Death and Other Interruptions

Chapter Nineteen

That week, Marissa prefaced her opening question with a caution. I had broken down the pattern by this point: We began with our names and our feelings, then Marissa asked a guiding question. Discussion and answers and feelings would follow, and Marissa would gently guide us again if the answers petered out or we got off topic or the silence got too long. That didn't happen very often. Grieving people apparently have a lot to say.

"This week's group is going to be a little different," Marissa opened, after we all said our names and feelings ("I'm Jennifer, and I'm feeling confused;" "I'm Ethan and I'm feeling annoyed;" "I'm Betty and I'm feeling really happy").

"This week, I want you all to think about something you didn't like about the one you're mourning. I've said in the past that it's common for mourners to remember only the good things about the ones they miss, and that's wonderful. But it can also be dangerous. It's important to remember the imperfections, the flaws, in those who have passed."

Something bad about Al? If you'd asked me when he was alive, it would have taken me a while to think of an answer. Now that he was dead I thought it might be impossible. Every day I was remembering another quality in him that I missed, another talent he had that would have made my day that much easier. The longer he stayed dead, the more I loved him, the more I knew that he was the greatest thing that had ever happened to me and probably ever would. In our relationship, he had always been the angel, at least in my mind—and, I would guess, many of our friends' minds too. He had always rejected the notion that he was any better a person than I was, but all that did was add modesty to the list of characteristics in his favor. I didn't seem to be the only one with that problem; no one else was talking.

But then I thought about it, and slowly, one thing came to me. And once I let the gate open, once I could admit to myself that no, even Al hadn't been perfect, the answers began flooding me. He was the better person, as people go, but he made mistakes. He had flaws and traits that could be described generously as quirks, and sometimes he drove me up the wall and back down another.

"He bossed me around," I said, without raising my hand this time. No one else had spoken yet; we were all too reluctant to give up the halos we placed above the people we lost, the ones we daily shined and polished. As soon as I said it, I felt guilty, like I had betrayed him and betrayed my untarnished memory of him. I rushed on, "Like, not in a controlling way. He meant well. But he had these rigid expectations of life and plans and maps and goals, and sometimes he treated me like I was one of his students, like I couldn't take care of my life on my own. And for the most part, I liked it, I liked having someone else take charge, because I loved plans too, but sometimes I just wanted to be spontaneous. Now that he's gone, though, I miss even that."

Everyone nodded solemnly. In the four hours I'd now spent with these people, I don't think I'd seen any of them smile in a way other than polite or encouraging, except for Ethan.

"It sounds like you're feeling guilty," Nancy said. Nancy was an older woman who seems to have lost her son to cancer. The group did this a lot, coached each other like we were all part-time therapists.

"I don't think you have to defend him," Bernie agreed. A Wall Street commuter, Bernie had sad, hound dog eyes that always seemed at odds with his expensive shoes and tailored suits. "We all have flaws, and they don't go away just because we die."

Other members started chiming in with the secret flaws of the people they were so used to eulogizing every day. It started off slowly, but it gathered speed, and soon everyone was taking turns sharing and comforting—it's okay to remember their flaws. They weren't perfect. We can admit that, even though they're dead.