I took a deep breath, stepped into that iconic TED red circle, and felt an immediate, surprising sense of calm as I dived in. Next thing I knew, I was saying, “Thank you.” My fourteen minutes were up, and my knees almost buckled with relief. I’d done it. I couldn’t believe it. What a full, exhilarating feeling. I was inundated with positive, warm, emotional responses, but none meant more to me than the hugs and heartfelt praise I got from my daughter. She was moved. She was impressed.
As soon as the applause for the last talk of the evening faded away, the throngs descended on the basement of the conference center for the wrap party. There was plenty of food, drink, music, and dancing—and what do you know, I ran into another Chicago friend, this one a woman who was a fellow parent at my son’s school for years. We started chatting, which evolved into dancing.
We were making our way around the dance floor when another dancing couple paused to acknowledge me and profusely thank me for the talk I’d given. We kept dancing. So did they. Step right, hips moving left. They introduced themselves. Shoulders swinging back in rhythm. They’d both been through significant losses as well. “My wife committed suicide a few months ago!” the man shouted over the music. Step right, now left. “Yeah, my husband died just a few months ago as well,” the woman loudly announced. Shake a hip side to side.
It was a brief, remarkable scene—total strangers connecting on a dance floor over our devastating losses without missing a single step, sharing stories, understanding, caring, just being alive together with so few words, all set to music.
The balance between moving forward through grief and keeping my past life with Amy very much a part of what I have chosen to do with my blank page is a conflict I still think about and have been asked to comment on often. I can’t imagine any other way, and honestly, I think Amy knew my path forward also. I touched upon this earlier, but it bears repeating: Amy had to have known that if her Modern Love column was published, it would be read widely. (I do not think she had any clue about the viral nature of what actually happened, but you get the point.) As a natural result of that, I would be the focus of attention in equal part to her gifted prose.
It has been so rewarding to keep Amy’s legacy alive in my speaking and in my writing. Time has brought me joy—a lot of it—and an appreciation that I have so much to be grateful for. One of those gifts is my incredible life with Amy. Keeping her in my private life by grieving in my own way as well as talking about her publicly in my work has made me capable of processing how fortunate I was to have had what I did with her. I feel I am now at a place where I deeply appreciate that, though it has taken a while to get to that place, because grief is a complex and unforgiving beast. But how lucky was I, and how lucky are all of us who have been to the depths of intense grieving? We are the fortunate ones to have loved so deeply, or why else would we have such intense reactions to loss?
Almost immediately after my TED talk, I started fielding requests for speaking engagements. Apparently I was the new go-to guy on the subjects of loss and grief. I’ll admit, it was a bit hard to know how to feel about this. Speaking about this regularly meant I’d be revisiting all of my challenges from the past year over and over again. I’d be moving forward by focusing on the past.
As time moves on, I move forward through and with grief, but also with a message of resilience added in. As that TED talk had revealed, I felt perfectly comfortable in that space.
16
Connecting
When we die, our bodies become the grass, and the antelope eat the grass. And so, we are all connected in the great Circle of Life.
—Mufasa, in the The Lion King
Some combination of Amy’s New York Times essay, my TED talk, and public speaking inspired people from all over the world to write to me, wanting to connect about end-of-life issues, finding new meaning after loss, and ways to reclaim the joy, hope, and passion their loss seemed to have taken away.
There have been many, many letters, some of them in cursive longhand, and it deeply touches me that people in pain are moved to reach out to me, a total stranger, not just to tell their stories but to essentially say, “I’m sorry for your loss, and I understand, because I’ve been through it too.” I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating—people are good.
As I began to get more requests for speaking engagements, I had to dig deep to make certain that I was committed to speaking about grief and loss while staying resilient at the same time. The power of the letters, emails, and packages I received made it clear that the work I was setting out to do was by far the most meaningful I had ever done. Having these incredible connections all over the world, even with total strangers, confirmed for me that I needed to keep talking openly about love, loss, and filling one’s empty space.
These letters are also a clear reminder that loss is loss is loss. The death of a spouse, either suddenly or after a slow, painful illness. The death of a family pet. Losing a job after years of hard work. A medical condition that leads to a life-changing disability. Hitting rock bottom because of finances, or an addiction, or a mental disorder. Having to place a family member in memory care. Simply losing a dream. They all hurt. They all matter. And they connect us all when we reach out like Amy did, like these people did, and reassure us that, even if it’s a stranger on the other side of the world, someone cares.
I could fill another entire book with the correspondence I received. I value each and every one of them. With the limited space I have here, I would like to share a few of these interactions with you to demonstrate the variety.
From a sixty-eight-year-old man who lost his wife of thirty-six years and his daughter within sixty days of each other:
I have tried to explain how a death of a spouse is so different. It is a creative process. When two people come together and build a life together over time, the whole becomes greater than the sum of the parts. Therefore, when a spouse dies, some part of the surviving spouse also necessarily dies. Part of me has certainly died.
