by Sally Quinn
The grief would sneak up randomly and ambush me. It was as if I were walking down a country road, stepped on an IED, and watched my body parts fly in all directions. Someone I know was in a terrible accident recently. He was distraught when he was told he would lose his legs. It was only when he began to have feeling in his limbs, then excruciating pain, that he begged the doctors to amputate. I hated not having much feeling after Ben died, but when the real pain set in, I wanted to die.
Washington, after Corsica, was as difficult as Corsica had been good. I was back home again. But Ben was not. I began to have frightening symptoms of a heart attack—severe chest pains, dizziness, shortness of breath. I had blood tests and EKGs, which showed nothing wrong. I was fine. Only I wasn’t. It happened a second time. More tests, another EKG. This time I was diagnosed with “broken heart syndrome.” It’s a real thing. That’s what I had.
* * *
Ben was not the only worry I had. I was heartbroken for Quinn as well. Quinn had been alone since he and Pari had divorced. And now he was grieving the loss of his father.
For years I had been seeing a tarot card reader, Patricia McLaine, who had recently retired. It wasn’t until then that I went to a psychic tarot card reader to talk about Quinn. She told me I had a wonderful son whom I loved very much and he loved me. She said he would be very happy and successful all his life. She also said he would meet and fall in love with someone within the next year. She would be the child of parents from another country, and her work would have something to do with politics. Soon after the reading, Quinn met Fabiola Roman, and it was love at first sight. Her parents are from Bolivia and she was born there. She is the executive assistant to the president and CEO of the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Happily, they’re engaged. I’m crazy about her. She is beautiful inside and out and has brought such happiness to Quinn. I really believe Ben sent her to him.
Never count out Quinn Bradlee. He is his father’s son and the joy of my life.
* * *
While I was planning Ben’s yahrzeit, a friend called me and told me there was a piece in Elle magazine I had to read. It was written by a friend of hers, journalist Lisa Chase, whose husband, New York Observer editor Peter Kaplan, had died the year before. It was about Lisa Chase’s experience contacting Peter through a medium, Lisa Kay. She had actually had a conversation with her husband through this woman.
She began her article, “Up until a year ago, I’d never visited a psychic, never had my palms or tarot cards read. I wasn’t exactly a skeptic, but you have to trust the people who practice such things, you have to buy into their cosmologies, and I didn’t, quite.”
Four months after Peter died, Lisa Chase talked to two friends who had lost loved ones and both had consulted a medium. Lisa Chase called Lisa Kay. Normally Lisa Kay doesn’t do readings on the first call, but she told Lisa Chase that Peter was there. “He’s here,” she said. “He wants to talk now.” Lisa Chase began taking notes. The conversation that ensued included information that only she and Peter could possibly have known.
“In the immediate aftermath of the call,” wrote Lisa Chase, “I was filled with euphoria and flooded with an intense wave of love for him.”
Like a good journalist Lisa Chase began to interview professionals about mediums. She spoke to a physician’s assistant and a Ph.D. She also spoke to psychotherapist Sameet M. Kumar, Ph.D. He asked her, “Are you trying to get me to tell you that I don’t believe in this? Because I do. . . . I’ve heard hundreds of these stories over the years.”
When I read her piece, it was too much for me. I got Lisa Chase’s number and called her right away. She couldn’t have been more sympathetic and supportive. She reiterated what she had said in the piece about having been a skeptic. I told her I was not. She highly recommended Lisa Kay and gave me her number. At first I was terrified to call, but then I couldn’t stand it. About a week before Ben’s yahrzeit I picked up the phone and dialed the number.
I told her about Ben. She was immediately responsive. She told me that I couldn’t escape grief. “Our loved ones are around us but on a higher vibrational frequency.”
She said my mother and father had died around the same time of year as Ben. (They both had died in the month of September.) “There’s a grouping coming around. I’m getting the loss of others.”
“I’m now connecting with Ben,” she said. “He’s talking to me. He told me not to do the reading now. You need the space to feel all of this.”
“Are you writing a book?” she asked me. “He sees your book. He says ‘I’m in it. My picture’s in it. I’m so handsome.’”
“Who is Frank Rich?” she asked. “Ben says you were with him recently.”
As it turns out I had been in New York the week before at an HBO screening of the film The Diplomat about my late friend Richard Holbrooke. At the after-party I was sitting with journalists Frank Rich and his wife, Alex Witchel, and I was telling them about Ben’s mausoleum and the upcoming yahrzeit. I had known Frank and Alex a long time, but we weren’t close friends and I hadn’t seen them in years.
Lisa Kay said that Ben says he was around you that whole evening. She then told me that in talking to me through her he said, “You mentioned me. I like all of this publicity I’m getting. Thank you for honoring me.”
“He wants you to know that he’s very much connected to you. He’s around you and he is supportive. He also says he will be with you the whole time during the yahrzeit, as will your mother. It’s very beautiful what you are doing.” She tells me he’s laughing and says to feel free to make jokes.
