on the conversations I’ve had with the new doctor, filling her in on the traumatic events of the past several years. In particular, we had concentrated on the events surrounding my dad’s sudden death: my very strong suspicion that my dad was poisoned, the horrific probate fight that drug on for years, the ex-business partner and my dad’s banker who framed my brother for bank fraud and sent him to prison for fifteen months (stealing Dad’s business in the process.) Yes, I know, I sound like a paranoid delusional crazy person, which is why I don’t talk about it much and that has apparently contributed greatly to my shaky emotional status of late.

All of this was in the mental stew that was boiling in my mind as I drove along heading for my job interview. I happened to notice a new business, a steel fabrication company. It just so happens that was the kind of business my dad owned. As I read the sign with the company’s name, I felt a little flutter of happy in the back of my mind. Pure reflex kicked in as a fully formed impulse presented itself in my consciousness. I reached for my cell phone, actually had it in my hand before reality yanked me back to the present. I was going to call my dad, anxious to tell him that I was taking control of my life again. It all happened in a split second – the jolt of happiness, the impulse to call, and then the clutch in my stomach as I remembered – he’s gone.

Suddenly, my mouth was agape, my eyes filled with tears and I felt the grip of grief. My dad has been gone for six years, not to mention the fact that I was consciously reviewing the circumstances of his death at the very moment that I had the impulse to give him a call. It was a surreal moment. I marvel at the capacity of the human brain to compartmentalize so completely that such an event can occur.

I wonder if the trauma of those events somehow stunted the natural process of grief. As I woodenly marched forward through all those months following his death, performing the necessary tasks by rote, somehow managing to do everything that had to be done, did I so successfully compartmentalize the events that I never fully experienced the grief? Or was it just some kind of “brain glitch” that allowed the two experiences to fully co-exist in my brain that day – the full realization and analysis of my dad’s death versus the complete momentary lapse of awareness that he is gone?

I don’t know the answer to that question. I only know that the stunned realization that I couldn’t call him that day, or any day, was so fresh, so intense, that it took my breath away. I miss my dad. Maybe the healing process has begun.

 

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Have You Seen My Missing Life?

 

 

It just goes to show you, it’s always something. I’ve never been one to ascribe to this line of thinking, but the tragedies falling like so many dominoes around me for the past six years have flipped a switch within me, turning me into the Roseanne Roseannadanna of the twenty-first century. Mimicking the attitude of the brash, explosive character played by the lovely and talented late Gilda Radner was certainly not something to which I aspired. For most of my life, I have considered myself an unapologetic optimist, a glass-half full kind of gal with a penchant for looking for the proverbial silver lining in every cloud.

I tell you, I thought I was gonna die! Another Roseanne Roseannadanna gem, this phrase has taken on a life of its own for me. Oh, joy! As if I always wanted to be a bitchy, 53-year-old woman with a healthy sense of impending doom. In my previous life - before I became an unrepentant pessimist – friends would have described me as happy, fun-loving, friendly, and (not to be forgotten) optimistic. My smile was perennially plastered on my face. Where the hell has that woman gone?

What are you trying to do, make me sick? I remember when I turned fifty, I was seeing a therapist (and in this case, I use that term very loosely, a more fitting title would be emotional terrorist) who glibly informed me that very often, when women turn fifty, they redefine their lives and emerge as a stronger version of themselves. This she told me as I sat in her office a blubbering, shuddering mass of exploding emotions. A year later, after extensive torturous mining of my shattered emotions, I made the decision to leave her office and never return; resolving instead to find my own way through the minefield that had become my life.

So, how did that work out for me, you may ask. Not so great. Not really great at all. Seems my therapeutic skills leave much to be desired. Hence, the pessimism, bitchiness, doom and gloom attitude, etc, etc.

Having grown weary of being the reincarnation of the brash, road-weary, explosive Ms. Roseannadanna, I jumped back into the pool and found another therapist. She is the polar opposite of my former emotional terrorist therapist. I’m actually starting to believe that the sun may very well rise again and someday I may start looking for those silver linings again.

Maybe I’ll even find my sense of humor again. What a bonus that would be!

The Only Way Out

 

_{photo by menchaca17}

LIFE IS ALWAYS MORE TROUBLE THAN YOU THOUGHT IT WOULD BE...

As we near the end of yet another year, so arrives the inevitable impulse to engage in reflection. We grade each passing year – assigning words like good, worst, best - as if the preceding twelve months have somehow earned a rating, a pass or fail on some celestial report card. We hand out wishes for a happy new year like so much confetti at a parade. We stack last year alongside previous years and compare, judge, rate; we reflect. We make lists chronicling the year: the best of, the worst of, my favorite, my least favorite. Again – reflection, grading, rating.

When we finish dissecting the year past, we start on the year to come. Now our reflection turns to speculation. We wonder at what the New Year holds, we set goals, strike bargains with ourselves, hope, wish, and dream. More confetti wishes sprinkle our conversations with each other. It’s not that our words aren’t sincere, for indeed they are. We certainly hope for better times, both for ourselves and for our loved ones. It’s the human condition to seek improvement, to long for more or better.

Given all this reflection and wishing and hoping, the question begs asking: do we stop there; or are we moved to action? There is a choice to be made on every level, be it personal, professional, relational, and even on a grander scale all the way to global. Do we make the choice or do we settle for wishing and hoping?

On a personal level, I am forced to admit that I have become a voyeur of my own life. I have allowed myself to become so overwhelmed by the capricious nature of life that I have settled for letting my life take its own course, instead of grabbing the reins myself. The state of malaise I have wallowed in has led me to a place of deep discontent. The bad news is that I’ve reached a dead-end. The good news is that the only way out is up.