From someone wanting to share their home hospice experience:
Perhaps your talk resonated so strongly with me because so few people talk about the day-to-day horrors of seeing this beautiful human who you loved in everyday life decaying before your eyes. I too carried my husband’s 65 lb. body to the bath and wrapped him up in cashmere so he could go outside just once more in a wheelchair.
From a newly single dad:
The single dad thing has thrown me for a few loops and I am definitely doing things I never expected (bra shopping for our now 13-year-old daughter was interesting), but that we are still here is what our wives wanted.
There were messages that have inspired me to keep speaking and, yes, even try my hand at writing a book . . .
Thank you for your openness in . . . delivering your moving TED talk (first and only time I’ve ever watched a TED talk). While perhaps you didn’t plan to be a public person, it is an identity you wear with grace. Both you and Amy reached me and touched me in ways few have.
Divorcées reached out . . .
“What will you do with your own fresh start?” This is the question I am facing in the wake of unexpected divorce at the age of 63. I alternate between horror and extreme excitement at the possibilities.
From a woman whose marriage ended:
I wish for you, Jason, a woman with an expansive ♥ who will always respect your love for Amy. I wish for your children that they’ll allow themselves space and grace towards that woman—to like her when they like her, to dislike her if need be in those moments of their lives when they so desperately want their mom there, not her. There’s complexity there for sure, but it can be done with respect for all.
. . . and from people whose generosity reminded me so much of Amy, and in some cases, moved me to tears . . .
The only thing I have been thinking since I was 18 years old is that if I could donate my life, my heart, my organs or whatever someone needs to survive. If I met your wife when she was diagnosed, I would def
initely donate one of my ovaries as I wanted to donate my gallbladder to my mother.
From a ten-page handwritten letter, accompanied by a dream catcher:
I’ve faced so much sadness, abuse and many years of feeling hopeless and having so many questions about who I even was, since the years of abuse from a small child on to adulthood had brought on pretty severe PTSD. . . . I can only hope that in me sharing this with you, you’ll be able to smile in your heart knowing Amy’s beautiful presence on this earth is so strong that she touches people across the country without even knowing her.
See, some people are good:
I am not sure exactly what I hope to achieve; maybe it’s just a sounding board to capture my journey to share with you so you know you are not alone. And so I know I’m not alone.
I’ve learned more from my wonderful new letter-writing friends from all over the globe than I can begin to describe. This woman, for example, whose mother died of ovarian cancer, introduced me in her letter to the Japanese tradition of kintsukuroi, the art of mending a broken pot with gold, making it even more precious than it was before. It was in that context that she concluded,
At the time Mom felt broken and the message comforted her. Today our lives have a brokenness, and future life will be very different, but hopefully with new beauty and encouraged by the legacy of love and kindness we’ve been given.
In addition to these letters sharing extremely personal stories, I received all forms of religious missives, including a sincere note with a copy of the Book of Mormon, references to “doctors” all over the world who could eradicate Amy’s cancer, as well as tchotchkes and symbols readers felt reminded them of Amy.
To every one of you who’s taken the time and energy to share your stories, your pain, your thoughtfulness, your compassion, and your hope with me: whether or not we ever meet in person, we’re connected now. Amy was a passionate believer in the power of connection. Through your generosity to me and our children, you’ve honored her legacy, and we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.
Hearing these stories made me think of Free to Be . . . You and Me and the lyrics “It’s all right to cry / Crying gets the sad out of you / It’s all right to cry / It might make you feel better.” The memory of listening to Free to Be and reading these incredibly personal submissions made me want to shout to the rafters or post the following to a Facebook page. If I had one, I may have immediately posted the following thoughts that I think are so important for us guys to remember:
Grief and loss are a shared tale.
Somehow throughout the course of history, men have been labeled as unemotional. In fact, in institutions from the US military to our typical American family unit to our ball fields and sporting arenas, institutions of learning and their social groups, and even film and television, men are portrayed as rock-solid stoic types in the face of an emotional event. I have news for you: fuck that.
If you think you need permission, here it is. If your wife—the woman you built your family with, the lady you consider a model friend and mate, a vital cog in the wheel of universal creativity and the arts—dies, cry your eyes out. For that matter, if you lose your family pet, your job, your marriage, or your mate, let it out! For me, I bawled like a baby as my wife was rolled out of our home on a gurney. I cried my eyes out often afterward in my car when a familiar tune came on. I wept when one of my kids texted me. When I found my voice to relay my message about my experience with the end of life, I let it loose like a fountain as I practiced in the quiet of my home.
