On Grief and the Gift of—Go Figure—Facebook
October 6, 2011
Now, I realize it’s possible that Mark Zuckerberg did not create Facebook with the primary purpose of easing my personal grief over my dad’s passing.
I’ve seen the movie. I’ve read the articles. I’m willing to believe that Mark Zuckerberg didn’t sit in his Harvard dorm room all those years ago and move directly from nursing a wounded ego to wondering how he could make my life a little less dark in these days after walking with death.
But still, the man—whatever pettiness or disloyalty or greed he’s capable of, just like the rest of us— ended up creating more than the place where teenagers post a bazillion pictures of themselves in that uniquely Facebook-upload-ready pose, shoulders ratcheted unnaturally back and hips thrust toward the camera.
I know, I know. Facebook is a total black hole for time, and can’t be trusted to be glanced at during the work day, unless you want the presentation you’re supposed to give at noon to get sidelined by having caught up with your best friend from third grade, whom you last saw when her mom’s U-Haul pulled out for Des Moines. Facebook is a nuisance, too, with lots of business and artistic types— like, God help us, writers—promoting the fruits of our creative labors to our friends of friends of friends, and flailing about to fall on the warm, I’m-here-for-you side of commercial.
But honestly, though I guess I’ve never known it until now, Mark Zuckerburg has also given a great gift—who knew?— to the grieving.
Community. And connection.
Across the miles and graduations and career changes and relocations.
Across the years of losing touch and moving on.
“Only Connect” is the theme of E.M. Forster’s marvelous novel Howard’s End, and it’s not a bad motto for moving through mourning.
Beneath a grainy, scanned black and white of my dad, comments thread together from the most
disconnected points of my life: back door neighbors from childhood and kids I used to babysit—who’ve had the gall to turn grey at the temples— and colleagues from graduate school and friends from the high school newspaper staff, the youth minister from my teen years and the parents of my own children’s friends ….
They show up on my page with their little thumbnail profile pic smiles, some of them with arms around their spouses or kids, a few of them with arms around the parents that they themselves have just recently lost. They come with their offers of a favorite memory of my dad or their own, with wishes of comfort and God’s grace and peace. They tell their own stories of mourning, and of remembering well.
Their names and their words weave across and down and through, and the web of their kindness and time—such a gift in just a handful of lines— catches me this day from falling.
So, Mark Zuckerberg, from those of us who’ve ever mourned and have been startled to find comfort and solace in—go figure—the gifts of a blue and white page and a one-letter logo, I’d just like to say this:
Be a good boy and go back and give your co-founders their due if they’re due it, but also… hey, thanks. From the on-line grieving and grateful.
On Grief and Bad Hair and a Faded Blue Flannel Shirt
October 5, 2011
“So,” my teenage daughter suggested last night, cocking her head at me as I lay curled up on my bed, me in bad hair and baggy sweats and a burly old flannel shirt, “maybe you could, like, do something with this grief.”
The bad hair and baggy sweats were all my own, but the flannel shirt, faded blue plaid and quilted on the inside and cozy, had belonged to by dad. My dad, whose memorial service was less than forty-eight hours ago.
“Like,” she added, watching me, but also glancing away—as uneasy, I saw, as I’ve always been around grief, “you could write about it. Day by day or week by week. A new book.” She scanned my under-eye baggage and the frizz that spun out from my head like a chimney sweep’s brush, and gave me a look saying that, on the other hand, I might be beyond hope.
And then came her signature grin, the one that announces she’s decided to approach a crisis with humor. “You know, it’s been too long since the last book, and you’ve only got a couple of years to earn the big bucks so I can go wherever I want to for college.” And she snapped her fingers with a so-get-a-move-on flourish.
We laughed then, because we were both looking for a reason to laugh.
Great, I thought. A whole book of Today, soon after the funeral, I curled up in the tiled corner and sobbed in the shower. Followed by Today I wept while driving to work and nearly ran an old AMC Pacer, that unfortunate excuse for a car, clear off the road. And the next entry: Today, after going through my father’s old suits, I made it through the luncheon with the lovely arugula and goat cheese, but abandoned the peanut butter pie with the M&M sprinkles because I had to escape down the hall to be able breathe. Just breathe, and be alone. And maybe whimper a couple of times to no one but the walls.
Some book.
I didn’t expect to grieve like this, you understand.
Didn’t see it coming at all.
And, rationally, it makes little sense.
I know that.
My father was in the final stages of a terminal illness, and was suffering. He was a devout person of faith, and was approaching death with the expectation of a real going-home, to be met with love and grace and healing.
When he’d still been of sound mind, he’d made it clear he’d no desire for his body to linger on after his mind had left. Collapsing one evening last week with an intestinal obstruction, he’d arrived at the hospital with his Do Not Resuscitate order in my mother’s hand. Emergency surgery? Not an option.
So his organs gave up the fight one by one and he died, without pain.
And we gathered around his bed as he took his last, labored breaths and thanked God for his life, and for his release from suffering, and for his being welcomed to heaven.
A mercy, we said to the doctors.
A gift, our friends said to us.
Yes, we said. Yes.
And yet the grief that’s followed has startled me in its strength, its often knocking me flat.
So maybe my 16-year-old is right, as 16-year-olds sometimes—not always, please note, but sometimes—are.
Maybe I do need to do something with this grief….
So if, over the course of however many blog posts to come, I can help you laugh a little, or recall a precious, dusty old memory you’d overlooked until now, then the writing might be worthwhile.
If I can listen more closely, with more compassion, to other people’s journeys through life and through death, and learn from the wisdom they’ve gleaned along the way, then, the writing might be worthwhile.
If I can help us—you and me both—figure out how, smacked by one of those sudden waves of sorrow, you fork over the Mastercard to the sweet, bewildered Steak and Shake cashier when you really just want to snuffle into your napkin and camp out in your vinyl booth through the breakfast and lunch rush and be left alone, well, then, the writing might be worthwhile.
Whether you’re acquainted with grief yourself, or know someone who’s currently walking through that long valley, please know I’d love to have you and your insights and wisdom and stories along for the journey.
Wishing you comfort, wishing you peace….
Connect with Joy
