When it comes to discussing grief, it seems there in infinite space to occupy. However, I am retiring this site. Due to the finite number of responses I have received from the internet community, there seems very little to work with; the grief that sparked this site has seemed to subside, else transform to something entirely. Perhaps I have ascended the staircase.
There comes a time when loss dims and the most natural action is to move forward, Self, life, death. Those are big words. Words the immensity of which, for centuries, people have followed with question marks and beliefs systems. I like those words: self, life, death. I am at peace with them.
At the time of this post I am easily contacted. If you have questions or comments, do not hesitate to try and email me. The contact information is current at present. The future holds much in store, but for now, for me, grief is not in stockroom. I hope that you, too, will be able to place your lost loved ones on an honored shelf in your memory and move forward with all that surrounds you.
All the Best,
Samantha A. Mairson
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Saturday, October 22, 2011
MISSING MY COUSIN
Well, what the hell. Thanksgiving is creeping up on me, as any sad anniversary is wont to do. The twisted part is that, with holidays like Thanksgiving, there is so much to look forward to. My friends and family will gather. I am in North Carolina. 3/4 of the people I love most are in Connecticut. The gap between us will be bridged and turkey will be eaten.
College is awesome, a beautiful experience and opportunity. No complaints. I am enjoying my absurdly expensive liberal arts education. I am squeezing every opportunity and learning experience that I can from it. I am getting my money's worth.
But enough about me. This is about Katie. I haven't written a post in a while, which is a bummer because I know people are out their grieving and feeling bummed, and I have no way to talk to them. I hope someone is there to tell them it will be okay. Someone there to help them taste the turkey, appreciate the cranberry sauce, and teach them to appreciate the love and family and whatever is there, around them, to be thankful for it. If it's a dog, a TV, a stripper, I don't care. I just hope they find that something to take comfort in, be grateful for.
I miss her, you know? It's really a very simple emotion to babble about. I miss her. And she died on a day when you are supposed to have an uninhibited and well-spoken appreciation for the family, love, things that surround you. There is so much I am thankful for. My mom is driving down from Connecticut and she's bringing my best friends, Sami and Megan, with her, My brother is driving to my school to pick me up and then we are all reuniting at my grandmother's house. The very house where I was last year - on the back porch - when my father called and told my mom that Katie was gone.
I cling to her memory. It's simple really. She's in a lot of things. We got matching necklaces in a seaside shop in Florida. I have mine. It's difficult to wear, to match with clothing, a combination of the two. I've seen a picture of her wearing it. I wonder where her necklace ended up. I have mine, and when I wear it, I don't go an hour without thinking about her. That's how it is with my aunt, I know. She doesn't have to wear a necklace. Katie, at least the thought and memory, is always with her. I can't speak much on how she escapes or embraces that.
When you love someone, these are the terms and conditions of the agreement. You love and fight with and experience everything they are. They are a part of your life. It is fragile. You enter into the agreement, knowing full well that one day, one of you will lose the other. You take a holiday to appreciate that fragility. A holiday to embrace and appreciate the love you receive. Thanksgiving is coming. What am I thankful for? A lot of things. I am grateful for Katie's life. The time we did share.
She was the one I looked up to. The older I grew, the more her pedestal crumbled. She was human like the rest of us. But I did not love her less. Her imperfections became like the poetry she wrote. How much can I divulge? How can I tell you the world she showed me, and made sense of for me. Can I list, poetically perhaps, the details and images running through my head? That is grief. Sometimes you are left to assemble, piece together the beautiful things. My aunt, Katie's aunt too, got a tattoo in Katie's honor. It's on her shoulder I believe. There are two dates. There is the image of a bird I think. The dates are, of course, birth and death dates. It's the dash in between that I care most about. It's the small dash in time that she belonged in my world, the time she lived, existed, a tangible, beautiful part of my life, my family tree.
She taught me the art of understanding dysfunctional families. Loving a dog, writing, the sweet smell of rebellion in a teenager's car. She taught me about going somewhere and nowhere at the same time. She taught me about my brother, about forgiveness, about the movie thirteen. She taught me about the beach, about mistakes, about the pool and partying and the slippery slope of youth in an uncertain haze. She taught me about yes, no, and she introduced me to the art of decision making, of inclination. She taught me to think creatively and sarcasm. Though the latter two contributions were joint efforts, courtesy of a number of people in my life. But her contribution was large and during my formative years. She would always play games with me, always a playmate and a teacher and a cousin all the same. She was beautiful, so beautiful, I looked at her face as she grew, and I loved it. I loved what she stood for, how she looked. I would try to adopt her expressions, learn her words. She taught me the difference between good, better, and best. I remember it well. She taught me about dumb, dumber, and dumbest. She taught me superlatives. Literally. I remember the lesson well, it's so strange how a memory functions - it was a summer day and we were loitering about the back yard, playing pretend games, concocting imaginary scenarios and daydreams, picking flowers and making fun of each other, of the family, contemplating dinner and mario party and soap collections. She said, "No Sammy, there's a difference. Dumb is just dumb. But dumber is worse, another level. Then there's dumbest, that's the biggest dumb of all."
