Spring of 2001 I receive an acceptance letter for the Naturopathic College of Natural Medicine (NCNM) in Oregon. I abruptly end my twelve month relationship with Beau and exit the eastern hemisphere. Occasional thyroid storms, an unhappy gut riddled with South American critters, and aimless apathy contribute to my decision. Beau’s gentle way never deserved my fickle heart.
I move to Portland and live alone in a small apartment. I like the city, or at least, the idea of it. I meet new friends and am envious, of their artistic career paths and little to no body awareness. I am constantly tethered to my flesh—uncomfortable sensations, constant body scanning, obsessive-compulsive thinking, hyper-vigilance. Despite three years of expanded horizons, I am still a young woman with one lens in her camera bag: wellness.
Occasionally, during restless, hyperthyroid nights, I have access to a wider angle. Underneath the noise, I long to be someone else, to see the world through a different lens. I feel a creative whim, however outdated, that is still dancing on stage or building imaginary worlds with Jenny. The summer before NCNM begins I scour local Craigslist ads and land a two month gig at North Shore Productions, a small, documentary film company. Perfect. I’m ready for my new life in Hollywood.
My first day at work, I receive a giant cardboard box filled with DVD’s, VHS and Beta-Cam tapes. A local organization, Dougy Center, hired North Shore to create their 25th anniversary video and I am to watch and log all their historical content. Sure! What’s the Dougy Center? No clue, no matter! I’m relieved to have an interim new focus.
I open my notebook, grab a VHS tape on top of the pile, and queue it up.
Within the first ten minutes, I learn that the Dougy Center provides support for children, teens, young adults, and their families grieving the death of a loved one. Gulp. I have hundreds upon hundreds of hours of logging ahead of me. Lectures by grief specialists and founders. Bereavement groups with children. Tours around the facility. Teens, young adults and parents talking about their experiences of suicide, murder, cancer and sudden accidents.
One of the tapes is titled Beverly Chappell, 1989. Beverly, founder and former nurse, envisioned a place where children, teens, and their parents coping with death could share their experiences in a safe, compassionate community. In this particular footage she is speaking to educators about potential signs of unhealthy or unresolved grief. I listen and take notes.
But then I stop. Rewind. Play the segment again. I stare at the screen, synapses in a sudden scramble. The pen drops to the floor and I start sweating.
Beverly describes different grief scenarios to educators. “Some children act out in the classroom following a death. Others retreat, become more quiet. In both cases, the behavior changes are notable—a healthy sign the child is feeling something. Sure, they will need guidance, but their cry for help is heard.”
She goes on.
“But then, there are the ones that go unnoticed. They become perfectionists. They keep to their plans. All we see are successful, well-adjusted kids. They graduate at the top of their class, go off to college or start careers.”
And then, surely breaking the fourth wall, she looks into my eyes.
“Usually five to ten years or so following the death, when that child or adolescent is now a young adult, we start to see problems. And in many cases, these problems are physical. The body breaks down under the stress of unresolved grief.”
The body breaks down under the stress of unresolved grief.
The next day I sign up for a six day volunteer training at the Dougy Center.
I volunteer on and off for over six years and one spring in particular, help develop a bereavement theater troupe for young adults. Talk circles don’t often feel like enough, especially as kids mature. Teens and young adults want to act out, create. My friend Lauren brings her experience from a similar troupe in Eugene, Oregon and I bring empathy and enthusiasm. For four months, a remarkable, tortured and sensitive group of young adults craft a stage performance, calling themselves the Scarlett D’s (D for death, of course.)
During my favorite skit, the entire troupe lines up on stage, backs facing the audience. They introduce their grief stories with simple commands. “Turn around if your mom died.” “Turn around if your dad died.” Sometimes just one Scarlet D turns around. Sometimes a handful.
Then, more details. “Turn around if it was a suicide.” “Turn around if you got to say goodbye.” The audience grows silent. Feet stop shuffling. Eyes fix on the performers’ heart-wrenching realities.
Then, the final command.
“Turn around if you’d give up everything you’ve learned since your person died, in order to have them back.”
Not a single one of the Scarlett D’s turns around.
During rehearsals, we worked with this question a lot. Some days they wanted to erase all the lessons, just to be back in daddy’s arms. But most days, they were in consensus. “Navigating grief has made me a better person.” “Now I know how to connect with others in pain.” “I understand now that it’s OK to not be OK.”
These conclusions are not provoked. The Scarlet D’s like the versions of themselves that have been dragged into the slaughter house, necks exposed to the sharp and unforgiving blade of loss. They cherish new bonds and celebrate a resiliency they never knew they had.
The audience is stunned. During the Q & A a few people are even threatened. One middle-aged woman raises her hand and in an accusatory tone asks, “How can you choose your own growth over the life of another?”
The Scarlett D’s reply with the maturity of a thousand sages, “It doesn’t have to be so black and white. Of course, we want our loved ones back. But we don’t get to choose what happens to us, we can only choose how it shapes us. And we like who we’ve become.”
Yes, the serendipity of that “footage on grief” landing in my lap feels like pure angelic intervention.:)
Wow. "Turn around if you'd give up everything you've learned since your person died, in order to have them back." It's been 17 years and for most of them I've known the answer was "No." And I've felt guilty always. As if I didn't love enough to answer, "yes." As if I were badly flawed. This morning I was in that audience, looking at all those backs. Thank you for giving me that experience.