Tag: alice in authorland

It was 1989, the year I married for the first time, my brother died and I met Kevin Lentz. It’s hard to wrap my head around the 25-plus years we knew each other. Back then, we worked together and competed as salespeople selling Encyclopedia Britannica. (They were books.)

Kevin got promoted to be my manager. I was like, “Oh, hell no!” At the time, I held loyalty to the on-his-way-out (criminal) manager.

I was 25. I threatened to quit because they were firing my “friend.” Kevin pointed to all the sets of books missing from the storage cages. He was direct and correct. I was wrong, blind and defensive. Kevin wasn’t deterred.

He said, “Look Alice, the guy’s a thief. I mean, what do you think happened to all those books? Why would you let what he did change what you’re doing?”

So, I didn’t quit. I stayed for as long as I could. Not because of Kevin. Hell, Kevin came and cooked lobster on the grill for my husband & I. He knew how to win me over as a friend and respect me as a salesperson.

That kind of sales manager is rare. The same is true of a good husband, but that didn’t stop me from leaving a couple in my wake.

When that first husband said no, he would not help me leave him, Kevin loaded boxes into my 5×8 U-Haul trailer and hooked it up to my little black Honda CRX for me to drive away.

It was 1990, the year I drove away from that office and that husband, but not out of Kevin’s life. Thank God.

I try to minimize, but music plays and reminds me I tasted the kind love love songs are written about. Extraordinary. Enchanting. Nourishing. Natural. Kevin and I found each other and our hearts forged a pact. Two lifetimes of intention culminated into reality.

Now, he’s dead. He’s been dead three months, so I’m assuming there’s no return like characters on General Hospital, though I still hope. So, put me in the crazy bin!

If I’m smiling, I must be doing something right. I need to find the funny where I can and hold his love while gripped by grief.

So, I replay the weekend in May of 2014 when we turned our decades-long friendship into crazy, sexy, cool us. It’s weird to think if Kevin would’ve died any time before that, I would’ve lost a good friend. I would’ve cried when I heard the news or read it on Facebook.

I suspect it would’ve been similar to when my friend June died. I called to wish her belated Merry Christmas or Happy New Year. Her brother answered her phone and told me. Heart attack—I forgot about that. I remember I felt the loss of my friend.

June was the one I called when my mom was diagnosed with cancer. June told me about the stages of grief and the book On Death and Dying by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross.

I said, “Thanks, June, but my mom’s not dying.” Those are words you don’t make somebody eat when they’re proven wrong, as I was four months later.

June introduced me to books like that one I never read, Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, and Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s Gifts from The Sea. They sit on my shelf next to me and I haven’t thought of either in years. Or my friend June who died too soon, in her 50s, from a heart attack, like Kevin.

June’s death hurt, but it didn’t throw me into a pit of sadness like Kevin’s. This is a different kind of loss than losing my brother in my 20s or my mom—still in my 20s. They were part of my given foundation.

This grief is also different from what my sister endured a few years back when her husband of 33 years died. Jayne’s husband, marriage and family were her foundation. She didn’t just lose the love of her life; her everything crumbled. She could barely stand.

We’re told not to compare grief. I don’t do it to say I have it easier or harder; that’s impossible to know and completely unhelpful. Grief is grief. Comparing helps me understand the juxtaposition of uniqueness and universality.

 Here’s what I know. Grief hits. It hits hard, like Ali. It will knock you on your ass. Just when you think you’ve taken all you can, there will be more. It may or may not be commensurate to the quality of your connection with the deceased.

However, in this case, with Kevin, it seems it is. I suffer now because of the walls we abolished and the masks we trashed. Because we journeyed beyond where either of us ever experienced, it’s hard to come back alone.

My stepmom (poor thing being in my blog twice now) said, “As much as I love talking, I just don’t have the words.”

Thank you. For saying that. Because those are all the words I need from you right now—as much as I love you.

There’s going to come a day (I suspect my father will go first, though I do NOT wish this upon you) you’ll have your own experience of losing THE MAN you found to be YOUR FAVORITE after trying too many others.

