What Abi Taught Us

by Lucy Hone

  But when I can, I want to choose life and meaning.

  And this is why I am writing: to mark the end of sheloshim and to give back some of what others have given to me. While the experience of grief is profoundly personal, the bravery of those who have shared their own experiences has helped pull me through. Some who opened their hearts were my closest friends. Others were total strangers who have shared wisdom and advice publicly. So I am sharing what I have learned in the hope that it helps someone else. In the hope that there can be some meaning from this tragedy.

  I have lived thirty years in these thirty days. I am thirty years sadder. I feel like I am thirty years wiser.

  I have gained a more profound understanding of what it is to be a mother, both through the depth of the agony I feel when my children scream and cry and from the connection my mother has to my pain. She has tried to fill the empty space in my bed, holding me each night until I cry myself to sleep. She has fought to hold back her own tears to make room for mine. She has explained to me that the anguish I am feeling is both my own and my children’s, and I understood that she was right as I saw the pain in her own eyes.

  I have learned that I never really knew what to say to others in need. I think I got this all wrong before; I tried to assure people that it would be okay, thinking that hope was the most comforting thing I could offer. A friend of mine with late-stage cancer told me that the worst thing people could say to him was ‘It is going to be okay.’ That voice in his head would scream, How do you know it is going to be okay? Do you not understand that I might die? I learned this past month what he was trying to teach me. Real empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay but acknowledging that it is not. When people say to me, ‘You and your children will find happiness again,’ my heart tells me, Yes, I believe that, but I know I will never feel pure joy again. Those who have said, ‘You will find a new normal, but it will never be as good’ comfort me more because they know and speak the truth. Even a simple ‘How are you?’—almost always asked with the best of intentions—is better replaced with ‘How are you today?’ When I am asked ‘How are you?’ I stop myself from shouting, My husband died a month ago, how do you think I am? When I hear ‘How are you today?’ I realise the person knows that the best I can do right now is to get through each day.

  I have learned some practical stuff that matters. Although we now know that Dave died immediately, I didn’t know that in the ambulance. The trip to the hospital was unbearably slow. I still hate every car that did not move to the side, every person who cared more about arriving at their destination a few minutes earlier than making room for us to pass. I have noticed this while driving in many countries and cities. Let’s all move out of the way. Someone’s parent or partner or child might depend on it.

  I have learned how ephemeral everything can feel—and maybe everything is. That whatever rug you are standing on can be pulled right out from under you with absolutely no warning. In the last thirty days, I have heard from too many women who lost a spouse and then had multiple rugs pulled out from under them. Some lack support networks and struggle alone as they face emotional distress and financial insecurity. It seems so wrong to me that we abandon these women and their families when they are in greatest need.

  I have learned to ask for help—and I have learned how much help I need. Until now, I have been the older sister, the COO [Chief Operating Officer], the doer and the planner. I did not plan this, and when it happened, I was not capable of doing much of anything. Those closest to me took over. They planned. They arranged. They told me where to sit and reminded me to eat. They are still doing so much to support me and my children.

  I have learned that resilience can be learned. Adam M. Grant taught me that three things are critical to resilience and that I can work on all three. Personalisation—realising it is not my fault. He told me to ban the word ‘sorry’. To tell myself over and over, This is not my fault. Permanence—remembering that I won’t feel like this forever. This will get better. Pervasiveness—this does not have to affect every area of my life; the ability to compartmentalise is healthy.

  For me, starting the transition back to work has been a saviour, a chance to feel useful and connected. But I quickly discovered that even those connections had changed. Many of my co-workers had a look of fear in their eyes as I approached. I knew why—they wanted to help but weren’t sure how. Should I mention it? Should I not mention it? If I mention it, what the hell do I say? I realised that to restore that closeness with my colleagues that has always been so important to me, I needed to let them in. And that meant being more open and vulnerable than I ever wanted to be. I told those I work with most closely that they could ask me their honest questions and I would answer. I also said it was okay for them to talk about how they felt. One colleague admitted she’d been driving by my house frequently, not sure if she should come in. Another said he was paralysed when I was around, worried he might say the wrong thing. Speaking openly replaced the fear of doing and saying the wrong thing. One of my favourite cartoons of all time has an elephant in a room answering the phone, saying, ‘It’s the elephant.’ Once I addressed the elephant, we were able to kick him out of the room.

  At the same time, there are moments when I can’t let people in. I went to Portfolio Night at school where kids show their parents around the classroom to look at their work hung on the walls. So many of the parents—all of whom have been so kind—tried to make eye contact or say something they thought would be comforting. I looked down the entire time so no one could catch my eye for fear of breaking down. I hope they understood.

  I have learned gratitude. Real gratitude for the things I took for granted before—like life. As heartbroken as I am, I look at my children each day and rejoice that they are alive. I appreciate every smile, every hug. I no longer take each day for granted. When a friend told me that he hates birthdays and so he was not celebrating his, I looked at him and said through tears, ‘Celebrate your birthday, goddammit. You are lucky to have each one.’ My next birthday will be depressing as hell, but I am determined to celebrate it in my heart more than I have ever celebrated a birthday before.

