by Mary Adkins
Dedication
For Lucas and Finn
Epigraph
GOOGLING GRIEF
by Jade Massey
All the poems about grief
are wrong.
My grief is the
opposite
of a couplet.
It is not pretty.
It does not make room
for rhymes.
Here is my poem
about grief:
So this is pain.
This is what it was
all along.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Eight Months Later
Before
Friday, August 28: Jade
Saturday, August 29
Monday, August 31
Tuesday, September 1
Friday, September 4
Saturday, September 5
Sunday, September 6
Monday, September 7
Tuesday, September 8
Wednesday, September 9
Thursday, September 10
Monday, September 14
One Month Later: Monday, October 12
Friday, October 16
Monday, October 19
Thursday, October 22
Monday, October 26
Tuesday, October 27
Friday, October 30
Monday, November 2
Friday, November 6
Saturday, November 7
Monday, November 9
Wednesday, November 11
Monday, November 16
Tuesday, November 17
Wednesday, November 18
Thursday, November 19
Friday, November 20
Saturday, November 21
Sunday, November 22
Monday, November 23
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
SIMONYI BRAND MANAGEMENT
96 Morton Street, 9th Floor
New York, NY 10014
June 18
Dear Mr. Simonyi:
I came upon your company on the Stanford University Employers Forum, on which your firm is listed as a place where Stanford students have had positive internship experiences previously. Grace Wang (’16) wrote that she had a wonderful summer working with you and your colleague Iris. While “wonderful” is rather nebulous and uninformative, her point is well made. I see that you have not posted a fall internship opening, but I am writing to express my interest in interning for you come September.
I am a rising fourth-year with a deep and abiding commitment to public relations and communications work since the wee age of three and a half, at which time I launched my first promotional campaign for a line of children’s toys created by my father, Carl Van Snyder Jr. My contribution consisted of conspicuously playing with the toys (which later became the award-winning ToddleGenius™ line) while at day care, in line with my father’s at-home demonstrations. ;)
Since that time, I have established a proven track record of promotional success after promotional success. I am the youngest ever member of my fraternity to be elected social chair, and as such, I organized the Palo Alto chapter of the Race Against Alzheimer’s this past spring, raising over $100,000 for the organization Don’t Forget Us. I am also a Krav Maga black belt, nationally ranked chess player (12–15 age group), and founder of the online magazine SHAVED, devoted to topics of personal hygiene and masculinity’s fluctuating contours.
I would be thrilled to join Simonyi Brand Management in New York City as a fall intern and am available to begin as early as August 24. Also, I would not require a salary, as this Urban Internship Semester must be in exchange for credit hours only.
My résumé is attached. In an attempt to be thorough, I have declined to be brief. Please let me know if you have a page limit, and I will do my best to trim it down to one (though the font size, of course, may have to decrease, which I’m aware can be a challenge to more mature eyes).
Sincerely,
Carl Van Snyder III
http://dyingtoblog.com/irismassey
December 29 | 11:01 AM
If you want to find out you’re dying from a bot, I have a recommendation: Dr. Hsu at New York Presbyterian delivers death warrants with the empathy of a salamander.
I should have expected nothing less, given that two weeks ago, he informed me that a CT scan showed lesions on my lungs by saying “This does not necessarily mean you have cancer.”
I explained to Dr. Hsu that telling someone they don’t necessarily have cancer is only good news if they already think they have cancer. For those of us who believe ourselves to be healthy, the correct phrasing is, “I have some bad news.”
He thanked me for the suggestion.
Here’s how it happened today. I arrived at the office around 8:30 as usual, before my boss as usual. I was reading news online. NASA reports that 25 million Americans have stockpiled guns in preparation for doomsday. A man has spent $100,000 on operations to become a real-life Ken doll. My phone buzzed, and like that, I have lung cancer.
