In addition to my new Google doc, I printed the email out and carefully hid the pages in the back section of my leather-enclosed notebook, the same notebook I’d taken to hear him talk on the night he died. It houses the last words I would hear him speak onstage. The next page contains my hastily scribbled notes for his funeral arrangements.
But even as I tried to process and reconcile my grief, the truth remained that I felt deeply envious of anyone who still had parents. It was the kind of irrational emotion that made me slam down my computer screen, walk away mid-conversation, and close myself off in my room. It’s like a blindfold is removed after the death of your parent; you no longer view the world as open.
I abhorred the big holidays and the family portraits, my eyes narrowing whenever I came into close physical or digital contact.
This quiet fury was not short-lived. Even a year later, I surprised myself with my inability to exist around women and their fathers. An image of my friend Sam and her smiling dad popped up onscreen. She’s the kind of cool, aloof girl with bangs that I always wanted to be. Skinny long legs without trying, with a freelance filmmaking career that she mostly liked. The photos burned me up—the dad and daughter duo just looked so happy in the woods, enjoying each other’s company. I clicked on the upper right-hand tab and saw UNFOLLOW SAM. I paused for a second, deliberating whether or not I should excommunicate her from my digital life just for the sin of having a father. I clicked on UNFOLLOW as I lied to myself with the pretense of practicing self-care. The truth was that it was too painful to bear witness to the hallmark moments I no longer had access to.
This is what they don’t discuss with you after loss. The rage that bubbles up inside you, creating further divisions in your already fractured self. Loss turned me into someone who had a hard time functioning around other family units. I asked my sister if she felt the same way.
“Depends on the day, but mostly I just grin and bear it.”
I marveled at her ability to extend beyond her comfort zone, refusing to let grief dictate how she related to the people around her. I vowed, like most days, to try to be more like my wombmate.
I headed over to my friend Zoe’s apartment with a bag full of yarn—I’d decided I would like to take up knitting. I used to see people doing it all the time in church basements, and I needed something to do with my hands. We clicked PAUSE on the high-pitched voice squawking at us from the YouTube knitting tutorial and took a brownie break. She asked if I’d reached out to Sam. I shook my head dismissively. “Nah, I haven’t talked to her in ages. She barely remembers me.” Zoe sensed that information was missing and told me that Sam’s dad had died unexpectedly after a brain operation. I instantly felt hideous for blocking her. He’d been having an operation and she’d wanted him to feel supported, hence all the pictures.
I texted Sam immediately and was met with zero response. I knew firsthand the flurry of messages that come after a big-deal loss. I waited patiently for a reply, which came the next day. She described the black hole her brain was in, and I instantly exhaled, feeling her grief viscerally. I attempted to be helpful and gave her tips on getting through the next couple of weeks and mentioned my Google document surrounding the topic of loss. She perked up and asked to see it. I told her I would answer my own questions and send it over. I reminded her it was okay to not be okay, and with that she moved toward the business of death.
To: Sam M
From: Erin Lee Carr
Date: 04/02/2016
Subject: SGC
Sam,
It’s really the worst. Here are my answers to my own questions:
On books/movies—I tried reading grief books at first and just found them to be so blasé and unmanageable. Now finally able to explore the space i.e. Meghan O’Rourke, Wild, internet pieces. Silly but lite—Radical Self Love. Movies: I can’t stand sad movies, or dramas actually. I need humor in my life at the end of the day. I turn on Gilmore Girls, Sex and the City, 30 Rock. Women being funny and complicated at the same time.
On helpful/not helpful—lost a fair amount of friends. I realized I was a person who had a shit ton of acquaintances. I decided I want to pick 10 people and work on my relationships with those people. I want to have fun dates where we do/make things. I also want to prioritize people who had gone through the same sort of loss as they are easier to relate to.
On weight—I coped with food. I gained 15 pounds. I ate mac n’ cheese whenever I wanted. Oh and the pure magic that is double stuff Oreos. I was scared when I looked at myself in pictures in July, my twin tried to talk to me about it as gently as she could. I put myself on a diet in August and lost 10 pounds and it was a ton of work. I am trying to get into working out, it’s just so hard for me.
On waking up—Put something next to your bed that makes you smile. I got a fancy coffee maker that made it nice to wake up to. And flowers/plants…important for your eyes and brain to be near in my experience. I try to write a daily gratitude list. I let myself feel sad and cry if I need to.
On work—it was really hard at first. I would literally mentally black-out and not be able to focus. I took myself home the rest of the day if that was happening. Around six months, I started putting myself wholly into work and it made my life more manageable. Instead of talking about how sad I was I could talk about the work that I was doing. HBO greenlit me to direct a movie, I was hired to develop a feature about the global arms industry and I was mentoring at CUNY. It was a hustle and I felt so tired at the end of the day. I think my anxiety/stress spiked during that time but keeping busy was important for me.
On wine—total non-starter due to my genetic predisposition. I used wine and it used me back. Awful. Had to give up. I drank on the six months anniversary and cried for like six hours straight. Felt totally gothic. I had my last drink August 23, 2015. I have been sober ever since.
