Playing Piano

I have been contemplating this post for some time now. Even after spending hours upon hours writing and rewriting it in my head, I still have no idea what the final product will be. I wrote not too long ago about one of my favorite quotes: "Life changes in the instant." Joan Didion wrote this in The Year of Magical Thinking, also one of my favorite books. I find it odd that I remember the exact moment when I read that line. It seems silly. You hear people say that sort of thing about the moment they received news of the terrorist attacks on 9/11, the Kennedy assassination, a close family member's untimely death, but not about reading a line from a book. When I read this line, it had nothing to do with Max; I first read The Year of Magical Thinking years before Max was even born. What I recognized in that line was something profound though, an idea so simple and obvious that it is easily overlooked, not often given words. Most experienced readers subconsciously skip over articles while reading, so why did my eyes focus on "the" in that sentence? Whatever the reason is, "the" is the most important part of that sentence. Life doesn't change in "an" instant; it changes in "the" instant. "An" is general; "the" is specific. Everyone has "an" instant; only you have "the" instant. To me, "an" instant is something we experience every day. It may change the course of your day, but not the course of your life. "The" instant is something so permanent, so soul gripping, so moving that it is impossible for it to not alter the course of your day and every day after. Life is never the same after "the" instant, and I guess that's what this post is all about.

When Joan Didion wrote about "the" instant, she was referring to her husband's sudden death, which she witnessed. When I write about "the" instant, it is pretty obvious that I am referring to Max's death. It's a universally held truth that the death of a child changes you, but it is not universally understood until you are the one doing the changing. I don't say that to sound elitist or dismissive of those who have not experienced the loss of a child. Not at all. I am surrounded by the most empathetic friends and family, but even they realize that they understand what it's like only to have a friend, daughter, cousin, or sister who has lost a child. Obviously, there was a time in my life when all of my children were alive, so I know what it is to not truly understand the changes that a parent undergoes after the loss of a child. I would imagine, I would empathize, and I would pity those parents of dead children, but I knew that I couldn't really understand. Even after losing Max, I didn't know the ways in which I would change. That's the nature of change, though. It's usually so gradual that you don't realize it's happened until it has, and then all you can do is look back and see it all happening so clearly. Humans rarely have clear foresight, but the clarity of hindsight is startling.

"The" instant that Joan Didion writes about can be distinguished from "an" instant in one other way: "an" instant might change the way you view someone or where you go for dinner, but "the" instant changes every single thing in your life. For me, Max's death changed everything:  the way I view life, how I define happiness, the people I surround myself with, the things I do in my free time, my hopes, dreams, even the way I decorate my house. His death changed my purpose in life, it changed how I interact with people, and how I treat myself. Simply put, "the" instant changed me. I know that seems obvious. How could it not change me? But we rarely stop to think of what it really means to change on a scale so grand that it encompasses every little thing that you thought you knew about yourself. I know that some of the changes that I have undergone haven't been pleasing to everyone, and I am sorry for that. I also know that my changes are not complete and never will be. I am struck now by the irony of my disdain for cliches and how appropriate they have seemed since Max's death. The cliche that runs through my head now is "change is the only constant in life." Don't worry, I'm not going to get it tattooed on my wrist. But even that could change...

As promised, this post turned into something I didn't see coming. It feels a little cleansing and a lot like I just completed a disjointed ramble. As I approach the two year anniversary of Max's death (June 10), I find it harder and harder to express my thoughts and emotions with words. That was originally the intended message behind this post--to say that I'm taking a little hiatus from blogging. Having completed this post though, I think even that has changed. Lori sent me this speech (below) earlier today, and it does a pretty good job of capturing what I feel lately. The metaphor is accurate and eloquently stated. The man who delivered this speech doesn't know what it's like to lose a child, but you wouldn't know it from his words. I am thankful everyday that I am surrounded with people who share his empathetic nature and desire to help me learn to play the piano rather than writing it off. You'll have to read the speech to understand that.

STEVEN KALAS:

When you lose a child, grieving is a lifelong experience.

When our first child is born, a loud voice says, “Runners, take your marks!” We hear the starting gun and the race begins. It’s a race we must win at all cost. We have to win. The competition is called “I’ll race you to the grave.” I’m currently racing three sons. I really want to win.

Not everyone wins.

I’m here at the national meeting of Compassionate Friends, an organization offering support and resources for parents who lose the race. I’m wandering the halls during the “break-out” sessions. In this room are parents whose children died in car accidents. Over there is a room full of parents of murdered children. Parents of cancer victims are at the end of the hall. Miscarriages and stillbirths are grouped together, as are parents who have survived a child’s suicide. And so it goes.

In a few minutes, I’m going to address Compassionate Friends. This is the toughest audience of my life. I mix with the gathering crowd, and a woman from Delaware glances at my name tag. Her name tag has a photo of her deceased son. My name tag is absent photos.

“So … you haven’t … lost anyone,” she says cautiously.

“My three sons are yet alive, if that’s what you’re asking me,” I say gently.

She tries to nod politely, but I can see that I’ve lost credibility in her eyes. She’s wondering who invited this speaker, and what on earth he could ever have to say to her.

My address is titled “The Myth of Getting Over It.” It’s my attempt to answer the driving questions of grieving parents: When will I get over this? How do I get over this?

You don’t get over it. Getting over it is an inappropriate goal. An unreasonable hope. The loss of a child changes you. It changes your marriage. It changes the way birds sing. It changes the way the sun rises and sets. You are forever different.

You don’t want to get over it. Don’t act surprised. As awful a burden as grief is, you know intuitively that it matters, that it is profoundly important to be grieving. Your grief plays a crucial part in staying connected to your child’s life. To give up your grief would mean losing your child yet again. If I had the power to take your grief away, you’d fight me to keep it. Your grief is awful, but it is also holy. And somewhere inside you, you know that.

The goal is not to get over it. The goal is to get on with it.

Profound grief is like being in a stage play wherein suddenly the stagehands push a huge grand piano into the middle of the set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates the stage. No matter where you move, it impedes your sight lines, your blocking, your ability to interact with the other players. You keep banging into it, surprised each time that it’s still there. It takes all your concentration to work around it, this at a time when you have little ability or desire to concentrate on anything.

The piano changes everything. The entire play must be rewritten around it.But over time the piano is pushed to stage left. Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright, and slowly, surely, you begin to find the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage it. Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.

You learn to play that piano. You’re surprised to find that you want to play, that it’s meaningful, even peaceful to play it. At first your songs are filled with pain, bitterness, even despair. But later you find your songs contain beauty, peace, a greater capacity for love and compassion. You and grief — together — begin to compose hope. Who’da thought?

Your grief becomes an intimate treasure, though the spaces between the grief lengthen. You no longer need to play the piano every day, or even every month. But later, when you’re 84, staring out your kitchen window on a random Tuesday morning, you welcome the sigh, the tears, the wistful pain that moves through your heart and reminds you that your child’s life mattered.

You wipe the dust off the piano and sit down to play.

Copyright: Las Vegas Review-Journal