Dr. Hsu explained that not only are the lesions on my lungs indicative of cancer, but they also mean that I will probably be dying soon. He mentioned chemo, trying it, seeing what happens. But my cancer is special. It isn’t referred to in stages like other cancers. It only comes in two varieties: limited and extensive. Mine is the bad kind.
“I want to be honest with you. The prognosis is not good,” he said. I thanked him for his honesty, because that’s what you do when someone bothers to point out they’re being honest.
“Death is a fact for us all,” he went on, “but yours will most likely come in six months or sooner,” like the end of my existence is a gestating baby, or the love of my life. Half a year. Twenty-four weeks. Before summer.
The call was short, just long enough for us to plan for me to go in Wednesday. At some point in the conversation my boss walked in, and I noticed my 98-cent deli coffee had tipped over. The puddle dripped off the desk onto the floor. “WE ARE HERE TO SERVE YOU,” the paper cup promised, sideways.
As I told Smith that I have six months to live, I laughed, like it’s a joke. Is it?
He hugged me. I can’t remember if I hugged back. He smelled like the Ralph Lauren cologne I once bought for Daniel but then gave to him instead, after some fight Daniel and I had, of the dozens or hundreds. Do you tell ex-fiancés you are dying? The question flitted through my mind as a matter of etiquette, one my mother would have an answer to. Somewhere, on a shelf in Virginia, there probably is a well-worn book with a paragraph on what courtesy ex-lovers owe one another with regard to announcements of terminal illness.
For Smith’s benefit—he looked like he might have a heart attack—I kept talking, explaining the series of increasingly ominous events that led to this morning. First came the chest pains, then the CT scan, the results of which were delayed because of Christmas. Then the biopsy. It felt like someone else was talking about me. The actual Iris had fled. She’s already gone.
He asked how long “this” has been going on. I know now that by “this” he was referring to the tests—to my discovery of the disease rather than to the disease, itself. But I misunderstood.
“Who knows?” I said.
I realized on the train home he meant the tests. He meant: Why didn’t you tell me?
I didn’t tell him, of course, because when you tell people things, they treat them as real, and then you have to decide. I had been hoping for the best. I have always been an optimist.
Neither of us knew what one does after being diagnosed with cancer
that will probably kill you. Certainly not resume business as usual. So I came back to my apartment, which I’m now regretting. Maybe I’ll go back to work. At least then he’d stop texting to ask if I’m okay being alone.
Is that what people do? Avoid being alone with their new cancer? I could call Jade, but I’m sure she’s in the kitchen with her cell tucked away in a closet. Using my triannual call to my mom to tell her I have cancer just seems cruel. And I’m not in the mood for the baby mamas (my friends from my early twenties who had babies in our early thirties and then ceased to be capable of talking about anything but their children, so we’ve drifted. Plus, our friend Sabine, who was the glue keeping us together, moved to California).
Frankly, I’m surprised this site made it to fruition. A year or so ago the founders came to the firm looking for branding assistance in exchange for equity in their “graphic storytelling platform start-up.” Todd and . . . Chad? Ethan? According to Ethan/Todd/Chad, both people with terminal illnesses and stay-at-home moms were itching to blog in triangles, arrows, and colorful bar graphs. They had a colorful binder of demographic research on target niches, and Smith had been intrigued, initially (I wasn’t—they were both the same shade of too-tan and talked about the future like it was a lottery they’d rigged). They had originally called it a d-log (drawing log, like “vlog”), but that didn’t go over well in focus groups. Throughout the presentation, Smith and I both fought to suppress our laughter. For days afterward, he and I came up with who else might like to make a d-log: geriatric clowns! Racist poets! Disgruntled ghosts!
Now, here I am, a data point come to life. Bravo, Chad. I have a heads-up, a full six-month lead. I get to sit with my impending death over coffee so we can make plans.
Things you don’t think about dying, until it’s happening: I will break my lease.
I was an assistant while I saved to open a bakery, which never happened. I wanted a family, too, but so much for that. I got skinny then fat then skinny again. I smoked then quit.
