Warmth in the Tundra

A proud Ali with a pumpkin so cool it might as well be Frozen...the beloved #1 Award-Winning Professor Dumbledore.

“Mom, I really need a win,” 9-year-old Ali tells me as we leave a pumpkin patch birthday party with pumpkins in tow. 
Her school has a grade-wide pumpkin decorating contest, with three prizes for the approximately one hundred kids in each grade to aspire to. 
 
This request, a few days after the school’s library spooky story contest: three prizes for the hundred kids in fourth and fifth grades to aspire to. 
 
Ali’s story did not place. 
 
Her older sister, however, got second place in fifth grade for her tale.
 
After much consideration, Ali decides to make an Elsa pumpkin, and I assist, braiding white yarn, helping to mold almond shaped eyes out of clay. Her sister and I work on a Dumbledore pumpkin. Both are inspired.
 
Ali’s pumpkin does not get an award. Her sister’s wins first place for fifth grade. 
 
I don’t know what to say.
 
On Dad’s death bed, I had asked him to send me a sign so I will know he’s happy. A few days later, my brother points out that the Red Sox beat the Yankees. I try to celebrate it, but it feels hollow. Dad and I didn’t talk much about the Sox.
 
The next week, Jory has a big meeting with the board of a corporation. The CEO loves his pitch; it is an amazing proposal. This will be his first BIG client in years. 
 
We wait. Time passes and we become anxious. Nervous. We need this client. We have trouble sleeping, trouble breathing.
 
Then it dawns on me, in every phone call, Dad always asked how Jory was. How the business was. Every single phone call. This win would be the perfect sign from Dad. I mention this to Jory, and he tells me that he had actually worn one of Dad’s shirts to the meeting for good luck. I hold on to this. This client, I feel certain, will be my sign from Dad that he is happy, that all is well.
 
I am in Tucson visiting Mom and Pauline a month after Dad died, when, as if on cue, the news finally comes. YES! The client says yes. 
 
Any joy I expected to feel is overwhelmed by sheer relief.  I feel like I am exhaling for the first time since Dad died. My shoulders descend two inches.  Dad, I sense, is happy. I then allow myself to recognize how much we need this client. We don’t have to further dip in to our dwindling savings. When I tell Mom that Dad has come through, she cries tears of joy and informs me that I should have known Dad would deliver all along.
 
The day before Jory is to sign the new contract, I am on the phone with a prospective life coach to help Ali.  As I get off the phone, Jory comes in the room, drained of color. 
 
“They canceled,” he quietly informs me.
 
“Who canceled what?”
 
“The owner of the company decided not to do any marketing of any kind.  The CEO still thinks they need me, but he’s been overruled. We’re back to square one.”
 
I am stunned.  I feel sick, my stomach literally gripped with fear.
 
Over the next few days, we scramble, raiding my anemic IRA to pay the mortgage & health insurance. We cancel hair appointments (I cut the kids’ hair), the bi-monthly cleaning crew (I scrub the toilets and sinks, change the beds). We cancel all extra curriculars. We find creative ways to stretch the groceries. I strip and roast Elsa and Dumbledore and make pumpkin soup, pumpkin bread, pumpkin muffins.
 
I understand that at times like this, if I turn inwards, all this loss will melt into depression. I feel like I may disappear. I swallow any pride I may have left.
 
I need my friends. 
 
Two weeks after Dad (Amherst '56) died, Amherst College cut its legacy admission "because it reeks of privilege”. In hearing about the loss of the client,  an Amherst friend confides how financial struggle is the deep secret so many of us “privileged” hide. Salaries have not kept up with housing or tuition. She and her family struggled with credit card debt for years. Another friend tells me that turning off the electricity should be the last thing we do, because when they did, it took forever to reinstate and carried a hefty fee to turn it back on. How did I not know my friends had at some point been here too?
 
I ask my former boss and close friend Silvana if I can tutor again, and she immediately rehires me. What a gift to work both with her and with students again. I apply to sub teach, to facilitate book groups in retirement homes. I ask Amherst friends who have zoomed with me over the last 18 months if they could chip in for our annual zoom renewal. I am humbled by their kind response.
 
My dear friend Janine had invited me to her 75th birthday party in Los Angeles, and I feel the need to join her celebration more than ever. 
 
I take my book group earnings and fly out to Los Angeles, to have an amazing meeting with this group of friends. It is our first time together in person in almost two years. Lauren whips up a gourmet meal and we celebrate as we discuss Colson Whitehead's latest ​Harlem Shuffle. Our laughter is rich and healing.
 
I send my Playa gal pals an APB, asking them for any clothes their kids have outgrown. We also come together for an epic dinner. We laugh, share, drink, confide. And these friends deliver in spades: my kids are thrilled to have new clothes. What I don’t tell my friends is that every time I see my kids in something they gave us, I silently bless their kids.
 
I visit my friend who lost her 11-year-old daughter and share my struggle in feeling abandoned by Dad. I had become sure this client was the sign he was going to send me, and now I feel like I have lost him all over again. She shares that she has often looked for signs from her daughter, but has come to accept that we cannot direct or summon our loved ones’ presence or energy. They are gone. We cannot bring them to play in our current lives, as much as we would like them to. I want Dad to be my lucky charm from beyond the grave, because in losing him, I want to hold on to him, to reinvent him. This is not how loss works. I simply have to let him go.
We sit in our grief together, mine raw and recent, hers tragic and unjust. There are no platitudes. No solutions. But in witnessing each other’s grief, there is recognition and shared understanding. Solidarity. Love. It seems that every loss is both unique and universal. So my friend and I just sit, tiny lights in this dark and incomprehensible void. Sensing her light in this black tundra of loss provides a small unexpected warmth.
 
My friend Leah drives me to Santa Monica for Janine’s party. An hour before the party, we overlook the beach so I can attend a zoom session on my phone for Mom: Last Rites. Although still alert and aware, Mom is deteriorating, and we want her to participate in this last sacrament. Having a friend by my side and the ocean in front of me nourishes me in the face of more impending loss.
 
Janine’s 75th is exceptional for many reasons, perhaps most significantly for how Janine knits the room together. Janine also suffered the horrific tragedy of losing a child when he was in college. Out of this suffering, I think she has learned how to cultivate joy while holding space for grief. She has the unique talent of making every person in the room feel seen. She has written a speech in sections, in which she describes how she knows each person at the party, and explains what a difference that person has made in her life. She also is aware of what each person is facing. For example, Janine acknowledges that this day is also the birthday of our friend Nancy’s spouse Carter. He passed away four years ago. Nancy is a cherished member of our book group, and has somehow found the strength to not only keep going, but to chart new adventures, to even find joy. Joy, I think, is a rich intention after great loss. It is a treasured statement in spite of loss, in defiance of loss, in synch with loss. Janine’s is a profound and unforgettable celebration.
 
I know that to Ali, her losses feel as big as mine or anyone else’s. 
 
Every loss breaks my 9-year-old a little, which can either paralyze and depress her or lead her to seek help and embrace her authenticity. Taking a cue from Janine, I return to Albuquerque with the intention of making her feel seen, feel heard, feel special to me. I can only hope it will give her the tools she needs to build resilience.