When the call had begun and she had contacted Ben, I collapsed. I knew he was there. She was telling me things nobody could possibly know except him. She said she hadn’t intended to tell me so much, but that she had no idea Ben would show up as strongly as he did. I wasn’t surprised. That was Ben. She said she didn’t want to do the real reading for at least another month. I told her I would call her then. It took me days to recover. I kept going back and reading the notes in total disbelief. I felt devastated by talking to him, knowing he was really there but also euphoric at the same time for the same reason. The difference was that I couldn’t touch him.
I couldn’t get up the courage to call her again right away. Every time I thought about it, which was often, I didn’t think I could bear the experience of having him and not having him. It wasn’t until six months after the yahrzeit that I called her back. She again connected with Ben immediately. “Ben wants you to have another relationship,” she said. Ben had always told me he hoped I would marry again. He was, after all, twenty years my senior and he wanted me to be happy. I always teased him that if anything happened to me first, he would be snapped up in a matter of weeks. There would be babes lined up to bring him casseroles. He didn’t deny this. Ben needed to be taken care of. He hadn’t been without a woman in his life since he was nineteen.
He also said I taught him many things. (It’s true. One thing I taught him was how to be softer.)
Lisa told me that Ben was saying that I had been in quite a state of emotion for a few weeks and was experiencing a terrible grief and that he has been around me a lot. Then she said, “He asks if you saw his slippers on the floor.”
I had just come back from a three-day weekend in Las Vegas to celebrate the birthday of my friend lawyer David Boies at the Wynn Hotel. I had had a luxurious room. At the foot of my king-size bed was a pair of lady’s white terry cloth hotel slippers. After dinner the first night I came back to the room having had a good time but feeling really sad and missing Ben. It was the first big thing I had gone to without him, and I was feeling very much alone. I got ready for bed and walked over to the other side of the room to adjust the temperature. I looked at the other side of the bed and on the floor was a large pair of men’s brown terry cloth slippers. I fell apart. There was nobody there to wear the slippers, nobody to share the beautiful bed with me. I took the slippers and threw them in the closet. The next nigh
t, the same thing happened. I went to the other side of the room and there were the slippers that the hotel maid must have replaced.
I told Lisa about Las Vegas. Then she told me what Ben was saying to me: “I was there with you. You talked to me. I slept in the bed with you that night.” He was. I did. He did.
Lisa told me that this is the worst year for grieving and also the year of acceptance, when I begin to understand that he is dead. She said I must not rush out of this state: “People have so little awareness of grief.” Lisa also told me he remembered a romantic night at Harry Cipriani’s in Venice. “I miss those days,” he said. Then he said to me, “I am so proud of Quinn. I hope he knows it.” He told Lisa that Quinn would fall in love with someone very soon and that she would be of a different nationality (a confirmation of my feeling that Ben sent Fabiola to Quinn). He told me not to worry about Quinn, that “he just learns on a different channel.”
Ben also said to her that he’s met some interesting people on the other side. He told her he had spoken to his former antagonist Richard Nixon.
“Who’s Jack?” Lisa asked me. I told her it must be Jack Kennedy. “He says he’s seen him many times—Bobby too—and had dinner with him.” He also wanted me to say hi to Ethel Kennedy when I ran into her. “She’s tough,” he said. “She has a lot of moxie.” (Moxie was one of Ben’s favorite words.) He wanted me to say hello to Nick. Nick Pileggi is a close friend who was married to Nora Ephron. Nora had died in the summer of 2012 and Nick was grieving too.
“He wants me to tell you, ‘You’ll always be my bride, my girl.’” He said, “She’s still a girl. She’s always young at heart. So am I. Here.” Lisa said he was pointing to his heart.
We ended this session with Lisa telling me again not to avoid grief. “Your book will be part of the healing process,” she said. “Grieving goes up to three years. It’s like a scar. Don’t escape it. It’s messy, up and down. It’s not linear. Don’t judge it. Writing will help you.”
It has. It definitely has. So has time. I am obviously not a skeptic about this conversation. It’s hard for me not to believe something or someone was there in those two or so hours when Lisa Kay was telling me things only Ben and I could have known. All I can say is that this conversation was enormously comforting, as were those Lisa Chase had. That can’t be a bad thing.
That last conversation with Ben gave me so much comfort. He repeated that I should remember that I was not alone, he would always be with me. Yet one of the hardest things for me would be learning to say “I” instead of “we.”
* * *
October 20 was our wedding anniversary, the day after which would be the yahrzeit. Somehow I needed to celebrate our anniversary together for the last time. I arranged for a cocktail party at the chapel, where Ben’s casket had been taken out of the crypt and was in the center of the room. I had my whole family from California with me, a few very close friends, and Ben’s grandchildren and Quinn. We went up to the cemetery at twilight with hors d’oeuvres, plenty of booze, candles, and music. We had an anniversary party right there, gathering chairs around to sit in a circle, to talk and laugh and tell stories. We all talked to Ben as if he were still alive, still with us. The music was joyful and I felt happy and relieved the year was over and that I had made it through without completely falling apart. I felt his presence keenly, his support and his love. He was there watching over me. I would occasionally get up and put my head on his casket and whisper to him. I knew that it would be the last time. The next day he would be locked inside a granite wall forever. This was the closest I would ever be to him again. I wanted to stay there forever, in the candlelight, drinking my rosé and toasting Ben. But the evening had to end. We walked down the hill solemnly to where dinner was waiting for us. Ben would not be at the head of the table.
