A few people reached out to me when they noticed there was no Cycle|Breaker post last Sunday. The truth is, I was in Cabo on a much appreciated adults-only weekend getaway, after two intense weeks of dealing with life - and death. I decided not to take my laptop, not to post whatever just to keep my writing streak going, and instead I chose to spend 72 hours doing virtually nothing. Speaking of which, I’ve got a draft of another upcoming post On Doing Nothing, but that’s for another week.
I have yet to optimize how I utilize AI, but I do constantly pick up my phone and yell at Siri to remind me things.
Siri, remind me to take my vitamins every morning at 7AM.
Siri, remind me schedule to Oli’s annual wellness visit, tomorrow at 8:45AM.
Siri, remind me to buy a new fucking printer already.
Yesterday, I was driving with way many more thoughts than is safe while operating a vehicle and at a red light, I yelled Siri, remind me to write on dealing with death.
Instead, at 9PM last night, she reminded me to write on dealing with Jeff.
And I smirked and thought “well isn’t that just perfect.”
It’s perfect because my whole premise while subconsciously drafting paragraphs for this post (again, usually while driving,) was that dealing with death is usually about dealing with a bunch of other shit, not so much the death itself. It’s about dealing with your own mortality, dealing with delegated roles and assumed responsibilities, dealing with complicated relationships and newly triggered family dynamics, dealing with your feelings, dealing with other people’s feelings, dealing with other people’s feelings about your feelings, and dealing with your feelings about other people’s feelings. And one of those people might just be named Jeff. And now you’re dealing with death and you’re dealing with Jeff.
When my Auntie S was on her deathbed 12 years ago, she said “the way you handle my death will impact the rest of your life.” I was 28 years old.
Still reeling from the whiplash of losing someone I loved, quite literally in front of my eyes, unaware of her illness until just days beforehand, I was thrust into the very grown-up role of being a co-executor of her Trust and managing the mechanics and logistics of sorting one’s affairs after their passing. I visited the bank to close her accounts and watched as the banker broke down in tears and told me “shit, she’s dead? She was so fucking cool. She was the coolest cat.” I sat on calls with probate attorneys and in settlement meetings, and trembled with the new duties I had inherited. I endured breaking the news to person, after person, whether it was one of her close friends, or Verizon customer service, as I finally canceled the service to her Blackberry - which I’m pretty sure I still have. I cleaned out her apartment and sorted through her books and notebooks and CDs and decided what to keep, share, donate or discard. I held onto the perfume from her medicine cabinet, even though I’m allergic to fragrances, because it smelled like her. I didn’t throw it out for another two years. I received her mail for the next six years. I sat with her fellow yogis at the New York City Kundalini studio she considered her family, as they honored her spirit and shared stories of how they experienced my aunt in their lives. All to say, it was a very fucking intense period of my life and continues to play a pivotal role in how I relate to life, death and how I show up both. So she was right.
In the past four years, I have lost four people that were very special to me - one of them predictably, one of them painfully, one of them tragically and one of them unexpectedly.
The grief comes in waves and washes away with the tide.
Each time, I’m dealing with death all over again. Each time, I have my process to deal with the actual void the person has left for me. I go through photo albums. I read through letters and emails from them. I look for clues, for untold stories and search for hints of gems to uncover through other people’s accounts of my loved one.
I hold onto pieces of them to keep them close. My grandfather’s funny face photo on my window sill. My aunt’s Lonely Planet guide to Iran on my bookshelf. My other aunt’s vibrant blue and gold tapestry draped over the arm of my office loveseat. My grandmother’s copy of Many Lives, Many Masters on my husband’s nightstand. My other grandmother’s blue quilted housecoat hanging in my closet.
Yesterday, mid-pilates class, I realized I was staring at entrance to The Peninsula Hotel, the location of multiple meals with my grandparents. I wonder, is it all grandparents, or just mine, who love hotel restaurants, lounges and bars? After my workout, I walked across the street, grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered myself a club sandwich. I sat with my memories and felt their presence as I paid my indulgent late afternoon bar tab.
Generally, I feel good about the way I deal with death. I reminisce, I explore the layers of my complicated relationships or unresolved dynamics, I hold onto what serves me, I release what doesn’t, and I tend to move through it in a way that feels sane and healthy.
But “dealing with Jeff” is more complicated. I cannot feel the pain that others feel as they experience their own unique sense of loss. I cannot prescribe my process or persuade them to acknowledge their feelings. I can handle logistics, and create spreadsheets, and make sense of the paperwork, even if it triggers my anxiety - but I cannot organize and manage how everyone else is moving through their experience, or tidy up dynamics, as if it were an abandoned home.
Which brings us to…
This Week’s Haiku
It's not death itself That cripples and destroys life It is how we deal
Until next time, whatever your loss, I hope you move through it in a way that feels sane and healthy.
Love,
Jess