While I do not know much about reality TV, there was also this touching letter submitted by the child of a single mother, who wrote: “I’d like to submit an application for my mom, like friends and family can do for participants on ‘The Bachelor.’”
And I appreciated the sentiment and style of the woman who wrote this: “I have this image of queues of hopeful women at the Green Mill Jazz Club on Thursday nights. Single mothers, elegant divorcées, spinster aunts, bored housewives, daughters, wilting violets . . . all in anxious anticipation as to whether the shoe will fit, fit them alone, that the prince from the fairy tale is meant for them. That they are the right person.”
I could not digest any of these messages at the time, but I have since found solace and even laughter in many of them.
One thing I have come to understand, though, is what a gift Amy gave me by emphasizing that I had a long life to fill with joy, happiness and love. Her edict to fill my own empty space with a new story has given me permission to make the most out of my remaining time on this planet.
If I can convey a message I have learned from this bestowal, it would be this: Talk with your mate, your children and other loved ones about what you want for them when you are gone. By doing this, you give them liberty to live a full life and eventually find meaning again. There will be so much pain, and they will think of you daily. But they will carry on and make a new future, knowing you gave them permission and even encouragement to do so.
I want more time with Amy. I want more time picnicking and listening to music at Millennium Park. I want more Shabbat dinners with the five of us Rosies (as we Rosenthals are referred to by our family).
I would even gladly put up with Amy taking as much time as she wants to say goodbye to everyone at our family gatherings, as she always used to do, even after we had been there for hours, had a long drive home ahead of us and likely would see them again in a few days.
I wish I had more of all of those things, just as Amy had wished for more. But more wasn’t going to happen for her or us. Instead, as she described, we followed Plan “Be,” which was about being present in our lives because time was running short. So we did our best to live in the moment until we had no more moments left.
The cruelest irony of my life is that it took me losing my best friend, my wife of 26 years and the mother of my three children, to truly appreciate each and every day. I know that sounds like a cliché, and it is, but it’s true.
Amy continues to open doors for me, to affect my choices, to send me off into the world to make the most of it. Recently, I gave a TED Talk on the end of life and my grieving process that I hope will help others—not something I ever pictured myself doing, but I’m grateful for the chance to connect with people in a similar position. And of course I am writing to you now only because of her.
I am now aware, in a way I wish I never had to learn, that loss is loss is loss, whether it’s a divorce, losing a job, having a beloved pet die or enduring the death of a family member. In that respect, I am no different. But my wife gave me a gift at the end of her column when she left me that empty space, one I would like to offer you. A blank space to fill. The freedom and permission to write your own story.
Here is your empty space. What will you do with your own fresh start?
Humbly, Jason
17
Burning
The journey has been hard, but some really exciting experiences have blossomed because I was willing to dip my toe into new waters.
—Howard Stern
It’s very common to describe the grief process as a journey, and yes, it’s most definitely that—a rough one, with no straight lines, and you find yourself believing you’re always going to feel like this. It’s very different for everyone who goes through it, and very much the same. Perhaps that’s why in hindsight it’s so surprising that part of my journey led me to Burning Man.
I suppose it makes a certain amount of sense. After all, Burning Man had been on Amy’s and my Empty Nest list from what seemed like a lifetime ago. Both Amy and I had been very curious about Burning Man, based on a vague notion of what it was all about. Why not give that a try?
Burning Man is an annual late-summer event held at Black Rock City, a temporary community built in the Black Rock Desert in Nevada. It started as a small beach party in San Francisco in 1986. It’s grown into a nine-day gathering of around eighty thousand people from all walks of life, there to engage in communal experiences of art, transformative change, participation, overcoming the barriers that stand between us and our inner selves and those around us, and, in the end, head back to their lives leaving no physical trace behind, out of respect for the environment.
I talked about Burning Man with an old high school buddy I’d reconnected with at a reunion, and later at the TED conference. He had been the previous year, and we agreed that I’d meet him and his girlfriend in their RV in Black Rock City. I had no real idea what to expect; I just followed instructions from the intense suggested packing list for the potentially severe extremes of the Nevada desert between the scheduled dates of August 26 to September 3, 2018. I made one and only one promise to myself: No expectations, just go with the pace of what the experience has to offer and take full advantage of the Burning Man grieving temple.
The public perception of Burning Man seems to be that it’s a huge, hedonistic nine-day party. I’m here to tell you that it was much, much more than that for me. It opened my eyes, my mind, and my heart to a whole new kind of adventure I wasn’t sure I’d have the courage to survive. It was hot, dirty, dusty, cold, dirty, uncomfortable, dirty, and loud. It was also beautiful, deep, moving, intense, loving, open, welcoming, and new. I attended talks about relationships and new political parties and tapping (a combination of acupressure and psychology in which you tap your fingertips on meridian points of the body while talking about upsetting memories and other emotional issues) as well as a lecture about ayahuasca (a centuries-old herbal drink used in religious and healing ceremonies). I danced in the cold at sunrise. I grooved to the art cars blaring DJ sets at night. I drank a Bloody Mary at two in the afternoon.
