Is it possible that by posting these images of L here, they might reach Alice? I have to try. Alice would be so proud of her niece today.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Funeral tomorrow
I can't sleep; the mother of a dear friend of mine passed away this weekend. She literally died in her sleep, she just didn't wake up on Saturday morning. How beautiful is that? She was in her 80s.
Again, this is a death with which I can be at peace. A long life, punctuated by many happy milestones. Most recently, in October, she attended the wedding of her granddaughter. That's a big deal.
Tomorrow I will go to her funeral, which will include her burial, and I haven't been to once since Alice's. I think I will cry through the whole thing, at the injustice of death, and out of missing Alice. The difference between the funerals, though, is that it is supposed to be in the 30s here tomorrow. On the day of Alice's funeral in Southern California, it was naturally in the high 70s.
I write here to alleviate the heaviness in my heart. Does it work? At least I feel I can get to sleep now, maybe, having written these thoughts that sometimes keep me awake.
Again, this is a death with which I can be at peace. A long life, punctuated by many happy milestones. Most recently, in October, she attended the wedding of her granddaughter. That's a big deal.
Tomorrow I will go to her funeral, which will include her burial, and I haven't been to once since Alice's. I think I will cry through the whole thing, at the injustice of death, and out of missing Alice. The difference between the funerals, though, is that it is supposed to be in the 30s here tomorrow. On the day of Alice's funeral in Southern California, it was naturally in the high 70s.
I write here to alleviate the heaviness in my heart. Does it work? At least I feel I can get to sleep now, maybe, having written these thoughts that sometimes keep me awake.
Still dreaming
I still dream of Alice, and it's like creating a new life with her. The other night I dreamt that she had dyed [I just changed the f`cked up spelling from 'died'] her hair platinum and it was cute. There's always this feeling in my dreams that her presence is temporary, and I must take full advantage of it. So I was free to tell her how gorgeous she looked, something I rarely, if ever, told her in real life. I was scared to get too close, or to touch-off something about her own self-regard. In my dreams, it feels really good to express myself unconditionally.
It's been a long time since I've written, I know. It's like Michelle Williams said (below), my feelings about Alice and her death are always changing, and while I have worked to capture as many of them as possible here, sometimes they come and go so quickly, I can't latch onto them.
The yearning I feel to be with Alice is still so strong, I'm grateful that it manifests itself in my dreams. My mom has told me in the recent past, in tears, that she hasn't been dreaming of Alice. She holds Alice so close to her heart, it's as if Alice can't flutter into the farther-away land of my mother's dreams. In mine, for now, she is vibrant, and smiling, and moving quickly.
God damn it.
This pain, not these dreams.
It's been a long time since I've written, I know. It's like Michelle Williams said (below), my feelings about Alice and her death are always changing, and while I have worked to capture as many of them as possible here, sometimes they come and go so quickly, I can't latch onto them.
The yearning I feel to be with Alice is still so strong, I'm grateful that it manifests itself in my dreams. My mom has told me in the recent past, in tears, that she hasn't been dreaming of Alice. She holds Alice so close to her heart, it's as if Alice can't flutter into the farther-away land of my mother's dreams. In mine, for now, she is vibrant, and smiling, and moving quickly.
God damn it.
This pain, not these dreams.
Words from a celebrity
The actor Michelle Williams, who was divorced from Heath Ledger, recently was interviewed by Newsweek magazine. She spoke of losing Heath, and it resonates with me. His death was also completely unexpected and premature, and I suspect her relationship with him was also intense, and hot and cold. Her words capture many elements of my experience.
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From Newsweek:
Williams is jovial and chatty, until the conversation turns to Heath. You can see it's still difficult for her to talk about him, and she hasn't done so publicly until now. The first time Ledger's name comes up, she bursts into tears. "It's so sad," Williams says. When she's asked about how she's been doing in the past year, she's silent for a very long time. "I guess it's always changing," she says. There's another pause. "What else can I say?" Her voice is breathy and fragile, and she takes a few gulps of air. "I just wake up each day in a slightly different place—grief is like a moving river, so that's what I mean by 'it's always changing'." She stops again. "It's a strange thing to say"—her words unravel slowly, her eyes tear up—"because I'm at heart an optimistic person, but I would say in some ways it just gets worse. It's just that the more time that passes, the more you miss someone. In some ways it gets worse. That's what I would say."