"So you can be dumb, I'll be dumber, and Zack can be dumbest?"
She erupted in laughter, that twisted, old soul, knowing kind of laughter. My god, she had a laugh. I mean some people laugh, but she laughed. She was my life in the summertime.
I dread the thought that I will never see a summer exactly like those, but my mind brightens at the thought that I am an imperfect creature, that I could be wrong.
Perhaps my children will have days like that, with my nieces and nephews. Nieces and nephews that don't exist yet. But I have two sisters, a brother, and three best girlfriends who are sisters to me just the same. We will come together, perhaps in the summertime, and our days with be filled with that same childlike sunshine, that happiness. And we will learn from eachother and laugh, and I will tell the story of my summers, of my Katie, and in that way - what is death? But a hiccup of perception. My memories can outlast death if I give those memories time and space and presence.
The presence, for now, is here. Occupying a small corner of an seemingly infinite web. It is enough for me, perfectly enough. And in this way, grief is a dumb shadow of the best artistic creation. Life, of course.
College is awesome, a beautiful experience and opportunity. No complaints. I am enjoying my absurdly expensive liberal arts education. I am squeezing every opportunity and learning experience that I can from it. I am getting my money's worth.
But enough about me. This is about Katie. I haven't written a post in a while, which is a bummer because I know people are out their grieving and feeling bummed, and I have no way to talk to them. I hope someone is there to tell them it will be okay. Someone there to help them taste the turkey, appreciate the cranberry sauce, and teach them to appreciate the love and family and whatever is there, around them, to be thankful for it. If it's a dog, a TV, a stripper, I don't care. I just hope they find that something to take comfort in, be grateful for.
I miss her, you know? It's really a very simple emotion to babble about. I miss her. And she died on a day when you are supposed to have an uninhibited and well-spoken appreciation for the family, love, things that surround you. There is so much I am thankful for. My mom is driving down from Connecticut and she's bringing my best friends, Sami and Megan, with her, My brother is driving to my school to pick me up and then we are all reuniting at my grandmother's house. The very house where I was last year - on the back porch - when my father called and told my mom that Katie was gone.
I cling to her memory. It's simple really. She's in a lot of things. We got matching necklaces in a seaside shop in Florida. I have mine. It's difficult to wear, to match with clothing, a combination of the two. I've seen a picture of her wearing it. I wonder where her necklace ended up. I have mine, and when I wear it, I don't go an hour without thinking about her. That's how it is with my aunt, I know. She doesn't have to wear a necklace. Katie, at least the thought and memory, is always with her. I can't speak much on how she escapes or embraces that.
When you love someone, these are the terms and conditions of the agreement. You love and fight with and experience everything they are. They are a part of your life. It is fragile. You enter into the agreement, knowing full well that one day, one of you will lose the other. You take a holiday to appreciate that fragility. A holiday to embrace and appreciate the love you receive. Thanksgiving is coming. What am I thankful for? A lot of things. I am grateful for Katie's life. The time we did share.
She was the one I looked up to. The older I grew, the more her pedestal crumbled. She was human like the rest of us. But I did not love her less. Her imperfections became like the poetry she wrote. How much can I divulge? How can I tell you the world she showed me, and made sense of for me. Can I list, poetically perhaps, the details and images running through my head? That is grief. Sometimes you are left to assemble, piece together the beautiful things. My aunt, Katie's aunt too, got a tattoo in Katie's honor. It's on her shoulder I believe. There are two dates. There is the image of a bird I think. The dates are, of course, birth and death dates. It's the dash in between that I care most about. It's the small dash in time that she belonged in my world, the time she lived, existed, a tangible, beautiful part of my life, my family tree.
