Completing a months-long project, meeting a difficult goal, walking out after a final exam, filing a major brief, finishing an institution-wide evaluation or a huge end-of-the-year report. Elation, yahoo, relief, whew! Closure is a blessing, right? Except when it comes to saying goodbye. On April 17th, I wrote about our friends’ 55th wedding anniversary celebration: “We all knew he'd had a very rocky time with health issues this past winter. All the more reason to celebrate. At the end of the meal, I brought out the cake with lighted candles. We sang heartily and took pictures of what could be the last tribute.” And it was. Two weeks after I wrote that piece, not he but she received troubling blood work results, which led to a diagnosis of aggressive, stage 4 cancer. Though previously symptom-free, she soon became too weak to pursue treatment. She entered hospice and a few days later died at home surrounded by family. Two months, and she is gone from this earth. From Dietrich Bonhoeffer's Letters and Papers from Prison: "Nothing can make up for the absence of someone whom we love, and it would be wrong to try to find a substitute; we must simply hold out and see it through. That sounds very hard at first, but at the same time it is a great consolation, for the gap, as long as it remains unfilled, preserves the bonds between us. It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap; God does not fill it, but on the contrary, God keeps it empty and so helps us to keep alive our former communion with each other, even at the cost of pain." Today, I am grateful for the lack of closure, for emptiness and memory. Those blessings are the way we keep our dear ones with us.
I instinctually knew when the English voice on the telephone asked for my father, it was bad news. I called up to Dad working on the roof. Moments later, “Well kiddo, there's no easy way to say this. Ivor's dead.” I sat on the floor of the hallway, cradling our son in my arms and sobbing for while, but I knew I had to get to England and there wasn't much time. Our relationship had dissolved but Ivor always wore and looked after the plaited silver band I gave him as our “wedding ring.” I felt sure he'd want Joshua to have that. Telephone inquiries revealed that it was not in the envelope of his personal effects given to the family after finding his body. On our first visit to the funeral parlour, I saw it on his finger. They assured me that they would retrieve it for us but the morning of the funeral, at the final family viewing, it was still there. Rather casually, it was suggested that I “just take it off.” He and I were in a tiny private room. I warned him,”If your finger comes off in my hand, I will beat your dead corpse until it is unrecognisable,” and did the deed that would give me closure.
You can imagine the chagrin of my parents (both being in the “fashion business) when at 13 I eschewed their dress code. My uniform was left bank Parisian bohemian. My parents approached the stalemate in very different ways. “Making wrong” from my mother, and “let’s explore” from my father. “Never pay retail” from mom and quality and good design from my dad. I opted for my dad’s approach. We went shopping in upscale boutiques, leaving with dresses I loved. One day when searching for one to wear to a party I couldn’t find them. I asked my mother where they were. She informed me that she gave them to my aunt as she didn’t see me wearing them too often. I exploded, as this was not the first act of revenge on her part.
After my father died, my mother came to live with me during the last stages of her fight with cancer. I had just accepted a new position moving from the academic world where dress codes were lax, to President requiring a rethink of my wardrobe. I asked my mother to be my “fashionista” and help me choose from the many outfits I selected and modeled for her. The look of joy on her face to my request for her to share her wealth of experience was palpable. Finally, I brought some semblance of closure to our troubled relationship.
The closure was certain. Hammered home after the LAPD executed a long-anticipated, late-night raid on The Landing Party, an unlicensed after-hours dance rock club owned by my friends on 8th street, downtown Los Angeles. I was the resident DJ, shifts starting at 2am and ending around 7am. Usually just weekends, occasionally more. I also happened to be the supplier of the speakers and sound-system, equipment I had saved up to buy for use in this exact type of situation. The rebel in me, rewarded.
When the cops finally put an end to a successful two years of our underground dance parties, I was a bit relieved. The hours were starting to weigh on me, the late-night lifestyle. I wasn’t at the club when the raid went down so I avoided getting thrown in the slammer. My buddies spent an obligatory 48 hours in county before they were released to some stiff fines. I lost my system. It was the end of their foray into club ownership and the end of my late-night DJ days.
Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’ model of grief was in sequential stages, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Then it was recognized as more complicated, that you can keep spiraling through these various feelings over and over, eventually spiraling towards acceptance. In the online grief support group that I joined after my husband died, we talked about seeming to reach some kind of closure and then getting hit by a ‘grief quake’. I felt I only truly experienced closure around my first husband’s death when I fell in love with David, my husband of almost 20 years now. Maybe I was ready before we met. Maybe closure was there beneath the surface and I didn’t know it. Walking towards him that day on the ferry as he sang out the song City of New Orleans, piecing together the rhyming lines, as a cool breeze blew over us, smells of warm pretzels and beer, when we finally met in the in-person gathering of our online grief support group, I felt like I was dropping the last remnants of grief with each step, like the boat dropped the lines tying it to the shore, like I was finally walking into the sun again.
I told my brother I was going to see Dad in hospital, and he asked me to buy a particular book. My brother was half the world away, his visa uncertain, Covd in full-swing. I knew I had to get the book.
On the way to the hospital, we stopped at a supermarket, the only type of shop allowed to open during lockdown. It was a Bernard Cornwell book, so I thought it might be popular enough to be stocked there. I looked all over the book aisle but to no avail.
Just as I left the aisle, something forced me to go back. Without really knowing why, I had one more look on every shelf, and behind every title. I got down on my knees – and there it was. On the bottom shelf, so low I’d missed it before.
A few days after my visit, Dad finished the book. Three weeks later, he died. When I spoke to my brother about it, he said ‘That’s good, because it was the last book in the series. Me and Dad have been reading them for about ten years.”
In September 2021 I left my former job. I could no longer stand by and watch the perfidious power games and political manipulations. But in doing so, I left not only a job, but my team. People I considered my best friends that filled my everyday life with joy and meaning. Leaving was like a huge explosion.
After that, I fell into a very deep hole. My day started with tears rolling into my coffee cup. Crying, I got into the car, drove to my new job, took a deep breath, did my work, got back into the car and the tears started flowing again. For three months this went on. I was filled with hate and sadness. I could not close with the past.
I had even given up running at that time. Then I wrote to a good friend who was also part of my old team and told him how I was feeling. It was a desperate cry for help. He told me to write, which is my second great passion besides running. And I started writing, finally completing my "Metamorphoses" three months later. I have not yet published this work, my own metamorphosis still not 100% complete. The work is a mixture of the biography of David Bowie, music history, autobiography and philosophical themes. Perhaps my closure will be complete when the work is published?
Trying to recall a friend’s birthdate, I performed a “happy birthday” text search. A list of “happy birthday” wishes appeared, including one that I sent to my brother six years ago. I read that text as well as all subsequent texts with him.
Me: Happy Birthday! How are you celebrating?
Brother: Thank you. I don’t know what I’m doing today. It’s not bad out, but just waiting for the rain to stop.
I read the next day’s texts which detailed our meet-up time with friends at a club, and we exchanged some jokes.
The day after his celebration, I asked him to text me our photos. He sent five.
Me: You look so proud and happy to be out with me.
He didn’t respond. Not unusual, but I’m sure we talked about the laughs we had.
We weren’t just celebrating his birth, but also the successful kidney transplant he experienced just a couple of months prior.
A week later, I called and then texted him:
“Call me plz. I’m sending an ambulance for you if I don’t hear from you in 15 minutes.”
No response.
My brother had passed away. Sometimes you can’t get the closure you want. You get the memories you need.
All I have of him are three photographs and an email I won't open.
It's a meager collection of memories, whatever was on hand 12 summers ago. I imagine some plan their estrangements. Rehearse their speeches, pack a bag. I left like milk boils over: inevitably, all at once. After more years of abuse than I can remember, I was the cruel one.
I became unspeakable — unspeaking. My insecurities endeavored to fill the silence. I had to remind myself they always had.
I lived for five years within 10 blocks of my abuser (I didn't know until he'd moved). My parents and brothers were 40 minutes away. I wrapped myself in Midtown anonymity, but I still caught myself holding my breath to keep the spell.
Three days before my husband and I left the country, my brother emailed me. No subject. To be fair, I don't know how you introduce your first attempt to break a decade's silence. Or what you put inside that tiny box. Death announcements. Request for organs.
An apology for believing in neutral ground.
My husband forwarded it to himself, deleted the original from my inbox. Sometimes I almost hear its words, in the silence.
