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I didn't even have to think about it.   This was the column that had more "LIKES" than anything else I've written. I poured my heart into this one.  It seemed to touch a truth that was very simple and basic, yet seemed very important to many readers.   This is our family's first Christmas without Mark.  I want to re-run this to acknowledge our love for him and the on-going pain of his loss

You may have read my recent column about the tragic death of my 44-year-old cousin.  This loss was such a profound shock to our family.  I worried about telling my boys and how they’d react. At 14 and 11, they’d never lost someone so close and dear to them.  

Here is my favorite column from 2011. 

--Dina

The Simple Question

When we told Schuyler (the 11-year-old) he reacted with stunned silence:  no tears, no questions.  He seemed to leave his body for a few minutes.  Then he changed the subject and went about his normal routine.  That evening he played in his baseball game like it was just another night.

The next day around noon the phone rang; Schuyler’s school.  He tearfully asked, “Mom, can I come home?”  I raced to the school and his teacher relayed the story.  Schuyler appeared to be fine all morning.  After lunch he was walking with his head hanging down and his teacher asked if he was okay. (I’d neglected to inform the school.)  “No,” he said, melting into tears. “My uncle died in a plane crash yesterday.”  The teacher handled it sensitively: “You might feel better if you talk about it.”  So with his teacher’s permission, he shared the story with his class.  The kids listened and offered support and comfort.  This helped some, but the flood-gates had opened and Schuyler knew he needed something more.

When I picked him up, I asked, “What do you need?” 

“I need to be in Cooper’s room.”  His older brother likes his room pitch dark when he sleeps, and Schuyler wanted to be enveloped in that darkness.  So we closed the shades and climbed under the covers.  I held him tightly and we cried together. I talked about how some people believe that when a person dies that they join those who have died before; now maybe Mark was with his father and there would be comfort in them being together again.  “The way we keep people alive after they die is through love and memories and taking in their best qualities.  What do you remember about Mark?”  We shared our most fun and funniest memories of Mark, laughing and crying, holding each other tightly under the covers in the dark room.   

After a while, the storm lifted; we felt that calm that takes over after a good cry. 

“What do you need now?”  “I need some ice cream.”  “Gosh, me, too.”   We headed to Baskin-Robbins and ordered the most delicious cookies and cream ice cream I had ever tasted. It was simply perfect. 

 "What do you need now?” “I need to go back to school.  I want to be in a warm, friendly environment.”  He had rehearsal for a play that afternoon and felt that being in the presence of his buddies would feel right.  That night as he was picking out his clothes for the next day, he said, “I want to wear something to honor Mark.”  So we found a surf-themed shirt since Uncle Mark loved surfing.    

So why am I telling you this story? 

So many of us grown-ups have become disconnected from the most basic truths about what we feel and need. Instead of asking ourselves, “What do you need now?” we use food, alcohol, pills, cigarettes or compulsive shopping to make the pain go away.  Our rigid beliefs and defenses stop us from feeling. (“Don’t be a wimp” “You should be over that,” we tell ourselves).  All of these ways of coping serve to prevent us from actually experiencing the painful feelings that are part of our lives. As Geneen Roth writes in “Women Food and God” we fear that we simply cannot bear the feelings and that something terrible will happen if we do.   

“I will die.” “I will kill someone.”  “I will go insane.”

The truth is that over time, by continually numbing our feelings with food or other means rather than feeling them, we deny ourselves the opportunity to connect with the truth, with ourselves and with others.  We can become deeply alienated. 

I’ve been trying to allow myself to feel the intense pain of Mark’s loss in manageable doses. By allowing myself to cry when the tears well up, I am honoring my love for Mark and the value of his memories. In the past month I’ve felt more alive, more empathic and more connected to others.   Because his loss slaps me out of my denial about the fragility and unpredictability of life, I feel clearer about life’s priorities and about what truly matters. 

So when you are going through a rough time, gently ask yourself, “What do you need now?”  If you have struggled with your relationship to food, the answer to that question might seem to always be: “Food!”  But hang in there, breathe and ask if there might be something else that’s a better fit.  You may need to connect with people who know and love you.  You may need to be alone.  You may need to scream or cry or write or create.  You may need to be in a dark room to sob or in a bright place to laugh.  You may need some ice cream as an experience of pleasure and self-nurturance, but this should be just one of a number of ways that you take care of yourself.  It’s up to you whether you make food a source of comfort or a source of anesthesia. 

I know conditions are rarely perfect: you can’t always get what you want OR what you need.  But you can still keep asking yourself the question.  You may be surprised to learn that not only can you survive those painful moments but that in so doing you’ll become stronger in the broken places.