All of my reflection has led me to understand that I’ve been waiting, waiting, waiting for my life to take a turn for the better. I have graded the past six years and found them wanting. Yes, those years were filled with knock-out punches, but that is nothing novel. Who among us hasn’t faced some of the worst life has to offer and still come back swinging? I simply stopped swinging back. It’s as if I sat down in the rubble and refused to get back up. Then the tide of life easily carried me to that proverbial dead-end.

I don’t like this dank, dark dead-end I find myself in. I haven’t liked it for years, but it became familiar enough that I was willing to stay there. For whatever reason – providence, divine intervention, the encouragement of family and dear friends (yes, you, dear ones) – I finally remembered to look up. Yes, indeed, the only way out is up. I’m headed in that direction.

It’s a beginning…

 

Amy's Birthday by Kimberly Ashby

Amy's Birthday by Kimberly Ashby

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Flame Throwers – A Handy Household Item?

In keeping with my philosophy that one cannot be oh-so-serious about life all the time, I would like to have a discussion about flame throwers. Yes. You read that right. Flame throwers. Not a subject that comes up too often in daily conversation, you say? Well, that's all the more reason to talk about it now, wouldn't you think? Let us proceed.

In the words of the inimitable George Carlin (man! I miss that guy!) "The very existence of flame throwers is proof that some time, somewhere, someone said to themselves, You know, I'd really like to set those people over there on fire, but I'm just not close enough to get the job done."

Here's a picture of your basic flame thrower, just in case you've never seen one:

I have occasionally encountered folks that I might like to throw a little fire onto. But purchasing a conventional flame thrower isn't as easy as just waltzing into Wal-Mart, plunking your money down on the counter and walking out with your brand-spankin'-new, state-of-the-art flame thrower. Believe me, I've looked, and there is no flame thrower section in Wal-Mart, Target or even Academy. What's an angry woman to do in this case?

Well, never underestimate the ingenuity/stupidity of your basic, bored, inebriated 20-something hardy partier.

"Fire breathers" turn their own bodies into flamethrowers by pouring fuel (typically kerosene) into their mouth and holding an ignition system (typically a torch) in front of them. When they spit out the kerosene, the torch ignites it, creating a dazzling stream of fire (only professionals should attempt this -- it is extremely dangerous). The technique is definitely low-tech, but the operating principle is exactly the same as in the most expensive military flamethrowers!

Courtesy of howstuffworks.com

Seems like problem solved, doesn't it? Should be, but experienced "Fire breathers" never seem to be around when you need them. Dammit.

HOPE

Kids grow up so fast. It seems as if my grandkids change almost overnight. I couldn't resist posting these adorable photos. Happy children doing what kids are supposed to do - just being kids - no worries, no fear, simply innocence. Watching these little ones grow up with their innocence intact in loving homes is the best feeling in the world. It makes me believe there is still hope for this crazy world we live in.

Planned Obsolescence

I was reading a friend's blog entry a few days ago, in which she discussed the issues she's having with her car and the difficulty of getting it repaired. As I read, something clicked in my memory and a phrase I first heard almost thirty years ago popped into my mind. Planned Obsolescence. Think about that for a minute.

Way back in 1980, I heard a very successful businessman from the local community lecture on an insidious trend in the American economy. He used the phrase "Planned Obsolescence" to describe an economy built on the foundation that every product we buy has a pre-determined "shelf life" of short duration. His premise was this: rather than using quality components to build everything from toasters to cars, manufacturers had begun a shift toward producing products of lesser quality and considerably less durability, believing that American consumers tended to prefer new and improved products over the tried and true. With this mind-set as a foundation, it was easy for manufacturers to push consumers toward the belief that "buying up" was preferable to repairing something broken. Accordingly, consumers performed true to those predictions and the result was a move toward a "throw-away society." Combining that shift in thinking with a marketing campaign that constantly touted "new and improved" products = a better, more satisfying life, consumers could conceivably be pushed toward making more purchases, more often. Consequently, instead of building a quality product that would not only last, but could also be repaired, thereby lengthening the "shelf life" of said product; there has indeed been a shift toward turning out "throw-away" products. The trend started with small household products - toasters, coffee makers, can openers, for example - and was so successful that it has now permeated every strata of the manufacturing industry, from electronics to furniture and even up to, and including, automobiles.

The American public, with its constant hunger for the newest, biggest, and best, has wholeheartedly embraced the concept of the "throw-away" society. If the toaster breaks, we don't repair it; We throw it out and go buy a new one. If a lamp quits working, it's time for new lamps. Two issues are at work here. Number one: the toaster and the lamp are designed and manufactured to wear out after a predetermined amount of time, having not been originally constructed to be durable or worth being repaired. And number two: have not small appliance repair shops met their demise, having been made obsolete by our obsession for newer and better "stuff" and by the impracticability of repairing a product that was manufactured to wear out in the first place?

Surely, there are still manufacturers that build a quality product with premium materials - products that are indeed made to last. But these products are in a class all their own now with a price tag that is inaccessible to the vast majority of the general public. As the concept of "throw-away" products has invaded the thinking of the American public, the phrase a quality product at a reasonable price has become as obsolete as have our two-year-old toasters and four-year-old computers.

In a society that assigns little value to the concept of permanence, newer is always better, old is obsolete and rampant consumerism is guaranteed, even in times of economic downturn. The throw-away society has created a vicious cycle that the American consumer is stuck in. We are caught inside a trap of our own making. If we were to even recognize the extent of our folly, how would we begin to turn the clock back? How does a country, a society, an economy turn back from the planned obsolescence train of thought and once again embrace the virtues of quality, craftsmanship and permanence? Is it even possible?