On what to tell myself—I was gifted with a wonderful dad who told me over and over how much he loved me. So many people do not get that. Yes, we want more time but I, right now at this moment feel gratitude for what I had. Also: people die in wars and tragic horrifying accidents. My dad was not healthy, he drank and drugged for years, got sober but then smoked ~48 cigarettes a day. He also died the way he would have wanted, not a struggle or a diminishment of his mental facilities. He died with grace and dignity and on top of his game, at the Times, a place he adored. Sort of a mic drop, really.
On writing—it helps me. It’s painful, earnest work. I think he would approve.
On other humans and their parents—I draw very strict boundaries as we discussed. I don’t want to hear about your parents unless I ask. I reserve the right to leave the room. I feel triggered around holidays. I don’t know if I will always be able to be direct. It feels like people are giving me a “pass” right now but that won’t hold up forever. I feel concerned about that but try not to worry.
Best, E
I reviewed my responses. They were brusque and yet honest. In this moment, I felt the uniqueness of the situation drift away from me. I was one of many, trying to determine the next right step. I knew that attempting to help other people was meaningful work, and I would continue as best as I could muster. No more unfollowing.
34
A Glacier First Melts at the Edges
My dad was asked by the Alaska Press Club to speak at their 2015 annual conference, discussing reporting and the civic good it presents. Sadly, he didn’t live long enough to attend the gig. The next year the organization asked me to speak about my process of filmmaking. While I had reservations—would they think I was a cheap imitation of the real thing?—I said yes. He would have wanted me to, right?
I couldn’t email him about the invitation to go to Alaska. He was gone. Also gone were our phone calls, Gchats, the ever-useful feedback, and the plotting of our next moves.
I insisted on heading to the airport from Jasper’s house rather t
han my apartment because traveling made me anxious, and I liked to be by our dog Gary’s side as long as possible. Gary knew how to spoon and was just about the best thing I had going on in my life. He eyed me dolefully, knowing that the suitcase meant the lady who sneaked him human food was going somewhere. I asked Jasper if I could practice my talk in front of him. He was sitting at his computer, lost in the AV Club, and heard me but only slightly.
“Um, yeah. I am sure it’ll be great, babe.”
This was one of many presentations or meetings that I sought his advice on. For me as a freelancer, it was one meeting after another, with many keeping me up at night. My boyfriend carried a lot of the weight, especially now that my dad was gone. It’s uncomfortable, but sometimes necessary, how we force people in our lives to occupy certain roles. I was frustrated to not even get a glance from him as I spoke; his eyes were glued to the computer screen.
I walked into the bathroom and gently closed the door. I leaned in, putting my hands on the porcelain sink. I stared at myself. I thought I looked older than twenty-eight. My hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and freckles lined my face even though the sun hadn’t come out yet. It was April, and it had been what seemed like a very long winter. My face looked puffy, and I had the requisite circles of a workaholic underneath my eyes. I splashed cold water on my face and took a deep breath. I said to myself, loudly: You will be great.
The flight was literally across the entire continent, but I started to feel the burn at hour two. I watched movies, wrote a proposal, outlined my next shoot, and still had eight hours to kill. I am rarely alone with my thoughts for this long. They aren’t always the best company.
I finally reached Anchorage, feeling a fresh wave of excitement as I headed over to pick up my rental car. I could say or do whatever I wanted for the next twenty-four hours before my talk. I headed toward the Bubbly Mermaid, a champagne and oyster bar off the main strip. No white wine for me, I told the kind and curvaceous waitress. I ordered enough oysters to feed three, plus some pâté, and I felt somewhat like an adult. I realized I was mimicking behavior that I’d observed in my dad. You fly somewhere, ask a local for the best food shack, and overspend on food because you are not buying booze. I even toted my Harry Potter book with me to add to my big-kid status. I thought momentarily about ordering a glass of champagne. No one would know, a mischievous voice inside my head commented. I swatted the thought away. I’d only been sober this time for six months, but I wanted to keep it that way.
I left the restaurant full of oysters and received a call from an unknown number. In my line of work, that typically meant I was about to talk to someone in a prison. My heart picked up its pace as I timidly said “Hello.” I spoke with a young man who had been accused of raping a sixteen-year-old at an elite boarding school. The prosecutor said that he’d lured her via the school intranet and assaulted her and bragged about it to his friends. I had read through hundreds of his chats, and I knew many secrets about him, and yet here he was on the phone, calling me Ms. Carr and asking me about myself. He was awaiting sentencing after a guilty verdict and was very careful not to say anything that would incriminate him, so he couldn’t say much. I hung up and felt my life moving away from my dad’s death and into work that scared me. He would approve.
