A Course in Healing

1. No one wants to be here, and here we are. Exactly where we’re required to be. So welcome to an experience you never asked for. Welcome to an experience you did not choose. Welcome to “A Course in Healing.” I’m glad you’re here.

2. By the way, the word “glad” (above) is an example of the feigned positivity that will become a norm of your grief experience. Get excited. That was example No. 2.

3. There are no clear learning outcomes for this course, although learning will soon be projected onto your experience. “What have you learned?” People will ask in clipped, expectant tones.

4. “Misfortune is a great teacher,” they will say, and you will learn how to nod wordlessly.

5. It is considered bad form to respond, “I have learned that in the face of my discomfort, I am expected to comfort other people.”

6. It is equally bad form to say, “I have learned that when people ask me how I’m doing, I must say something like okay or fine because those are the only acceptable responses.

7. Do not say, “Sometimes I sit in a dark garage and weep.” Do not say, “I configure my day around ‘Growing Pains’ reruns.”

8. In short, during “A Course in Healing” you will learn how to be a good faker. Some people will even say faking is a key ingredient to your healing. We will cover this dynamic during our unit on Erasure.

9. It’s okay to wonder why the expression of vulnerability upsets the relationship non-grieving people have with permanence and/or the performance of happiness.

10. You may have figured out by now that “A Course in Healing,” should be renamed as “A Course in Lying.” I have brought this suggestion to the Curriculum Committee, and its chair reminds me that “lying” doesn’t resonate, but “healing” has cache. Healing is rainbows and holidays and sparkly love magic. Grief is blech.

11. Now you might be wondering: “Will there be any tests?”

12. Each moment of your life is a test, and there are no grades. Only choices and questions. You pass no matter what choices you make. You pass even if you choose to eat potato chips for every meal, even if you listen to that one Jeff Buckley song until the CD player skips.

13. There is no extra credit. At the end of this course, you will not be a better person. You will be a different person. You might be a person who can tangle with competing truths. You might be better at letting go of appearances, other people’s expectations, your own miscalculated dreams.

14. If I do my job well, I will impress upon you that there is no bright side where your pain fizzles out forever. There are black holes of sorrow. There is dark matter we live inside of and between. There are moments when we wish to disappear forever, if only to stop the pain.

15. There are the people we would have been without our losses, and there are the people we become because of everything we have lost.

16. There are the futures we claim.

17. There are the dreams we rewrite.

18. Take me as a case study: Before my mother died I kept a diary. My college roommate gave it to me one Hanukah. She wrote a quote from Oscar Wilde inside the front cover. “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the train.”

19. And that is what I thought life was back then –– sensation for the taking. A nonstop adventure romp. The long weekend between adolescence and middle age.

20. I was twenty and twenty-one in the last years of my mother’s life, and I wrote sad poetry in that journal. And I wrote about boys I thought I loved, who maybe loved me, who didn’t love me as much as I wanted them to love me.

21. And I wasted my time with these boys. Wasted my worrying. And then my mother died, and I lost interest in boys. I ignored them, avoided them, until I fell hard for a man I never expected to meet. He lived an ocean away. But I wrote to him every day the way I’d once written to my mother. And he wrote back to me.

22. “Hi Sweetie,” his e-mails began. It was the same cheerful salutation my mother had used daily with me. In my first year without her, this man was sunshine pouring down after a night where I believed I’d never see light again.

23. He was the first proxy I made for my dead mother, and he would not be the last.

24. Even though it was not his job, he championed me the way my mother had. He made a big deal of my birthdays. He said, “I love you” without choking. He mailed me mix CDs with heart wrenching songs I’d never heard.

25. He knew where I was at night and in the morning.

26. When we were together, he held me until I fell asleep, the same way my mother had held me long ago.

27. But –– but –– a lover and a mother are not the same thing. A lover cannot be a mother. Such a burden will crush the most sincere loves.

28. One night we both cried, and I boarded a plane alone. I can still hear the sound of my suitcase scraping the pavement on the way to the airport. I thought I was leaving him temporarily. But it turned out that my leaving was permanent. I just didn’t know how to say that yet.

29. I didn’t want to leave this man, and I had to leave this man.

30. I’d never find my mother in another person. If I wasn’t careful, my search for her would destroy every chance at love that came my way.

31. I could never save her.

32. I could only save myself.

33. When I walked away from a man I loved, I walked toward a life I couldn’t imagine, a life he could not walk for me no matter how much he wanted to. I had to walk alone, toward a motherless future awaiting me.

34. My mother taught me there are no escapes.

35. My mother taught me I could withstand being sucked back into the long, lightless night.

36. Her wisdom lived beyond her, lived:

  • in the cat I rescued a few months later, a stray I didn’t want but took, lived
  • in the man I married, and a home where I made my own light, lived
  • in the stairwell of a college, where I sat one afternoon with a student who told me about a man who hurt her.

37. When the student finished her story, I told her a story about my mother.

38. I told her courage means walking toward our worst fears, walking toward the truths we don’t want to say.

39. Then we both walked toward the counseling center.

40. Each time I listen to another person’s hard story, each time I tell my own hard story, I carve another notch on the shrine I built for my mother, a shrine called memory, a shrine called love.

41. Healing is a word I avoid. I’d rather be changed, remade, reborn.

42. I’d rather hold a broken heart in my upturned palm, marvel at a heart that beats in spite of its cracks.

43. In this course, we will be who we are. We will be everything we are afraid to say. We will be the whole story of our pain.

 

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