Completing a months-long project, meeting a difficult goal, walking out after a final exam, filing a major brief, finishing an institution-wide evaluation or a huge end-of-the-year report. Elation, yahoo, relief, whew! Closure is a blessing, right? Except when it comes to saying goodbye. On April 17th, I wrote about our friends’ 55th wedding anniversary celebration: “We all knew he'd had a very rocky time with health issues this past winter. All the more reason to celebrate. At the end of the meal, I brought out the cake with lighted candles. We sang heartily and took pictures of what could be the last tribute.” And it was. Two weeks after I wrote that piece, not he but she received troubling blood work results, which led to a diagnosis of aggressive, stage 4 cancer. Though previously symptom-free, she soon became too weak to pursue treatment. She entered hospice and a few days later died at home surrounded by family. Two months, and she is gone from this earth. From Dietrich Bonhoeffer's Letters and Papers from Prison: "Nothing can make up for the absence of someone whom we love, and it would be wrong to try to find a substitute; we must simply hold out and see it through. That sounds very hard at first, but at the same time it is a great consolation, for the gap, as long as it remains unfilled, preserves the bonds between us. It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap; God does not fill it, but on the contrary, God keeps it empty and so helps us to keep alive our former communion with each other, even at the cost of pain." Today, I am grateful for the lack of closure, for emptiness and memory. Those blessings are the way we keep our dear ones with us.
I instinctually knew when the English voice on the telephone asked for my father, it was bad news. I called up to Dad working on the roof. Moments later, “Well kiddo, there's no easy way to say this. Ivor's dead.” I sat on the floor of the hallway, cradling our son in my arms and sobbing for while, but I knew I had to get to England and there wasn't much time. Our relationship had dissolved but Ivor always wore and looked after the plaited silver band I gave him as our “wedding ring.” I felt sure he'd want Joshua to have that. Telephone inquiries revealed that it was not in the envelope of his personal effects given to the family after finding his body. On our first visit to the funeral parlour, I saw it on his finger. They assured me that they would retrieve it for us but the morning of the funeral, at the final family viewing, it was still there. Rather casually, it was suggested that I “just take it off.” He and I were in a tiny private room. I warned him,”If your finger comes off in my hand, I will beat your dead corpse until it is unrecognisable,” and did the deed that would give me closure.
You can imagine the chagrin of my parents (both being in the “fashion business) when at 13 I eschewed their dress code. My uniform was left bank Parisian bohemian. My parents approached the stalemate in very different ways. “Making wrong” from my mother, and “let’s explore” from my father. “Never pay retail” from mom and quality and good design from my dad. I opted for my dad’s approach. We went shopping in upscale boutiques, leaving with dresses I loved. One day when searching for one to wear to a party I couldn’t find them. I asked my mother where they were. She informed me that she gave them to my aunt as she didn’t see me wearing them too often. I exploded, as this was not the first act of revenge on her part.
After my father died, my mother came to live with me during the last stages of her fight with cancer. I had just accepted a new position moving from the academic world where dress codes were lax, to President requiring a rethink of my wardrobe. I asked my mother to be my “fashionista” and help me choose from the many outfits I selected and modeled for her. The look of joy on her face to my request for her to share her wealth of experience was palpable. Finally, I brought some semblance of closure to our troubled relationship.
The closure was certain. Hammered home after the LAPD executed a long-anticipated, late-night raid on The Landing Party, an unlicensed after-hours dance rock club owned by my friends on 8th street, downtown Los Angeles. I was the resident DJ, shifts starting at 2am and ending around 7am. Usually just weekends, occasionally more. I also happened to be the supplier of the speakers and sound-system, equipment I had saved up to buy for use in this exact type of situation. The rebel in me, rewarded.
When the cops finally put an end to a successful two years of our underground dance parties, I was a bit relieved. The hours were starting to weigh on me, the late-night lifestyle. I wasn’t at the club when the raid went down so I avoided getting thrown in the slammer. My buddies spent an obligatory 48 hours in county before they were released to some stiff fines. I lost my system. It was the end of their foray into club ownership and the end of my late-night DJ days.
Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’ model of grief was in sequential stages, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Then it was recognized as more complicated, that you can keep spiraling through these various feelings over and over, eventually spiraling towards acceptance. In the online grief support group that I joined after my husband died, we talked about seeming to reach some kind of closure and then getting hit by a ‘grief quake’. I felt I only truly experienced closure around my first husband’s death when I fell in love with David, my husband of almost 20 years now. Maybe I was ready before we met. Maybe closure was there beneath the surface and I didn’t know it. Walking towards him that day on the ferry as he sang out the song City of New Orleans, piecing together the rhyming lines, as a cool breeze blew over us, smells of warm pretzels and beer, when we finally met in the in-person gathering of our online grief support group, I felt like I was dropping the last remnants of grief with each step, like the boat dropped the lines tying it to the shore, like I was finally walking into the sun again.
I told my brother I was going to see Dad in hospital, and he asked me to buy a particular book. My brother was half the world away, his visa uncertain, Covd in full-swing. I knew I had to get the book.
On the way to the hospital, we stopped at a supermarket, the only type of shop allowed to open during lockdown. It was a Bernard Cornwell book, so I thought it might be popular enough to be stocked there. I looked all over the book aisle but to no avail.
Just as I left the aisle, something forced me to go back. Without really knowing why, I had one more look on every shelf, and behind every title. I got down on my knees – and there it was. On the bottom shelf, so low I’d missed it before.
A few days after my visit, Dad finished the book. Three weeks later, he died. When I spoke to my brother about it, he said ‘That’s good, because it was the last book in the series. Me and Dad have been reading them for about ten years.”
I’m glad he found out what happened in the end.
In September 2021 I left my former job. I could no longer stand by and watch the perfidious power games and political manipulations. But in doing so, I left not only a job, but my team. People I considered my best friends that filled my everyday life with joy and meaning. Leaving was like a huge explosion.
After that, I fell into a very deep hole. My day started with tears rolling into my coffee cup. Crying, I got into the car, drove to my new job, took a deep breath, did my work, got back into the car and the tears started flowing again. For three months this went on. I was filled with hate and sadness. I could not close with the past.
I had even given up running at that time. Then I wrote to a good friend who was also part of my old team and told him how I was feeling. It was a desperate cry for help. He told me to write, which is my second great passion besides running. And I started writing, finally completing my "Metamorphoses" three months later. I have not yet published this work, my own metamorphosis still not 100% complete. The work is a mixture of the biography of David Bowie, music history, autobiography and philosophical themes. Perhaps my closure will be complete when the work is published?
Trying to recall a friend’s birthdate, I performed a “happy birthday” text search. A list of “happy birthday” wishes appeared, including one that I sent to my brother six years ago. I read that text as well as all subsequent texts with him.
Me: Happy Birthday! How are you celebrating?
Brother: Thank you. I don’t know what I’m doing today. It’s not bad out, but just waiting for the rain to stop.
I read the next day’s texts which detailed our meet-up time with friends at a club, and we exchanged some jokes.
The day after his celebration, I asked him to text me our photos. He sent five.
Me: You look so proud and happy to be out with me.
He didn’t respond. Not unusual, but I’m sure we talked about the laughs we had.
We weren’t just celebrating his birth, but also the successful kidney transplant he experienced just a couple of months prior.
A week later, I called and then texted him:
“Call me plz. I’m sending an ambulance for you if I don’t hear from you in 15 minutes.”
No response.
My brother had passed away. Sometimes you can’t get the closure you want. You get the memories you need.
All I have of him are three photographs and an email I won't open.
It's a meager collection of memories, whatever was on hand 12 summers ago. I imagine some plan their estrangements. Rehearse their speeches, pack a bag. I left like milk boils over: inevitably, all at once. After more years of abuse than I can remember, I was the cruel one.
I became unspeakable — unspeaking. My insecurities endeavored to fill the silence. I had to remind myself they always had.
I lived for five years within 10 blocks of my abuser (I didn't know until he'd moved). My parents and brothers were 40 minutes away. I wrapped myself in Midtown anonymity, but I still caught myself holding my breath to keep the spell.
Three days before my husband and I left the country, my brother emailed me. No subject. To be fair, I don't know how you introduce your first attempt to break a decade's silence. Or what you put inside that tiny box. Death announcements. Request for organs.
An apology for believing in neutral ground.
My husband forwarded it to himself, deleted the original from my inbox. Sometimes I almost hear its words, in the silence.