Acceptable Grief

Most middle school American children, at one point or another in their academic careers, will be “forced” to read notable creative, Edgar Allan Poe’s work and, invariably, the assignment is usually centered around his most famous work, The Raven. Replete with the phrase “nevermore” in the countless stanzas and depressed in its lyricism, The Raven’s message all comes down to the author mourning his lost love, Lenore, and questioning the universe if their paths will cross again in another dimension. A deep dive into Poe’s life (incidentally he was the first American to be paid to write the short story) reveals the desperation he felt over losing his mother as an infant, the subsequent inability to connect with people colored by that primal abandonment, and the lost romantic love he clearly couldn’t replace or why is everything he wrote from The Pit and The Pendulum to The Black Cat so dark, dire, and desperate in their depictions of grief? Thinking about him and my own writing brought to mind a couple of profound questions I must address internally: What is grief and why does it ever have to be deemed acceptable by standards outside of the person bereft? Why does society get to judge and dissect how a person copes with loss as long as no societal threats are presented?

My expressions of grief I discovered quite shockingly can be full force in a theater in the round kind of way. I’m a filmmaker by education and profession; therefore, visuals are extremely profound and can be quite painful for me to absorb. Nowhere was this more evident than when my mother, a slender, sophisticated beauty developed a distended belly so pronounced she marveled how she appeared 8 months pregnant and how scared she was that the steering wheel of her car pressed so painfully that the car seat had to be slid back so far to allow her to both drive and breathe. This was followed by unexpected ascites in her lungs that begged to be drained and the panic when she finally addressed what she feared caused her to vomit within in the MRI machine at St. John’s, which was traumatic in itself for all parties involved.

Ovarian cancer is a cruel fate for a woman so vibrant, so naturally healthy that in the 34 years I was blessed to call her my mother, NOT ONE DAY did I see her sick in bed with even a cold or anything resembling bronchitis, pneumonia, or its survivable counterparts. As time ticked slowly on, it was increasingly evident she wasn’t going to be able to outrun the cancer sentence, so the waiting game played on for six excruciating months. Death would come slowly at his own taunting pace and he took my cognitive skills with him. I barely attempted in vain to hold onto my sanity. Not that I didn’t try to keep it together, albeit pathetically. Ron Bass, my then boss and current writing partner, encouraged me to take time off, but I was emphatic not only did I want to work, I wanted to continue hosting his production company, Predawn’s meetings. One particular day as we were considering the movie, AMELIA, for Hilary Swank, I remember excusing myself downstairs to head upstairs to check on my mother, who was so desperate to vomit and for the pink bucket St John’s sent home with us that she couldn’t reach, the black colored contents of her illness started to drip and make tracks on her chin until I could get the bucket for her relief, release, and her mouth to be opened. There are other gruesome accounts I will spare the reader, the details I want to share, but will spare. Consequently witnessing said horrors, I had my first nervous breakdown during the final countdown. After I buried my mother while consumed with survivor’s guilt, I torched my career and the amazing life she had helped build for me. While I was recognized on various platforms for my writing talent, I was equally skilled at lighting a proverbial match to watch burn down every positive aspect of who I was through barbed writing and stream of consciousness release of past grievances in words, letters, and emails. There was a lot of judgment based on the rantings I would post while hitting “reply all” to the thousands (thousands sadly not an exaggeration) of people I knew and worked with in Hollywood and in every corner of the planet…I’m still apologizing for things said albeit truthful things 19 years later and the words “crazy” “insane” “tragic” and “unhinged” were monikers used by both friends and professional contacts to describe me in that challenging period of my existence.

Maybe this precursor prepared me better for how to react to the fourth most horrible thing to ever happen to me, now collectively referred to as “The Palisades Fires” (My beloved grandmother and mother dying tragically and my physician father shot by a deranged patient round out the top three) But, reeling in the ashes and wanting to express my every emotion in prose has made me nervous, guarded, and cautious. What am I actually allowed to feel? What is acceptable in terms of my grief? Why do I have to always pretend to feel grateful when there are times I really want to be angry about the demise of my life? Why do outside people seem unsympathetic and judgmental? Why do some think our feelings are not valid and we should get on with this because many have the financial means to do so while others don’t? Why wasn’t there enough water in the reservoirs? What the hell do I care about what’s happening in Ghana or Greenland? Am I an asshole for thinking Ghana should not have been a priority in relations to the winds? Why is everybody acting like Trump is FDR? (this is neither The Great Depression nor a four term presidency) Why, God aka Yahweh, why?

And really the most poignant proposition of all: When the hell am I going to wake up from this nightmare to wrap my arms around The Palisades for being the only bright spot for me when my mother died in our family’s paradise, Pacific Palisades?

Will I ever feel whole again? Am I even allowed to be broken and how long will that right and write be extended to me by the rest of the world?

Sorry, Ghana…hardly your fault…Now if we’re talking fault…