After Jupiter: A Bittersweet Birthday

Squibs & Blurbs

by Jerry Zimmerman

TEANECK, NJ—(Weekly Hubris)—4/11/11—A third birthday.

Not for a three-year-old.  And not a real birthday celebration.  Rather, a remembrance, a marker in time, a strange moment of sadness and loss and yet also of love and sweet thoughts.

Today is the birthday of my late wife, Rhona, and it is the third one I’ve marked since she passed away.

Without delving into it deeply, suffice it to say that the world as I knew it disintegrated and flew apart on December 14, 2008, the day that Rhona died. And, since that day, my time has involved  a constant questioning of how my life was once constructed and how it might be constructed once again.

But today I am wondering about grief and mourning.

Before I became one of them, I had certain notions about how people reacted to the loss of a loved one, how they soldiered through, bore their loss, and struggled on to achieve a happy life again.

Some of those ideas had some merit; some didn’t.  Actually becoming a grieving person was like suddenly being shot to Jupiter—I was still kind of this human being, but where was I and how was I supposed to survive here? I had about the same amount of preparation for my new existence as an astronaut whose only training for a moon shot had been to see a picture of the sky.

So, there I was on my new planet, trying to put one foot in front of the other, while dealing with the torrent of raging emotions of loss and sadness. And since I had had no real training for this moment, this new state of being, I reached back to my old ideas of how I thought I should be, how I thought I should be grieving, how I thought I should be relating to those around me.

Guess what. What I was hanging on to as some sort of universal survival guide, some sort of pamphlet created by society to help me through, well, it didn’t jive with what was real or useful or true for me.

I discovered that the most important thing I needed to know was what I was feeling; and what I, Jerry, personally needed to do to get through each day, the day that inevitably showed up on my doorstep every morning.

There are many theories about grief and how it should be handled, countless books and programs covering the many steps of mourning. At that dark time in my life, three birthdays ago, I found that I did not need a step-by-step instruction manual on how to “make it through,” how to “master your sadness,” etc., etc. In fact, I truly resented any well-meaning friend or stranger who approached me with, “I know how you feel . . .  .” Unless they, too, happened to inhabit a shack on the side of a crater on their own Jupiter, I was not particularly receptive, to say the least.

But, at this crushingly grim moment in my life, I remembered what I needed to do.

Because I once had a dream.

About 25 years ago, I was in the middle of separating from my first wife. This was the first excruciatingly difficult time in my life, a watershed of sadness that left me just totally debilitated. I was completely at a loss as to how I could go on as a functioning human being. I was a mess.

I tried everything I could think of. I read books about loss, reconciliation, stress, transformation. I constantly called up all my close family members. I spent tons of time being consoled by friends. I went to therapy. I punched pillows endlessly and ferociously.

Nothing worked.

One night, I had a dream about a little child in distress. I found myself on a busy street corner in New York City, and I saw this small child in the middle of the street. There was busy traffic everywhere and I feared for this little boy’s life—he was distraught and crying. I jumped into the traffic and swooped him onto the sidewalk, where I held him close. Eventually, he settled down and I took a close look at his face.

It was my me.

I woke up knowing what I needed. I needed to take care of myself just as I would take care of my own frightened child. I was weak and needy. I was strong and resourceful. I was the help I was looking for.

That wonderful dream has served as a font of strength for me over the decades. It has given me the courage to face the many difficulties of life with the resolute determination of a parent defending his child. I always know I have someone to depend on. I always know that that person is right inside me.

This sense of “self-help,” in the most literal way, doesn’t discount the enormous support I get from family and friends and from the shared knowledge of my fellow beings. It just helps anchor me as I’m battered about by all the ups and downs of this old life, and gives me a foundation for understanding, for action, and for change.

As I lit a candle this morning for Rhona, I thought about what I wanted this day to mean. I thought about the last two and a half years without her. I thought about how my grief has mellowed, how my mourning has ebbed and flowed.

I thought about how much I still miss her. And I thought about how I am back in life again, back on the Earth, but with the new experience of Jupiter informing my every action.

I have always instinctively understood the indomitable strength a parent represents for his or her child, particularly since my parents were living exemplars in my life. I am blessed to see that I embody the same strength for my children, and to understand that I must also take care of myself with that same fortitude.

I look at the burning candle next to Rhona’s picture.  I know that I will decide on some way to best commemorate this day.  And I know that I will feel both good and bad today.

I will have whatever feelings this day brings, and I will look after myself.

It will be OK.