She taught me the art of understanding dysfunctional families. Loving a dog, writing, the sweet smell of rebellion in a teenager's car. She taught me about going somewhere and nowhere at the same time. She taught me about my brother, about forgiveness, about the movie thirteen. She taught me about the beach, about mistakes, about the pool and partying and the slippery slope of youth in an uncertain haze. She taught me about yes, no, and she introduced me to the art of decision making, of inclination. She taught me to think creatively and sarcasm. Though the latter two contributions were joint efforts, courtesy of a number of people in my life. But her contribution was large and during my formative years. She would always play games with me, always a playmate and a teacher and a cousin all the same. She was beautiful, so beautiful, I looked at her face as she grew, and I loved it. I loved what she stood for, how she looked. I would try to adopt her expressions, learn her words. She taught me the difference between good, better, and best. I remember it well. She taught me about dumb, dumber, and dumbest. She taught me superlatives. Literally. I remember the lesson well, it's so strange how a memory functions - it was a summer day and we were loitering about the back yard, playing pretend games, concocting imaginary scenarios and daydreams, picking flowers and making fun of each other, of the family, contemplating dinner and mario party and soap collections. She said, "No Sammy, there's a difference. Dumb is just dumb. But dumber is worse, another level. Then there's dumbest, that's the biggest dumb of all."
"So you can be dumb, I'll be dumber, and Zack can be dumbest?"
She erupted in laughter, that twisted, old soul, knowing kind of laughter. My god, she had a laugh. I mean some people laugh, but she laughed. She was my life in the summertime.
I dread the thought that I will never see a summer exactly like those, but my mind brightens at the thought that I am an imperfect creature, that I could be wrong.
Perhaps my children will have days like that, with my nieces and nephews. Nieces and nephews that don't exist yet. But I have two sisters, a brother, and three best girlfriends who are sisters to me just the same. We will come together, perhaps in the summertime, and our days with be filled with that same childlike sunshine, that happiness. And we will learn from eachother and laugh, and I will tell the story of my summers, of my Katie, and in that way - what is death? But a hiccup of perception. My memories can outlast death if I give those memories time and space and presence.
The presence, for now, is here. Occupying a small corner of an seemingly infinite web. It is enough for me, perfectly enough. And in this way, grief is a dumb shadow of the best artistic creation. Life, of course.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
A Prayer for Sarah
Stories live and die, that is their nature. The magic begins with one word and ends with one word. Everything that unfolds between those two words is a gift. Then there are really good stories. They keep you company long after you've met the final word.
Listen closely. Her name is Sarah. This is her story and the story of her mother.
"My mother was born in Gary, IN on November 22, 1923. She had 7 children. 4 girls and & 2 boys. She had me when she was 40 years old. She ended up having a miscarriage between my brother & I. We had prayer together as a family when I was a child. Whenever I was sick she always prayed for me. Even though we had our problems, she loved me unconditionally. Right before she died, she told me she loved me. Mom I want you to know that I love & miss you so much."
Lucy Anne Hurston, an author, spoke at my graduation. She conveyed something about death and something greater about life. She told us that there would be one important mark on our gravestone. Sandwiched between two dates, there would be a dash -
For all of us, there is a dash. That tiny dash represents all that we accomplished, all the lives we were able to touch, all the difficulties we faced, and with any luck, all the difficulties we overcame.
Sarah, your mother's dash is a beautiful one. I know this from the way you write about her. It seems she truly impacted your life. I said that really good stories keep you company long after you've met the final word, and I find this to be true for people as well. We may lose the ones we love, but our memories of them - of how they affected us - we never lose that.
The beauty of unconditional love is that, no matter the circumstances, your mother's love is still there to comfort you. You just have to remember her love, that she would want you to be okay. You can lose a person but I don't think you can lose love like that. I write this post in honor of your mother.
Sarah, these words are my prayer.
It may not be perfect, but I find that the best prayers rarely are. I hope my words find you and I hope you find strength in them. And when you find your strength, be sure to fill your dash with something incredible -
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Funeral
Then:
I decided and with that decision, I missed the flight. I missed a philosophical conversation with my two hour flight companion. I missed arriving in the airport and shuffling my feet through the terminal thinking, Is this really happening? What am I going to miss in school? Jesus, why am I here for this? I missed the long overdue family reunion, where everyone put the arguments behind them, if only to recognize death. I missed the dinner table conversations, my self-medicated relatives, and the retold stories of days long gone. I missed the tears, my speechless grandfather, and the numbness of a silent room. I missed my brother throwing a shot of jack into the ocean. I missed the black dresses, the savory food, the exploration of my aunt's apartment. But more, much more than that, I missed my cousin. My young, beautiful, witty, darkly sarcastic and bluntly outspoken Katie. I missed my cousin's funeral.