Until then, enjoy the fact that your life is full—if only in the center compartment. It’s weird how that can be true, and how at the same time, mine is empty.

I think I’m beginning to get the joke of life. Or, that it is a joke.

We keep trying to figure out the rules. There are none.

And, like when you tried to teach my brother Bill the card game Canasta, it feels like the rules are being made up as you go. Remember him screaming, “You didn’t tell me about the red threes!”?

But, it’s worse. It’s like the time Bill and I convinced your son John to cheat. We were all going to cheat against you, but Bill went out quick and John got stuck with too many cards counting against him. He was so mad! I used to laugh at his temper tantrums.

I’m throwing mine now. I tried to learn the game. I tried to cheat. I lost too many times. Finally, I thought I was winning, but it was GAME OVER.

I didn’t do anything wrong! Neither did Kevin. We loved. Then, he died.

Now, I’m at a loss. I’m on my knees. It’s good, since I’ve found yoga to be a more suitable sport after all those years of running.

Ease and effort. Leaning in and letting go.

Kind of like how you’ve been caring for me in my grief. Even without words, I feel your love.

THANK YOU, Mary Jo.

I feel you, Grief, trying to take hold of every cell in my body, whispering obscenities into my very being. I’d say how dare you, but I know you dare—boldly, like a bulldozer. Grief, you can be a bully!

I remember when you and I were on the playground before. You beat my ass! I was alone, or at least I felt alone. I used my phone-a-friend to call out to God and by grace, I got back up.

Hey, Grief—God’s still here. Funny thing, He loves even you, in all your troublesome, not to mention embarrassing, ways. God loves you like he loves bratty children and snotty old ladies—or snotty children and bratty old ladies.

Anyhow, in my 50s, I have more confidence in life and my ability to live it, knowing my passed-on loved ones live on. I have faith in God, which now involves more daily conversations and fewer emergency calls. My calls are answered in divine ways I don’t understand, but have come to recognize.

I also believe in the woo-woo stuff of angels and find evidence that works for me. Can’t you see God, love, and angels have my back when it comes to you, Grief? I’m not afraid of you anymore. In fact, I’d like to get to know you and see what you have to offer.

Grief, why don’t you join me for yoga class, walk with me in the woods, whisper to me in the wind? Let’s dance! Let’s talk with music and memory.

The truth is, Grief, you move me into my better self if I allow. I resist you, but you cause me to look deeper at myself, others, and situations. At the same time, you teach me to lighten up. Yes, you!

Life is short for many. I believe mine will be long. It’ll be dreadfully longer if I spend it resisting, judging and fearing you. Apparently, you’re in my family. You’ll stay. Fine, you’re invited, but don’t think we’re friends.

There are things I know logically: I will survive. Suicide isn’t an option. Adversity invites growth. Time will heal. Good things will come again.

However, grabbing onto logic, platitudes, and even what I know to be true at the expense of denying the powerful force of grief is not a position I’ll take. I’m not saying I’m at the mercy of my emotions so much as I surrender into them. I respect my grief.

Why does a baby wail upon birth? Because of the separation. One minute she was swimming in the ocean of love, completely connected to her mother, safe, protected, warm. Suddenly, without choice, but simply due to the nature of life, she’s forced into a new dimension. The air shocks. The light burns. Everything feels foreign. People surround her with love, wrap her in comfort, and confirm she will not die. Still, a newborn baby wails her way into this world. She must learn new ways of being. She will never again swim in her favorite ocean.

I was swimming in the ocean of love. I’ve got five decades on me. I’ve been blessed with love before. I’ve had my heart broken before. I’ve grieved death before. Back then, I tried to survive, buck up, be strong, and move on as quickly as I could from the pain. I did my best to deny. I said things like, “What doesn’t destroy me makes me strong.” IE, BE STRONG! I assumed crying was weakness. I said, “My mother dying is no reason for me to stop living.” True. Yet, it was a reason to grieve and I resisted giving into it. I didn’t know how. Besides, American society applauds one who rises quickly.

I’m not in such a hurry now. Maybe because I see the scars on people’s hearts as obvious as the tattoos on Mike Tyson’s forehead. Saying it’s not there seems absurd.

