Hi friend,
It’s been a long season of loss and grief. I don’t know about you, but in times like these, my instinct is to retreat, to tuck into myself. I have a hard time reaching out to people; I feel like I should wait until I have passed through the belly of the beast and reemerged with some kernel of wisdom.
Not long ago, I spoke about this with my dear friend, the wise and wondrous Elizabeth Gilbert. We talked about how hard it is to say, I’m struggling to another human—because you might worry them, because you think they can’t really fix it, because grief comes so unexpectedly: one day you’re fine, the next you find it difficult to breathe.
But when I was in Vermont last week, I did reach out to Liz. I said, “My brain is a bad neighborhood today.” She replied with two astonishingly helpful pieces of advice. (She always has such astonishingly helpful advice.) The first was mercy—to bring tenderness and compassion to the inherent dilemma of how hard it is to be a human being. The second was related: Take care of the animal—to tend to myself the way I would a recently rescued shelter pup, with care, soft rooms, and gentleness.
Of course, that metaphor worked brilliantly. I set out to create the best possible day for Loulou and Oscar. We went outside, played fetch, and ran in circles. They even stopped and smelled the flowers, reminding me I should too. (I did have to draw a line, however—when they started rolling around in deer poop.) I found solace in those simple joys, and I’m reminded to seek them again.
Today, we have a prompt from the writer, photographer, and grief worker Caroline Catlin. It’s about the people and places and things that see us through our lowest points—our Liz Gilberts, our Loulous and Oscars, our peonies in June. It’s an important reminder that we don’t have to carry our burdens alone—that others can shepherd us through our grief.
Sending love,
Suleika
152. Guardians in Grief by Caroline Catlin
My friends and I have had a rough couple of years. We are the unlucky ones, winners of the most undesirable lotteries. We’ve been diagnosed with rare diseases and incurable cancers, have experienced more than our fair share of devastating accidents and injuries. We’ve built our lives back up from rubble, only to have them torn down again. Over and over, we’ve had to start over. And over and over, we have shown up for each other.
Before Covid, we walked into each other’s arms and apartments and hospital rooms, traveled by plane and car between states and countries, held out our hands and washed the faces of our hurting loved ones. When Covid hit, we adapted. We hosted virtual funerals and celebrations. We read poetry to each other over the phone. We sent texts, letters, gifts, food. We did our best to be there, without being there.
Through all of this, a few have gone far beyond the expected bounds of friendship. These people have offered not only to witness, but to go with. To allow our stories to intermingle, to become guardians for each other—guardians in grief. We have not protected each other from pain or loss (an impossible and futile goal). Rather we have committed to the wholeness of ourselves: to the people we were before our losses, the people we are during the worst, and the people we will be in whatever form our “after” takes.
As we have learned to trust these bright spots, we have begun to find guardians in the most unexpected places, like a hot shower and a change of clothes. In a spot of sunlight lighting up a hospital stairwell. In art, in pets, in the changing of seasons. In the barista who offers a free cup of coffee, the stranger who lets us take the elevator first, the nurse who brings a glass of water without being asked.
Grief guardians, it turns out, are as abundant as grief itself. Equally fierce, powerful, and present. Our job is to look for them. To pay gentle attention to everything that continues to walk with us. To see the ways we are held by the world around us. To pause in moments of grace and say a quiet thank you to the persistent good that has stayed with us, woven between all the rest.
Your prompt for the week:
Who, or what, has been a guardian in your grief? If you were to write this person—or mountain, song, animal, sound—a thank you letter, what would it say?
Today’s Contributor
Caroline Catlin is a writer, photographer, and grief worker. She is currently working on a memoir about her experience living with incurable brain cancer and chronic illness. Caroline developed the idea of grief guardians with Sivan Battat, a theatre artist, cultural worker & community organizer based in New York City.
I was looking through old photos today and was struck by how much my partner’s hair has greyed over the past year. It’s partly my fault, I think. COVID has been stressful for most, but on top of that she had the new role of caretaker to a cancer “survivor” thrown at her. It was the hardest after my debulking surgery in September. I had my ovaries and uterus along with two cantaloupe-sized tumors removed (I also learned that gynecological oncologists like to make fruit comparisons to describe tumors). For weeks she helped me get in and out of bed, take showers, and regularly propped me up on the couch so I could watch TV and eat gummy bears. Throughout my chemotherapy she continued to do most of the cooking and housework. Then in February she gently encouraged me to quit my job because we’d both seen how bleak the statistics are for my type of cancer. We agreed I deserve a retirement as much as anyone. But this meant more pressure would be on her to earn money and keep the health insurance.
Despite all this she’s been surprisingly cheerful and is often cracking jokes. Except for when I’m crying, then she’s crying too and gently holding me.
Her name is Hang. It’s pronounced “Hung”, like, “I hung out with Hang.” She’s my guardian of grief. If I were to write her a letter I would get right to the point and say that I love her a million times. I’d tell her that I will try my best to be one of the outliers who survives more than three years. I will take my new meds on time each day and eat lots of fruits and vegetables. But if I don’t make it, then I am very, very sorry to leave her.