Now:
I sit on the edge of the wooden, honey color chair. I turn on the computer and I google search "The Funeral". Google returns lyrics to a song I've never heard. I add the word "Customs" to "The Funeral" and refine my search. I can't think of anyone to ask, so I am asking Google. Google doesn't mind if I'm dwelling on a decision that I already made. So I simply type in: "Should I have gone to my cousin's funeral?" Then it hits me. Dammit. I'm google-searching whether or not I should have attended my cousin's funeral. There is a rusty element to this realization that tastes something like regret. If I'm still thinking about whether I should have gone, I may have my answer.
A dictionary excerpt:
clo·sure
We saw each other in gap-time. She would come north for a visit every summer when we were kids. Then she would go home and there would be that huge annual gap of time before I saw her again. As we got older, and our relatives crazier, she came less.
The gap time would be indefinite now. Or... perhaps we are simply distant family now, living lives and forgetting to keep in touch. But believing that, convincing myself of that, is not simple. The truth is that she is gone. But still my mind still stands divided. "She's gone," says part of me, meanwhile the other protests, "No, dummy, you just haven't seen her in a long time." The term 'closure' has crossed my mind. But I think that, even if I had attended the funeral, there would still be that prevalent part of me begging to believe that she is just on extended vacation.
That internal battle does not alter my vibrant memories of her and our summers together. When I was growing up, she was my idol. She was spunky and fearless. She was beautiful. It is strange to grow up, to watch your idol slim and slip. Youth is coated in a simplicity that wears away with age. I always admired her, but as my naivety shrank, so did the pedestal where I placed her.
I am qualified to give you my unadulterated opinion and google search results, but I do not promise valid philosophical or psychological advice. I am not writing a book on how to grieve, I have not devised an effective excuse for avoiding funerals, and I am uncertain about much of this living and dying hoopla.
Perhaps I should have googled when I had to decide whether I was getting on a plane to Florida. Whether I was attending my cousin's funeral. If I knew then what I know now:
Burial customs are as old as human civilization. Regardless of race, culture, or era, customs exist to honor the dead and say goodbye. People have been attending funerals for centuries, millenniums even. I am one girl who has come to the realization that you should go to the funeral. If nothing else, go to celebrate the life that once was with the people who still are.
And so, Katie, I hold this cyber funeral for you. Know that I loved you and that I write this ridiculous blog in your honor. Know that in my heart, I was there to say goodbye, and so long as my memory does not deceive me (with Alzheimer's or some crap like that) I will always remember you.
We all grieve differently. Do not be afraid to say goodbye in whatever way, whatever time is right for you.
I decided and with that decision, I missed the flight. I missed a philosophical conversation with my two hour flight companion. I missed arriving in the airport and shuffling my feet through the terminal thinking, Is this really happening? What am I going to miss in school? Jesus, why am I here for this? I missed the long overdue family reunion, where everyone put the arguments behind them, if only to recognize death. I missed the dinner table conversations, my self-medicated relatives, and the retold stories of days long gone. I missed the tears, my speechless grandfather, and the numbness of a silent room. I missed my brother throwing a shot of jack into the ocean. I missed the black dresses, the savory food, the exploration of my aunt's apartment. But more, much more than that, I missed my cousin. My young, beautiful, witty, darkly sarcastic and bluntly outspoken Katie. I missed my cousin's funeral.
Now:
I sit on the edge of the wooden, honey color chair. I turn on the computer and I google search "The Funeral". Google returns lyrics to a song I've never heard. I add the word "Customs" to "The Funeral" and refine my search. I can't think of anyone to ask, so I am asking Google. Google doesn't mind if I'm dwelling on a decision that I already made. So I simply type in: "Should I have gone to my cousin's funeral?" Then it hits me. Dammit. I'm google-searching whether or not I should have attended my cousin's funeral. There is a rusty element to this realization that tastes something like regret. If I'm still thinking about whether I should have gone, I may have my answer.
A dictionary excerpt:
clo·sure
noun /ˈklōZHər/
closures, plural
closures, plural
- An act or process of closing something, esp. an institution, thoroughfare, or frontier, or of being closed
- - road closures
- - hospitals that face closure
- A thing that closes or seals something, such as a cap or zipper
- A resolution or conclusion to a work or process
- - he brings modernistic closure to his narrative
We saw each other in gap-time. She would come north for a visit every summer when we were kids. Then she would go home and there would be that huge annual gap of time before I saw her again. As we got older, and our relatives crazier, she came less.