People worry that I’ll wallow too long, as if there’s a time frame. Sometimes, I succumb to the desire to snap out of it. Mostly though, I give in to my grief in the same way I gave into my love for Kevin. My instinct was to avoid the potential for pain. Kevin said, “I want you to embrace our love and let the warmth overtake you.” I did. I embraced my deepest feelings even when I was scared.

Isn’t that why we as a society resist grief? We’re afraid. What happens to a baby who doesn’t sing (or scream) her song of grief upon being hurled into this new world? All kinds of emergency measures are made.

When we don’t sing our song of grief when the music of life calls for it, the grief doesn’t dissipate. It waits for its turn to scream. Knowing this, the pharmaceutical companies offer antidepressants. And antidepressants if you’re on antidepressants, but you still feel depressed. It’s like planting seeds in winter. Depression can arise from suppressing grief.

Grief and depression aren’t the same. I’ve danced in the darkness of both. In this season, I see grief as the work of planting the seeds for my future. My tears of today water the tiny little sprouts of tomorrow.

Grief may be the opposing side of joy’s coin. The coin can’t be cut. So I sing my song of grief. I dance with Kevin in my kitchen and let his love seep in. The warmth overtakes me. Yet, the physical separation is real.

This is a new world I’m being born into. You will hear me wail.

Fire, Water, Mother Earth, God, Angels, transform me. Rebirth me. Pull me from the ashes. I welcome the metamorphosis. I do not resist. I do not go numb or deaf or die. I awaken. I’m a seedling under the cement—screaming to bloom. I’m parched for water and sunshine. I seek the light with my entire being. Even in the night, I see the stars. I’m enchanted. I feel angels hovering over me, making way for me to break through. Everything is different now: my brain, health, vision, belief, expectation… The sky is lavender tanzanite. Clouds are the purest white. My voice. My tears. My physical presence shifts. I am hearty. I’m here for the party, hangover and all. I’m learning to BE. Remembering to listen. Walls have fallen. Boundaries clarify. My scars expose themselves without apology. My dreams arise, not from my mind. Time is precious. Moment by moment. Intention for pleasure. Acceptance of pain. Connected. Alive. In all the messiness. All that it means. What no longer matters. Beauty to behold. Unafraid. Unattached. Free.

I light the candle, pour the wine.

Meat and cheese meant to please.

Water he’d want me to drink.

The deck where we sat when

He fell in love with my words.

The City of Angels CD playing on my Bose.

Music soothes my soul, but the

Blues will always break my heart.

Like his last day on earth.

My boyfriend’s dead.

I want to drink in the afternoon, say fuck you to strangers, ignore polite questions, and move to Australia.

Instead, I’m taking in jazz and letting loose of the blues he introduced me to.

I’m writing the way I did when he fell in love with me.

Passion, even in sorrow, flows from my soul.

I’m dancing alone. Oh, but he’s so with me.

He’s writing this now. He’s taken me over the way he did in life.

He’s washing me with his love. All the filth falls away.

I see beauty in spite of my resistance.

Like when I fell for him against all reason.

We’re still in each other’s worlds.

Although we’re worlds apart.

Here’s why I can’t go out in public and attempt socializing. I try not to be the one and raise my hand to interrupt with the right and most interesting answer every time, which just so happens to be: Kevin! Kevin! Kevin! Everything in my mind relates to Kevin (my dead boyfriend). It’s all lovely, fascinating, relevant, but I know I’m grieving.

Grief makes people even more uncomfortable than when you’re giddy in love. It makes me want to talk about him/us/what he said to me/what he was wearing/the tone of his voice/the music that was playing—so I don’t.

The people around me are talking about…NOTHING! Speed bumps, retirement, being late… Even my own upcoming vacation sounds dull next to the exciting shit dancing in the background or my mind, movies of us I can’t stop watching.

Meanwhile, I’m making polite conversation, trying to TASTE my food, take in the décor, and BE present. Everything is loud and fuzzy.

I’m not ready to be here. I only want to be with him.