  I am truly grateful to the many who have offered their sympathy. A colleague told me that his wife, whom I have never met, decided to show her support by going back to school to get her degree—something she had been putting off for years. Yes! When the circumstances allow, I believe as much as ever in leaning in. And so many men—from those I know well to those I will likely never know—are honouring Dave’s life by spending more time with their families.

  I can’t even express the gratitude I feel to my family and friends who have done so much and reassured me that they will continue to be there. In the brutal moments when I am overtaken by the void, when the months and years stretch out in front of me endless and empty, only their faces pull me out of the isolation and fear. My appreciation for them knows no bounds.

  I was talking to one of these friends about a father–child activity that Dave is not here to do. We came up with a plan to fill in for Dave. I cried to him, ‘But I want Dave. I want option A.’ He put his arm around me and said, ‘Option A is not available. So let’s just kick the shit out of option B.’

  Dave, to honour your memory and raise your children as they deserve to be raised, I promise to do all I can to kick the shit out of option B.1

  Kicking the shit out of option B has become a mantra for me. Just the other day I found myself in bed, silently sobbing, thinking, It’s not okay, it’s just not okay, I don’t want to have to live this way. But when option A is no longer possible, then, yes, I too will commit to kicking the shit out of option B. Thank you, Sheryl.

  Having a survivor mission: Marcie Warrington and Joe Kasper

  People who survive trauma and go on to thrive very often have what Charney and Southwick refer to as a ‘survivor mission’—a mission to help others, to make something good come from the misery they’ve been forced to endure. In my own research and
interviews with people who have displayed remarkable resilience in the face of grief, the power of altruism, or a survivor mission, to propel growth often shines through. For example, in November 2014 the people I work with at the Values in Action Institute in Cincinnati introduced me to Marcie Warrington. Her mission to help herself and others to ‘live well’ has fuelled her recovery and transformation following her 17-year-old son Johnny’s violent death.

  For many years, as it is for so many grieving mothers, I wasn’t sure I’d survive his loss. Then one day, nearly four years on, I realised I had survived, and would likely continue to survive. The question of life, not just survival, now loomed large before me. At that time I realised the future could so easily become nothing more than an endurance contest, one I could win, as the past four years had shown. But living well requires much more than that. My love for my son and his love for me deserves more than endurance. It calls for, even demands, living well. I now realise that our love is so much bigger than mere survival, endurance contests, even death. Living with this eternal love, each day, was the answer for me, and the direction for my future.

  Love is infinite, not limited to a specific recipient. While we can never replace our children (nor would we ever want to), we can honour them, their life, and the love we share. We can wake up and dedicate each day to the love of our child and make our focus the spreading of that love to others both near and far.2

  For Marcie Warrington, the realisation that her new life mission was to assist bereaved mothers was the impetus behind her organisation, MotherLOVE (www.motherlove.net). Designed to support bereaved mothers after the death of a child, to rebuild their capacity to give and receive love, MotherLOVE offers a variety of evidence-based programmes helping mothers to live a meaningful and fulfilling life: workshops and weekend retreats; volunteer opportunities across the USA, and working with partner organisations in Tanzania and Ethiopia; plus the MotherLOVE website providing comprehensive resources, support and mentoring for bereaved mothers.

  ‘It is important to note that living well does not necessarily mean we ever completely stop grieving. I miss my boy every day. Living well means accepting all that life has to offer us, all the pain, the joy; both sides of love’s coin. But I can vouch for the long lasting benefit that comes from living and loving among HIV+ and extreme poverty in a strange country—it puts things in perspective. It is like being turned on your head,’ she continues.

  A colleague of mine, Joe Kasper, who lost his teenage son Ryan to Lafora’s disease in 2011, refers to this kind of grief response as ‘co-destiny’—when the bereaved take on a new role in life as a direct result of the loss of their loved one.

  In Ryan’s eulogy, Kasper described the impact of Ryan’s life on his own, and how Ryan would continue to influence his actions even after his death. ‘Ryan through his life; through his disease; and through his death has taught me so much about the meaning of life. I have reaped a bounty of lessons on character, handling adversity, overcoming fear and fulfilling one’s purpose in life. In short, he has made me the man I am and will be the main influence on the man I will become. My student has become my teacher. Ryan, you have fulfilled your destiny.’3 Looking back on what he’d written, Kasper explained later, he recognised these words as demonstrating his intention to incorporate the lessons of Ryan’s life into his own worldview, ‘thus forming a new destiny for myself that incorporates much of his personality and, in doing so, forming a co-destiny with my son’. Their relationship hadn’t ended with Ryan’s death.

  ‘For the weeks following Ryan’s death I continued to write about the importance of fulfilling one’s destiny and stumbled upon the concept of a co-destiny. It was at that time I knew what I had to do. I realised that my destiny was to live my life in a way that would make my son proud. I knew to accomplish this I was to help others who had suffered the loss of their child to not only survive the ordeal of their child’s death, but to grow from it. The awareness that I could add “goodness” to my son’s life by doing “good” in his name motivates me to this day,’ he explains.