She was an admin who got skinny then fat then skinny then died.
Here’s the thing I need to figure out. This whole time I thought my real life hadn’t started yet. Turns out that was my life. I have six months or so to make that okay, somehow.
COMMENTS (10):
DyingToBlogTeam: Welcome! We see you’ve already begun sharing. Remember that commenting on other users’ Exit Posts will bring more visitors to your own page. Dying to Blog is a community of members facing the same challenge, and we want you to get your Maximum Departure Value™ out of it!
BonnieD: hi I’m Bonnie. I like your blog. u have to use more graphics tho because this is a graphics site and posts that get on the Popular page are never ones like yours. no offense but it looks like a word document. but i stumbled on you and like u so i will follow u anyway.
IrisMassey: Thanks, Bonnie. Do you have a blog on the site?
BonnieD: no. my mom used to be on it.
BonnieD: hers was really good but it moved to the afterlife page.
BonnieD: they have to move them otherwise u’d just have a bunch of corpse blogs and that would be depressing lol
IrisMassey: I’m sorry.
BonnieD: it happens
IrisMassey: Thanks for the tip.
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Eight Months Later
Friday, August 28 | Simonyi Brand Management
* * *
from:
[email protected]
to:
[email protected]
date:
Fri, Aug 28 at 10:55 AM
subject:
Vandalism of your posters
* * *
Dear Rosita,
I got your message. I understand your concern, especially after, as you note, we spent so much time perfecting the subway ad, and I remain grateful for your patience and gracious spirit during the photo shoot—agreed, he wasn’t the most professional photographer around (apologies again for the fingernail clipping on-site), and I know you weren’t thrilled to learn that I plucked him off of Craigslist, but that says nothing of how much I value you both as a client and as my dentist.
Remember that a year ago, no one knew who you were, because no one knew Paula Abdul had a ghastly mouth as a child. But then we all learned, thanks to that intrepid Post reporter, that you built Paula’s mouth chair-side. You made Paula. It is a phenomenal feat, and one for which I’m glad you’re finally receiving the recognition you deserve. Since the news broke, we have done an outstanding job (if I say so myself) harnessing your initial publicity to develop a personal brand. The interviews, the book deal, the additional celeb endorsements. Now that the book’s coming out, and our campaign targeting commuters in the region has finally launched, I need to warn you about something: fame comes at a price. You will have haters. It is inevitable. My clients don’t read the comments, don’t read the blogs, don’t read the tabloids. And in your case, they don’t pay attention to a little graffiti on a few subway ads.
We knew (or at least I did, and perhaps should have made more clear) when we decided to place the posters in New York subway stations that they would be vandalized. If you spend much time riding New York City transit, you will notice that no advertisement is immune from the occasional mustache or profane smear. These interactions with the ads, I would suggest, aren’t something to bemoan. On the contrary, they enhance the likelihood of people noticing and remembering your smoldering, shimmering grin! Rosita de Santiago, DDS!
This is the time to welcome attention in any form.
You reference with loathing the estimable Dr. Zizmor, New York City’s first medical professional to take to in-motion, 2-D campaigning on the trains. Sure, his posters about getting rid of pimples rendered him the target of ridicule. He also now owns a yacht and three houses on two different coasts.
Relatively speaking, I think T-E-E-F-S neatly penned across your five front incisors is fairly innocuous.
Warmly,
Smith S. Simonyi
President
Simonyi Brand Management
* * *
from:
YOPLAY
to:
[email protected]
date:
Fri, Aug 28 at 11:34 AM
subject:
YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS B AS IN BULL + S AS IN SATIRE
* * *
NOPE.
NOPE NOPE NOPE.
NOT AGAIN.
YES AGAIN.
GO TO YOUTUBE
SEARCH MY NAME PLUS RAPPER SO YOU DON’T GET THAT YOYO TRICK MAN
CLICK ON “IT’S NOT EASY HAVING GREEN—ORIGINAL VIDEO”
SURPRISE!