If you feel like you need to talk about your pain, do so. Just because my journey through loss and my grief was more public than the average person’s does not make me the only guy to want to share how it feels at the end of the life of someone you love, or to suffer loss of any kind, for that matter. I am here to say, “It’s okay to talk about how you feel.” Find a way that works for you, whether that is with one good friend, a family member, or the neutrality of a mental health professional. Again, this is just me, but talking with a therapist was vital for my process.
If you need to find a place to talk anonymously, share your story with me at jasonbrosenthal.com.
Just please let us shout it to the rooftops: guys, it is really acceptable to show emotion when you go through a loss of any kind. Period.
Of course, because Amy’s New York Times essay was called “You May Want to Marry My Husband,” there’s a whole other category of mail that still keeps coming. You guessed it—many, many women have reached out to me to extoll their virtues as my potential new spouse. Some are very genuine, carefully and thoughtfully handwritten. Some are hard to understand but convey a genuine sentiment. And some have just made me laugh. I can’t always tell if that was the intention, but it doesn’t keep me from appreciating the result.
Amy must have known that there would be a response when her essay was published. That the response has been so overwhelming, and from all corners of the globe, probably wouldn’t have surprised her one bit, but it still surprises me. There were crates full, but here are a couple of examples:
To Amy, a day or two after her essay went viral:
I, like so many others, just read your moving article/profile about your husband, Jason, and I want to introduce myself. You see, I am his future wife, or rather, someone like her.
This one made me smile, too, and scratch my head a little.
I mean, I do love a good tequila, but . . . really?
I’d been receiving these notes ever since Amy’s piece was published, and as I put myself out there more with the TED talk, they just kept coming. I always approached them with humor and a well of gratitude for the sentiments they expressed.
On Father’s Day, 2018, an essay I wrote in response to Amy’s was printed in the New York Times Modern Love column—essentially my love letter back to her:
My Wife Said You May Want to Marry Me
Illustration by Brian Rea.
I am that guy.
A little over a year ago, my wife, Amy Krouse Rosenthal, published a Modern Love essay called “You May Want to Marry My Husband.” At 51, Amy was dying from ovarian cancer. She wrote her essay in the form of a personal ad. It was more like a love letter to me.
Those words would be the final ones Amy published. She died 10 days later.
Amy couldn’t have known that her essay would afford me an opportunity to fill this same column with words of my own for Father’s Day, telling you what has happened since. I don’t pretend to have Amy’s extraordinary gift with words and wordplay, but here goes.
During our life together, Amy was a prolific writer, publishing children’s books, memoirs and articles. Knowing she had only a short time to live, she wanted to finish one last project. We were engaged then in home hospice, a seemingly beautiful way to deal with the end of life, where you care for your loved one in familiar surroundings, away from the hospital with its beeping machines and frequent disruptions.
I was posted up at the dining room table overlooking our living room, where Amy had established her workstation. From her spot on the couch, she worked away between micro-naps.
These brief moments of peace were induced by the morphine needed to control her symptoms. A tumor had created a complete bowel obstruction, making it impossible for her to eat solid food. She would flutter away on the keyboard, doze for a bit, then awake and repeat.
When Amy finished her essay, she gave it to me to read, as she had done with all of her writing. But this time was different. In her memoirs she had written about the children and me, but not like this. How was she able to combine such feelings of unbearable sadness, ironic humor and total honesty?
When the essay was published, Amy was too sick to appreciate it. As the international reaction became overwhelming, I was torn up thinking how she was missing the profound impact her words were having. The reach of Amy’s article—and of her greater body of work—was so much deeper and richer than I knew.
Letters poured in from around the world
. They included notes of admiration, medical advice, commiseration and offers from women to meet me. I was too consumed with grief during Amy’s final days to engage with the responses. It was strange having any attention directed at me right then, but the outpouring did make me appreciate the significance of her work.
When people ask me to describe myself, I always start with “dad,” yet I spent a great deal of my adult life being known as “Amy’s husband.” People knew of Amy and her writing, while I lived in relative anonymity. I had no social media presence and my profession, a lawyer, did not cast me into public view.
After Amy died, I faced countless decisions in my new role as a single father. As in any marriage or union of two people with children, we had a natural division of labor. Not anymore. People often assumed Amy was disorganized because she had list upon list: scattered Post-it notes, scraps of paper and even messages scrawled on her hand. But she was one of the most organized people I have ever met.
There are aspects of everyday life I have taken on that I never gave much consideration to in the past. How did Amy hold everything together so seamlessly? I am capable of doing many things on my own, but two people can accomplish so much more together and also support each other through life’s ups and downs.
Many women took Amy up on her offer, sending me a range of messages—overly forward, funny, wise, moving, sincere. In a six-page handwritten letter, one woman marketed her automotive knowledge, apparently in an effort to woo me: “I do know how to check the radiator in the vehicle to see if it may need a tad of water before the engine blows up.”
My Wife Said You May Want to Marry Me Page 15