  When I first encountered Kasper’s thoughts on co-destiny it took a while for it to sink in, but now I realise that writing this book is in many ways my expression of co-destiny with Abi, just as MotherLOVE is for Marcie Warrington, or Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) is for Candace Lightner and Cindi Lamb, and the Modern Widows Club is for Carolyn Moor. These actions we have taken to honour, and in many ways in partnership with, the loved ones we lost, allow their legacies to live on in us.

  What’s your Giveaway? Rachel Remen

  Dr Rachel Remen is clinical professor of Family and Community Medicine at UCSF School of Medicine, and founder and director of the Institute for the Study of Health and Illness at Commonweal in Ohio. As a medical educator, therapist and teacher, she has encouraged thousands of physicians to practise medicine from the heart, and thousands of patients to remember their power to heal.

  Belief in the ‘Giveaway’ can be traced back to the North American Indian nations of the high plains. Our personal, sacred Giveaway is what we alone have come to contribute to life, our reason for being. Knowing and honouring your Giveaway imbues life with a sense of meaning and belonging, a sense of direction.

  Everything is born knowing its Giveaway: trees and birds, stars and flowers know their Giveaway. Nothing is here at random. Everything belongs. Only humans are born not knowing their Giveaway, not remembering why they are here and how they belong.

  From earliest infancy the Giveaway of each child can be seen and discerned by others. Helping every child recognise its unique Giveaway, its unique place of belonging is one of the most important functions of The Elders and the tribe. They observe the baby with stillness and patience. They look for signs with caring and watchful eyes. What is the baby drawn to? What draws its interest, what calms it? What makes it laugh with joy and what causes it sorrow or pain? What gifts come easily to it, what qualities are natural to it? They dream dreams for the baby that offer insight about the baby’s nature and its Giveaway. There is much help to come home to yourself.

  No one says ‘good job’ to such a child, no one influences the recognition that can only come from within by their approval and praise or their disapproval and criticism. Everyone helps the child to listen. The Giveaway of each child is a shared discovery, different for every child, every man and every woman. All Giveaways matter.

  Our western experience is, of course, quite different. I recently went to visit a young friend and meet her 3-month-old son. When I arrived I found the baby sitting in a cloth jumper seat on the kitchen table watching ‘BABY EINSTEIN’ on a laptop. Around him on the table were many brightly coloured and noisy toys. As we talked and had a cup of tea together the young mother presented her son with toy after toy, taking one away and offering him another every few minutes. At my questioning look she laughed ‘It’s the newest theory,’ she told me. ‘The forming brain is highly plastic and needs constant stimulation.’ By the time our tea was over I had learned that the baby was already registered for a prestigious private high school, Class of 2029, and letters had been written in his behalf to Princeton by his grandfathers both alumni of that institution. Other august Princeton graduates had been asked to write letters as well, the young mother told me. Chances looked good. I looked at this little boy wondering why he had come. Hoping he might someday be able to discover his Giveaway despite the powerful messages he would be given about who he was and how he was to be from the very beginning.

  The closer we are able to live to our own unique Giveaway the stronger and more resilient we are despite external pressures, the more passionately and joyfully we can live, the deeper the satisfaction we feel in our daily lives and the greater the difference we can make in the world.

  These ideas hold a certain magnetism for me now. What if you could find and follow your Giveaway at any age? And what if you could find your tribe, the people who watch and listen and help you to give birth to yourself? What if you
already knew many such people but had not recognised why you were drawn to them? What if you could help others in this way as well? What if you did not need some catastrophic event like an illness or the loss of a loved one to finally remember who you are and why you are here?4

  All three of these stories resonate with me because they draw us back to life, encouraging us to take on board the lessons that bereavement has taught us, and to identify how they’ve shaped and altered our future direction. The worst thing about death is that it is so final, permanent and unchangeable. And yet, the pause it brings to our lives, the reflection and introspection we are forced to endure, also provide the opportunity for reconsideration and, sometimes, the impetus for change.

  Chapter 15

  Continuing the bond

  GRIEF IS A BY-PRODUCT of love. Because we loved, so must we grieve when the person we love is no longer physically with us. But the fact that they’ve gone doesn’t mean that we must stop loving them, or thinking about them. Coming to terms with this fact, understanding that your love for that person never dies, is a major advance in our understanding of grief.

  In the first year after Abi’s death I missed her physical presence so badly. It took all that time, and some, to get used to her just not being here any more: to grow accustomed to her not being part of our daily routines; not there to kiss goodnight or have breakfast with in the morning; no more after-school activities to drive her to, hair to comb, fantasy books to share, shops to browse, boyfriends to discuss, waves to jump, card games to play, or rom-coms to watch. The local swimming pool and netball courts were gone from the routine of our lives. The loss of her physical presence, and particularly her and her friends’ constant noise, was huge.

  But, as time has passed, I’ve been forced to get used to that, and have grown to accept it. As much as it saddens me to say it, I no longer expect her to walk in the front door, to hear her steps outside our office, to see her face at the breakfast table, to hang out her washing, to buy her shampoo or Shapes, her favourite lunchbox snacks. I have now accepted that. My brain has caught up with the harsh reality.