IT IS NOT MY ORIGINAL VIDEO after all. THE LADIES HAVE BEEN REPLACED WITH MUPPETS, AKA I HAVE A BEAST FETISH APPARENTLY WHEREIN THE BEASTS ARE MADE OUT OF CLOTH
NOTE, FURTHERMORE: THE MUPPETS I “KISS” IN THIS “PARODY” OF MY RAP ARE ALL “MALE,” BUT DUMMY DIDN’T EVEN USE KERMIT
FOOL
SO WHAT ARE THEY TRYING TO SAY NOW—THAT I AM A SINGER FOR CHILDREN?
SMITH, I AM DONE. WITH. THIS. DRAMZ.
AFTER “RAIN ON ME, SIR JESUS”—ok GOSPEL WAS A BAD IDEA, NOT MY FORTÉ SO MUCH AS not my forté—I HAVE STRUGGLED TO ESTABLISH MYSELF AS AN ARTIST WITH RANGE DESPITE PRESSURE FROM THE MASSES WHO NEED ME TO FIT INTO A NEAT AND APPROVED CATEGORY OF MUSIC. I SUPPOSE MY RECENT DIP INTO COUNTRY DIDN’T HELP. DO PEOPLE THINK I CAN’T MAKE UP MY MIND ABOUT TO WHAT GENRE I BELONG?
BUT I AM AN ARTIST, AND ARTISTS:
EXPERIMENT
UNDERSTAND THAT JUST BECAUSE YOU EXPERIMENT DOES NOT PLACE YOU INTO A CATEGORY
ARE SUBJECT TO SO MUCH SCRUTINY WE OCCASIONALLY OFF OURSELVES
I’M NOT GOING TO OFF MYSELF, BUT I do EXPERIMENT, AND AT THIS POINT IN MY CAREER, I DO NOT HAVE ANY INTEREST IN PRETENDING ONLY TO BE INTERESTED IN ONE FORM OF SELF-EXPRESSION JUST TO PROTECT MY “brand” L
EST I BE ABANDONED BY MY FANS, AND MY CAREER END BEFORE I AM DECREPIT AND USELESS, SUCH AS AT AGE 45.
I AM A VERNAL 32 YEARS OF AGE. BUT AS A WHITE RAP ARTIST OF SHORTER STATURE CLIMBING AN UPHILL HILL, I AM FATIGUED.
I AM SLEEPY.
EVER SINCE I WON SARAN WRAP’S FREESTYLE SHOWDOWN AND GOT MY FIRST RECORD DEAL FOR “DON’T WHIZ ON ME” FOUR YEARS AGO, I HAVE BEEN THE TARGET OF THOSE WHO WOULD WISH TO SEE ME SHRIVEL UP LIKE A MAN’S JUNK IN THE SNOW.
IT IS TIME TO END THESE JUVENILE ATTACKS ON MY MUSICAL GENRE EXPLORATION ONCE AND FOR ALL. HOW DO WE FIGHT BACK?
AS THEY SAY: D.I.Y.D.D.Y.O.
DO IT YOURSELF
DON’T DO
YOURSELF
OFF
PLEASE ADVISE,
YO-PLAY/Phil
* * *
from:
[email protected]
to:
YOPLAY
date:
Fri, Aug 28 at 12:04 PM
subject:
re: YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS B AS IN BULL + S AS IN SATIRE
* * *
I understand your frustration. I truly do. You are my most valued client, and I give you my true opinion, always.
I think we should ignore this video. It’s nothing. “Fighting back” or responding in some way could be seen as thin skinned. You want to be perceived as having a sense of humor, right? Being playful, like your music?
Finally, remember what they say about all press?
SS
* * *
from:
[email protected]
to:
[email protected]
date:
Fri, Aug 28 at 12:09 PM