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It's heartening, in a f`cked-up way, to feel someone else's grief mirror some of my own.
-----
From Newsweek:
Williams is jovial and chatty, until the conversation turns to Heath. You can see it's still difficult for her to talk about him, and she hasn't done so publicly until now. The first time Ledger's name comes up, she bursts into tears. "It's so sad," Williams says. When she's asked about how she's been doing in the past year, she's silent for a very long time. "I guess it's always changing," she says. There's another pause. "What else can I say?" Her voice is breathy and fragile, and she takes a few gulps of air. "I just wake up each day in a slightly different place—grief is like a moving river, so that's what I mean by 'it's always changing'." She stops again. "It's a strange thing to say"—her words unravel slowly, her eyes tear up—"because I'm at heart an optimistic person, but I would say in some ways it just gets worse. It's just that the more time that passes, the more you miss someone. In some ways it gets worse. That's what I would say."
-----
It's heartening, in a f`cked-up way, to feel someone else's grief mirror some of my own.
My friend Davis Platt
Davis Platt was one of the first friends I made when I moved to New York in 1996. We met at a general membership meeting for the Identity House, a community peer counseling center. I was flattered when he asked one of the facilitators who I was, as a sort of fresh-faced new member. He was 73 at the time, and we immediately became friends. He knew alot about life and the city, and I was eager to know more about both.
On October 10 I received a message from his nephew, and immediately thought "oh, sh`t." When I returned his phone call, I learned that what I dreaded was true: David had died. He'd had hip replacement surgery back in May, and late on October 2nd, he got up from bed and fell. He broke his fall by hitting his chest against the corner of a table, and punctured his lung and fractured a couple of ribs. Yes, he called 911 and they responded immediately. The following day he was in good spirits at the hospital, and then in the afternoon, his heart failed.
The term "passed away" fits here; we can fairly say "Davis passed away." On his dying day, he was 85 and went rather painlessly. I can't say the same about Alice.
I didn't know that death could feel OK, that it could feel like part of the order of the world. Hearing of Davis's passing, I felt shocked, I felt sad, I also felt at peace. He had lived a long life and experienced a significant amount of what life had to offer. Alice also experienced what life had to offer, only less than someone who reached 85 years. It still feels like Alice was torn from this world, and I believe I will never feel that way about Davis's departure.
At his memorial service, I spoke without tears of my gratitude for his work in the civil rights movement. How his efforts contributed to the existence of my family today. It was for the public to hear, it felt final, and afterwards I was relieved.
Relief is a feeling that just isn't part of my relationship with Alice today. I suppose it never was.
On October 10 I received a message from his nephew, and immediately thought "oh, sh`t." When I returned his phone call, I learned that what I dreaded was true: David had died. He'd had hip replacement surgery back in May, and late on October 2nd, he got up from bed and fell. He broke his fall by hitting his chest against the corner of a table, and punctured his lung and fractured a couple of ribs. Yes, he called 911 and they responded immediately. The following day he was in good spirits at the hospital, and then in the afternoon, his heart failed.
The term "passed away" fits here; we can fairly say "Davis passed away." On his dying day, he was 85 and went rather painlessly. I can't say the same about Alice.
I didn't know that death could feel OK, that it could feel like part of the order of the world. Hearing of Davis's passing, I felt shocked, I felt sad, I also felt at peace. He had lived a long life and experienced a significant amount of what life had to offer. Alice also experienced what life had to offer, only less than someone who reached 85 years. It still feels like Alice was torn from this world, and I believe I will never feel that way about Davis's departure.
At his memorial service, I spoke without tears of my gratitude for his work in the civil rights movement. How his efforts contributed to the existence of my family today. It was for the public to hear, it felt final, and afterwards I was relieved.
Relief is a feeling that just isn't part of my relationship with Alice today. I suppose it never was.
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