I was also exposed to a new language at Burning Man. I began to notice that people were using words that they all knew, but I had no idea what they were saying. My friend quickly noticed my bewilderment at these new terms. I began to write these new expressions in my journal. As Rob picked up on this process, every time a new concept was introduced, we would crack up as though we were back in high school doing something inappropriate behind a teacher’s back. (Actually, Rob would never have done that back then, but I definitely was inclined to drift in that direction.) Here are some of the new words and concepts: drop in, juicy, the field, co-creation, weaving the web, divine masculine/feminine, resonance, sacred container, feeling known, integrating, and state change. What had I gotten into?
And I found the most incredible community grieving spot I’ve ever seen or read about. The Burning Man grieving temple is devoted to acknowledging, reflecting on, and learning from grief. The walls bear offerings to the deceased. These ranged in complexity from the mere scrawling of a name on the walls of the temple to complex art pieces constructed in their memory. I brought my own versions for Amy, my dad, and, most freshly at the time for me, our dog Cougar.
The community grieving spot at Burning Man.
It had been less than a month since Cougar died, on July 26, 2018, a year to the day after my dad died. I was at my downtown office when our dog walker called to say that something was going on with Cougar—he’d lain down after their walk and refused to get back up again. She was right, that sounded nothing like him, and Cougar and I were at the veterinarian’s office within the hour.
Another thirty minutes later the vet gave me the news. It seems Cougar had suffered spontaneous internal bleeding. I had two choices: Put our cherished fourteen-year-old dog through a major, life-threatening surgical procedure with no guarantee of success, or let him go.
It’s a decision ever
y pet owner dreads, and I knew I couldn’t make it by myself. I needed Amy—she would have known what to do. I didn’t have her to turn to, but I had Miles. He should be here. He had to be here, if only to say goodbye. Cougar had joined our family when Miles was only nine years old. It was Miles who took the reins and trained that big spunky puppy when he first arrived; and while we all adored that dog, no one loved him more than Miles did. It didn’t take long for the two of us to agree that, excruciating as it was, we loved Cougar enough to spare him major surgery and a long, impossible-to-predict recovery and just let him quietly, painlessly go to sleep.
The vet couldn’t have been more sensitive and sympathetic. She asked if we wanted to be in the room while Cougar was euthanized. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t watch another family member essentially die in my arms. Miles heroically stepped up, and was there with Cougar when he took his last breath.
Amy is stuck in my brain at age fifty-two. Relatively speaking, that’s a youthful, beautiful age; but I have a lasting different image of Amy from the final two months of her life. I wish that freeze-frame was a healthier one. Cougar, on the other hand, will always be a playful, happy black Lab mix, even with the gray goatee he’d been sporting for the past couple of years.
If you’ve never loved and been loved by a pet, it’s hard to describe how devastating it is to lose one. If you have, you don’t need me to tell you. Whoever coined the saying “I hope to become the person my dog thinks I am” knew exactly what they were talking about. For fourteen years, no matter what the rest of the world seemed to think of me, every time I walked in the door, whether I’d been gone for two weeks or two minutes, Cougar greeted me with an insanely wagging tail and a busily sniffing nose as if seeing me was the most joyful thing that had ever happened to him. And all he asked for in return was some kibble, a good scratch behind the ears or on his belly, and a nice walk. He was treasured by each and every member of our family. He was there as the kids and cousins grew up, right there to protect them as they learned how to swim and play in the pool—there he’d be, pacing up and down at the edge of the pool, agitated, thinking they might be in danger, and he wouldn’t relax until they were safely out of the water again.
The chain of losses, from Amy to Arnie to Cougar, felt like being kicked in the gut time and time again as I was trying so hard to regain my footing. I felt powerless against the overwhelming message that, ready or not, you’d better always be prepared to say goodbye. I guess that’s why it wasn’t surprising I went to the grieving temple every day of the festival. I needed to.
I sat in silence and wept, side by side with other mourners, each of us deep in the throes of our solitary grief but profoundly connected without saying a word. Hugs were shared. Tears flowed. It was a huge milestone in my healing journey, and more than worth the dirt, dust, heat, cold, noise, and crowds that were the cost of attending.
For some reason, I would remember a random thought about Amy while I was in the desert. One that came to mind was early in our relationship. We were well into our button business, scouring flea markets for interesting buttons and spending a good deal of our free time making sure we had enough product. When we had ample inventory, we registered for space to sell our wares at an outdoor artist’s market that was popular in Chicago at the time. The event was called Market Days and was held near our home, in an area affectionately known as Boystown, one of the largest LGBT communities in the midwestern United States. Amped with the enthusiasm that she brought to most things in life, Amy invited her parents down to visit us at our booth.