The gap time would be indefinite now. Or... perhaps we are simply distant family now, living lives and forgetting to keep in touch. But believing that, convincing myself of that, is not simple. The truth is that she is gone. But still my mind still stands divided. "She's gone," says part of me, meanwhile the other protests, "No, dummy, you just haven't seen her in a long time." The term 'closure' has crossed my mind. But I think that, even if I had attended the funeral, there would still be that prevalent part of me begging to believe that she is just on extended vacation.
That internal battle does not alter my vibrant memories of her and our summers together. When I was growing up, she was my idol. She was spunky and fearless. She was beautiful. It is strange to grow up, to watch your idol slim and slip. Youth is coated in a simplicity that wears away with age. I always admired her, but as my naivety shrank, so did the pedestal where I placed her.
I am qualified to give you my unadulterated opinion and google search results, but I do not promise valid philosophical or psychological advice. I am not writing a book on how to grieve, I have not devised an effective excuse for avoiding funerals, and I am uncertain about much of this living and dying hoopla.
Perhaps I should have googled when I had to decide whether I was getting on a plane to Florida. Whether I was attending my cousin's funeral. If I knew then what I know now:
Burial customs are as old as human civilization. Regardless of race, culture, or era, customs exist to honor the dead and say goodbye. People have been attending funerals for centuries, millenniums even. I am one girl who has come to the realization that you should go to the funeral. If nothing else, go to celebrate the life that once was with the people who still are.
And so, Katie, I hold this cyber funeral for you. Know that I loved you and that I write this ridiculous blog in your honor. Know that in my heart, I was there to say goodbye, and so long as my memory does not deceive me (with Alzheimer's or some crap like that) I will always remember you.
We all grieve differently. Do not be afraid to say goodbye in whatever way, whatever time is right for you.
Monday, May 30, 2011
In Memorium
"Music speaks what cannot be expressed, soothes the mind and gives it rest, heals the heart and makes it whole, flows from heaven to the soul."
Friday, May 27, 2011
Memorial Day
Let the memorial day festivities begin.
The air is thick with the scent of hamburgers, hot dogs, and barbequed goodness. A fresh bottle of beer cracks in the distance. Open your eyes. Look around quickly. You are surrounded by family, friends. You are surrounded by red, white, and blue. You smile. You've got the freedom to eat five of those burgers. You've got the liberty to get up and dance when they blare patriotic music. You've got every right to be happy - just remember who fought for your happiness.
Memorial Day is about celebrating the soldiers who have bravely fought for our freedom, liberty, and happiness - the soldiers who lost their lives defending our country.
I write this post in honor of all the soldiers who have sacrificed their lives. I write this post to honor the families who grieve their loss. I write this post because I do not understand war, death, and mankind - but I do understand gratitude. And I am grateful for my soldiers.
I encourage my readers to write a comment (in the comments section) and thank a soldier that you know or remember - a lost soldier or a soldier still fighting. I encourage my readers to take a big bite out of that cheesy burger (or veggie burger), but while chowing down, take a moment to remember the soldiers who lost their lives. I'm starting to realize that grief and loss are nearly impossible to avoid. Grief and loss are difficult to overcome. But the best antidote is remembrance. If we remember the lives of the ones we've lost, then they are never really gone. There are lessons to be learned in every loss we suffer.
A young girl dies from a drug overdose, in bad company and a bad state of mind. She didn't know how loved she was. She was a poet, a word smith, a frequent user of sarcasm. She had a painfully crystalline view of the world that she should have exploited that view as an artist and writer, but instead she clouded her mind with drugs. Her life will never be forgotten by the people who loved her. And her death was honored when every member of her family signed a petition to ban OxyCotin.
A young boy, with an unfaltering smile on his face and always a guitar in his hand, dies after a suicide attempt. The school becomes a morgue, a place that houses his memory, feels his loss, and holds all the love that the young boy didn't know he had. But his loss will not be forgotten. His music and the joy it brought will remain. I will remember the way that young boy smiled and someday, when I have kids, I will teach them to smile. I will teach them that they are loved and I will tell them to never feel alone... even in the darkest moments. And when I do this, I will tell them about that young boy and he will be remembered.
A soldier dies in a combat mission, in the heat, sand, and foreign soil of the Middle East. His life will never be forgotten by the people who loved him. His sacrifice will never be forgotten by the country that needed him.
That soldiers falls and I have one more reason to appreciate my freedom...
...one more reason to pause and think on Memorial Day.
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