I knew then that I could live with loss. I would be okay. Ben had given me that strength through his love. I had no regrets about our life together. That made the ending of that long year so much easier. The next day I would start the beginning of my new life.
* * *
The day of the yahrzeit dawned. It was a sparkling day, the cloudless sky the color that blue was meant to be, the leaves turning, a sweet breeze blowing. I couldn’t have prayed for anything more perfect. The guests were seated under an open tent on the lawn, facing both the chapel and the mausoleum. A harp was playing.
Unlike the funeral, I was very emotional and very nervous. Unfortunately, the numbness had worn off. I was feeling conflicted, still grieving, but I had a sense of relief and anticipation—relief that the year was over and anticipation of what life might bring.
I also had a sense of apprehension that I wouldn’t be able to shake the grief. The reason I was scared was because I hadn’t spoken at the funeral, and here I was to be the only speaker. Now it was all on me and I felt the pressure.
Quinn and I waited in the chapel with Ben’s casket until the chapel’s bell chimed. As the casket was being slowly rolled down the path to the mausoleum, Quinn and I walked behind. I was moved that when we passed the tent, everyone stood. We watched as the undertakers placed Ben’s casket in the granite enclosure and then sealed him in forever. I kissed the wall where his name was engraved and ran my fingers over his birth and death dates, almost as a final realization that he was really gone.
Gary Hall, dean of the National Cathedral, committed Ben’s body, gave a blessing, and consecrated the mausoleum. I then stepped to the lectern and looked out at our friends who were gathered. I felt totally embraced and strengthened. I began with a joke—which Ben would have loved—about the pretentiousness of the mausoleum:
I know. It’s completely over the top. Here’s the conversation I’ve been having with Ben about it in my head. “Jesus Christ, Sally! What were you thinking? This is the most pretentious bloody (only he didn’t say bloody) thing I’ve ever seen. It’s embarrassing. We’ll be laughed out of town. You can’t be serious. Holy Moly (only he didn’t say Moly).”
I continued on a more serious vein:
I don’t need to tell anyone here that Ben was larger than life, that he was a giant of a man, that he filled a room. He was all of those things and more. It makes it easier to understand my grief, then, to know what a huge emptiness he left behind and how hard it will be for me to ever find that kind of energy and charisma and love of life again. But I take heart in the poem in our program, “A Thousand Winds,” to know that in many ways Ben did not die. I take heart in the knowledge that he loved me with all of his heart. How lucky I was to have had him. I take heart in knowing that he is here with me today and always. He wants me to finish my grieving so I can return to a normal life. I do understand that.
I then read aloud the last stanza of one of Ben’s favorite poems, “When Great Trees Fall,” by Maya Angelou, written after James Baldwin died, which is etched on the floor of the mausoleum.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
***
I did a lot of reading on grief over that year after Ben died. There were many memorable and affecting pieces that I read and thoughts that resonated with me, but one in particular struck me as incredibly close to the actuality of my own experience. It’s from the introduction to Kevin Young’s anthology The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief and Healing:
To lose someone close to you is to enter an experience no amount of forethought or hindsight can free you from. You must live through grief. You cannot outsmart it, nor think through the fact of someone’s being gone, and forever. You must survive the sorrow. . . . With luck, one emerges from grief not just with emptiness, but wisdom—though of a kind you
’d gladly unlearn for your loved one to return.
Determining to reclaim the joy in life, I needed and was receptive to all the help I could get, from any direction. I sought inspiration and welcomed words of understanding and cheer and those that would help me stay on the path I’d chosen. I needed an anthem. It came unexpectedly at a cabaret in New York where I went one night with friends. I love cabarets. The songs were mostly out of the great American songbook, so old-fashioned and romantic. I was sipping my wine in the dimly lit room and wishing I had somebody that night to hold hands with and kiss in between love songs. The singer announced one of her old favorites. I had never heard it, but even the first strains sounded familiar. It’s called “Here’s to Life” and had been made famous as the signature song of jazz singer Shirley Horn. If ever there was a song meant for me to hear at just the right moment, this was it. It set me on the path I needed to follow and embrace for the last part of my life. I think it was a gift from Ben. This one is for you, Sal, he seemed to be saying. It was perfect.
HERE’S TO LIFE
No complaints and no regrets
I still believe in chasing dreams and placing bets
But I have learned that all you give is all you get
So give it all you’ve got.
I had my share, I drank my fill
And even though I’m satisfied I’m hungry still
To see what’s down another road beyond a hill
And do it all again.
So here’s to life
And every joy it brings
Here’s to life
To dreamers and their dreams.
Funny how the time just flies
How love can go from warm hellos to sad goodbyes
And leave you with the memories you’ve memorized
To keep your winters warm.
For there is no yes in yesterday
And who knows what tomorrow brings or takes away
As long as I’m still in the game I want to play
For laughs, for life, for love.
So here’s to life