Now, Ann and Paul are two of the most amazing parents anyone can imagine. They showered Amy with love from day one of her existence and taught her so many of the values she carried with her into her migration to adulthood: love and kindness, hard work, family, and a message to give back to those not as fortunate as her family was. However, they were definitely, by their own admission, more 1950 than 1990 at the time of this art show. They supported Amy always, cheering her on from the sidelines without hesitation, and they agreed to come down and visit us there and see what the art fair was like. Little did any of us know that the crowd was, how shall I say, not 1950! There were boys in bikinis and girls on skateboards. Men with nipple piercings and sweaty bodies.
Amy’s parents were incredulous. They could not believe that we thought they would want to be a part of that scene. It became a story told time and again throughout our entire marriage. Sitting there in the temple, the story made me smile, thinking about Amy and her infectious lust for life.
The trip to Burning Man happened only a year and five months after I’d lost Amy. But a year and five months on the journey through loss and grief is a good distance. My path already felt like a roller coaster—I had moments of joy and other times of profound sadness. Attending this truly unique experience, however, was unlike any other part of my odyssey thus far.
Because my entire being was so open to any experience at Burning Man, my heart was open as well. As I sat in the grieving temple, I could close my eyes and weep deeply. And I could sit with those feelings for as long as I needed to. My tears flowed for my Amy and for what we had together and for what we were missing out on. Soon, when I was ready to, I left the others grieving and biked back to my RV. Within hours, I was dancing to the “oontz, oontz” of the DJ music emanating from multiple locations. This process made it clearer to me that my life might just be this way, and that it was okay. One moment I might be really deep in my grief, and the next I might find myself discovering joy in my new life.
By the end of the festival, I was exhausted yet oddly energized. I’d done something Amy and I had talked about doing together, so there was a certain feeling of mission accomplished, especially since she would have loved it there. I was pretty much on my own, left to step out of my introverted comfort zone and find my way in the foreign space of Black Rock City, and I did it.
Burning Man isn’t necessarily for everyone. But I think it forced me to confront things that were still lingering beneath the surface, things that I still had to purge, and I needed the space and lack of judgment to do it. Not everyone needs this, nor should they. For me, though, this experience was difficult to quantify but absolutely crucial to my healing process.
There are quite a few takeaways from my Burning Man experience, and many reasons my first trip there wasn’t my last. My sense of accomplishment, having navigated this process as a solo mission, helped me accept that I could continue to fill my blank page with fascinating experiences on my own. I learned that I was thirsty for and willing to fill my life with new, unfamiliar exploration. Even though I might be anxious about attending a conference, traveling on my own, or meeting new people, this trip allowed me to feel the power of being enlightened by the unfamiliar.
Something happens at Burning Man that is transformative for me, not just for the time I am physically there but for a long time afterward as well. It is like no other place in the “default world,” as everyday life is called by Burners. Certainly, the setting contributes to that feeling. In the middle of nowhere. No cell service. No showers. No plumbing at all . . . you get the point. That, combined with the fact that I felt perfectly comfortable sporting gold pants and a black fur coat while riding my bike in the cool evenings, made it clear that my mind and body were free to express themselves and absorb feelings in a totally different way.
18
Deepening the Loss
I Get this Feeling of Impending Doom . . .
Is there Something You’re Not Telling Me?
—Tom Wilson, writing as Ziggy as he stares up to the sky
I was entrenched in my solo life and experiencing new things in the fall of 2018. I felt happy at times, a bit wabi-sabi at others, but the darkest moments were fading somewhat. I had even planned a wonderful trip for the kids and me during the winter holiday. And that’s when I was thrown once again.
We got the news that the small spot of cancer on my father-in-law Paul’s lung had traveled through his blo
odstream to form a mass in his brain. Brain surgery was essential.
Paul had been devastated by the loss of his eldest daughter. He was fond of saying that he went to a grief counselor once who told him that “everyone grieves differently.” I think that gave him permission to feel okay about not crying, even though he and Ann talked about the impact it had on the two of them when they were in private conversation.
After I delivered my TED talk, he was effusive about how well I had done. Because of my deep respect for him, this filled me with confidence about my path forward. He was fond of telling anyone who would listen that after watching me deliver the talk, he thought I should tell the producers of Amy’s film that I should play myself. Paul was never shy about making his opinions known, but he always did it in an endearing way. The sudden possibility of losing him was crushing.
Our family, our pack, did what we do—we descended on the hospital en masse to ride out the wait together. Brain surgery isn’t a quick procedure, so we whiled away the day reading, working, pacing, eating, and reflecting, staying positive every minute. I wore a sticker I found in Amy’s drawer that read, “Feeling pretty good about this.”
Courtesy of Brooke Hummer
Sure enough, Paul made it out of surgery. Sadly, though, he never bounced back to his old happy, smiling, hot-dog-eating, shirt-stained-from-food-inhaling, corny-joking, exercise-hating, Cubs-loving, Ann-adoring, family-heading self. And sadly, before long we found ourselves in the awful, familiar setting of home hospice again. Three generations gathering for Paul and for one another, not just needing to be there but wanting to be there, because it was him, because we wouldn’t have dreamed of being anywhere else.
My Wife Said You May Want to Marry Me Page 16