Over the next couple of days, I spoke to students and drank shitty coffee that somehow tasted fine in one of the truly most spectacular places on earth. Speakers at the conference knew my dad, and quickly said, “Sorry for your loss,” before moving on to the next topic. I found that the righteous anger that had been with me the first year had started to leave me and these conversations. I liked when people mentioned him now. He was in their thoughts just as he was in mine. I felt kinship with the other women and men who had been asked to speak. There was Zoe, a fierce and loud radio reporter from a well-known program; Bob, a blowhard from that same radio organization; and a young man named Bryan who spent time analyzing all the folks who read The Washington Post. I felt instantly crushy toward Bryan, but the feeling retreated as he gave me tips on how to successfully move in with a significant other.
For one night, we were invited to a fancy, secluded resort in Seward. The drive there was dangerous because I was alone and gawking at the sights around me, instead of paying attention to the winding road ahead. When we arrived, we all grabbed drinks. I felt like I was fresh out of elementary school when I ordered a Shirley Temple with extra cherries, like my former self had been exposed as someone who could not handle her liquor. We talked about the start of the year, hard work, and loss. David Bowie had died, and this little group of artists talked it through. I felt myself harden when Zoe talked about the pain of losing a man like Bowie. “What right do we have to mourn a man we never knew?” I wondered out loud.
I explained that it was hard to hear that sort of thing when you have recently lost a parent. Zoe swiveled to face me and whispered, “Wait, your dad was David Carr?”
I looked down and blushed. “Yes.”
She recounted reading The Night of the Gun, listening to his Terry Gross interview, and seeking comfort in his words after her mother died. It became one of many instances in which an individual would hold my hand and say how much he had meant to them. I started to understand the spasm of grief. Once someone close to you dies, you feel loss more plainly, as it is a part of your everyday experience. It feels crushing as the wave hits you, but then you can see the tide begin to drift in and out again after the storm.
The day before I was scheduled to go home, I decided to venture to a glacier to see what the fuss was all about. It was raining outside, but luckily I had a waterproof coat from Costco that my always practical sister Meagan had gifted me. A sign commanded me to LOOK OUT FOR BEARS. I resisted the impulse to put in my white earbuds, and instead embraced the sound of the crunch of rocks and pebbles under my feet in the otherwise silent setting. The landscape was a watercolor of brown, gray, and white. Snow blanketed every mountaintop, and for the first time in a long while, I let go of what was happening that week, even that day. I focused on my breath, in that minute, and the world that I was surrounded by. I took a picture to remember the moment, but I knew it would have been better to leave it—to become untethered to the digital rope that binds me. I put my phone away after I took this photo, knowing that experiences like this were rare and best not seen through a screen.
I walked down the path deeper into the park and saw the peak from far off. Not knowing the proper etiquette, I climbed on top of the snow-covered glacier and took out a carefully folded piece of paper from my pocket. I read it out loud.
I try to say “I love you” every day to him. Just in case he is in a place quiet enough to hear it. The skeptic in me doubts that he listens, but still I do it. I don’t have concrete evidence that life exists beyond death, but I know I felt connected to him that day. I felt small and large all at once on the frozen wave. The glacier moves so slowly that the movement is impossible to register.
THINGS I LEARNED FROM DAVID CARR: A LIST
Listen when you enter a room.
Don’t buy into your myth.
Don’t be the first one to talk, but if you do talk first, say something smart.
Speak and then stop; don’t stutter or mumble; be strong in what you have to say.
Be defiant.
You have to work the phones. Call people. Don’t rely on emails.
Ask questions but ask the right questions.
Ask people what mistakes they’ve made so you can get their shortcuts.
Know when enough is enough.
Make eye contact with as many people as possible.
Don’t be in shitty relationships because you are tired of being alone.
Be grateful for the things you have in this life. You are lucky.
Practice patience even though it’s one of the hardest things to master.
Failure is a part of the proces
s, maybe the most important part.
Alcohol is not a necessary component of life.
Street hotdogs are not your friend.
Remind yourself that nobody said this would be easy.
If more negative things come out of your mouth than positive, then Houston, we have a problem.
We contain multitudes.
Always love (See band: Nada Surf).
Have a dance move and don’t be afraid to rock it.
Don’t go home just because you are tired.
Don’t take credit for work that is not yours. If your boss does this, take note.
Be generous with praise and be specific in that praise: “That line was killer.”
Cats are terrible; they poop in your house.
Say what you mean and mean what you say.
Do the next right thing.
Our dogs are us. Only cuter.
And finally:
You are loved and you belong to me, the world, and
yourself.
BOOKS I READ WHILE WRITING THIS BOOK
The Night of the Gun: A Reporter Investigates the Darkest Story of His Life—His Own by David Carr
The Art of Memoir by Mary Karr
The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion
The Gilded Razor: A Memoir by Sam Lansky
On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King
Weird in a World That’s Not: A Career Guide for Misfits, F*ckups, and Failures by Jennifer Romolini
Handling the Truth: On the Writing of Memoir by Beth Kephart
The Men in My Life: A Memoir of Love and Art in 1950s Manhattan by Patricia Bosworth
Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body by Roxane Gay
Girl Walks Out of a Bar: A Memoir by Lisa F. Smith
How to Murder Your Life: A Memoir by Cat Marnell
All That You Leave Behind Page 20
