Cocktail Hour & the Calculus of Grief
Every day is exactly the same
How many of you know the song by Nine Inch Nails, “Every Day is Exactly the Same”? I hum it regularly. Every day is exactly the same for me – I am sad about the death of Hans. Today I feel no differently about it than I did yesterday. Since his accident and his first death on the road there, his body being brought back to life with CPR, at Assateague on March 22, 2014, I feel the same about it as I do every other day that has passed since then.
This second March 29 anniversary of the day he died his second and final time does not hold any more or less meaning for me than the day after he died. Or the 438th day after he died. I wonder when a day will come that doesn’t hold sadness for me about his death. On any given day I can easily recall the first phone call, the drive to the hospital, the moment I saw him in his bed in the trauma center, how broken Zatha looked as she saluted him when he left his hospital room for the last time. I feel like a broken record sometimes. Every day I think of him. I still cannot watch his videos. I still cannot listen to any music that reminds me of him alive. Every day I cry at least once, mostly in the car when I am alone. Every day is exactly the same. Every day Hans is dead.
And the words, “at least.” I say those every day too.
“At least Z is alive and healthy and so loved by us.”
“At least Hans wasn’t maliciously murdered.”
“At least my whole family didn’t die in the same accident.”
“At least I have a home filled with love.”
“At least I have loving and supportive family and friends.”
“At least my husband has a career he enjoys.”
“At least I have my piano.”
“At least I am not terminally ill.”
“At least I am not homeless, in a war-torn country, in prison, et cetera.”
But those “leasts” don’t yet seem to overcome the worst – one of my children is dead – though they do help balance my scales of grief. When will I feel in balance again? I work on finding sweet spots – when I get to spend any time with Zatha, with Eric, with anyone who chooses to visit us.
I mistakenly said to Zatha once, “Sunny days make me more sad.” And in her wise way she asked me what was the point, then, of doing anything with her on a sunny day? Later I told her I should have said, “Sunny days make me miss Hans more.” Sunny days with Z are amazing! She brightens every moment when I am with her. Rainy days with Zatha and Eric are cozy. Cloudy days with friends are lovely. And though Hans was full of ideas and activities for any rainy or cloudy or snowy day, sunny days were especially fun for him, for all of us.
Cocktail hour
Cocktail hour at our home is time for discussing interesting, challenging, and controversial ideas, news, and subjects (including people) – the more controversial the better, in my opinion. Cocktail hour is different from happy hour. Gin martinis are the drink of choice for cocktail hour, while beer and wine suffice for happy hour. During cocktail hour participants must sit in the living room and engage in the conversation, attired nicely, and the hour always commences with a toast. Happy hour is more of a free-for-all, to be enjoyed while cooking, no dress code, no toast. I prefer cocktail hour.
The tradition started in Idaho Falls when we were a foster family and Eric was inspired by a biography of Franklin D. Roosevelt, who sat down every evening for cocktail hour with some of his advisors, friends, and family, though rarely with Eleanor, who was too busy to sit. Our living room was, and remains, a sanctuary in which no primary-colored toys were allowed, though every other room in the house was game for Legos, painting, roller blading, unicycling, and forts. Children were permitted to join us for cocktail hour only if they were willing to sit and engage in conversation, as required, or they could interrupt if they were bleeding profusely or dying.
When it is just Eric and I at home, our cocktail hour discussions are, many times, a fascinating lesson on a subject of which I am not knowledgeable but of which Eric, a nuclear scientist, is master. My husband and both of my children have taken calculus. I have not. I have heard them discussing calculus as the study of extremes, from the infinitesimal to the infinite, the mathematical language of our physical world.
Eric and I discussed during one of our lone cocktail hours our calculus of grief, determining how to grieve somewhere between those same two extremes of the infinitesimal and the infinite. I could collapse into the infinitesimal, into nothing, and die myself. I could collapse into a point, a point that I could choose to be Hans’s room, where I could just lie in his bed, spend all of my time with his things, his clothes, books, old toys, his knife collection, awards, cool shoes, his swimsuits, mug collection, photos, … and not do much else. Eric could slip food to me through the cracked door, until he tired of me and left. I would be in the full point of Hans, always there, always thinking of him.
The other extreme is to expand to infinity, where I could give away, destroy, or burn every single reminder of Hans. My sphere of grief could expand to infinity and on the way there I could leave Hampstead, North Carolina. I could expand past and away from Z and Eric, as they also remind me of Hans every second of every interaction. At this extreme infinite place, I could live in a remote town in Canada, the reminders gone, all prompts of grief removed, with the exception of my own head. I could start again. Remembering Hans would be only my fault, and over time I might get better, when possible happiness might overcome my sadness, that roiling, bubbling, spiraling sadness whenever I think of Hans’s death.
Either extreme leaves me alone.
Calculus might be a good way to test a mathematical function at these two extremes, but it won’t work for grief. What is good then? What is a good place between these two extremes?
Some might remember Hans once told me when he was in high school that he wanted to be good at many things rather than be an expert at just one. In a world where people seek to be the best, to focus, to specialize in just one area for fame, glory or recognition, to say he just wanted to be good sounded like something out of a Jack London story.
In hindsight, maybe we should have had the words, “Hans’s ‘good’ was many people’s ‘best’” chiseled into the side of his gravestone. Forgive the self-centered grieving of a proud and loving mother, but I look forward to meeting or hearing of the person who is as good at so many things, as balanced as Hans was. One of Hans’s friends has made it his goal to master each activity listed on the side of his gravestone, though the list, of course, is not all-inclusive (he crocheted many scarves, he had mastery of power tools and built tree forts, obstacle courses for his mountain bike, paintball courses, and the huge half-pipe in our back yard, he worked on the mechanics of his Jeep, he made us laugh). He was so much more than what he did, but what he did exposed some of the character of his life-absorbing, not-wasting-a-minute, fun, inclusive, loving, and adventuresome spirit. I know Hans wasn’t perfect. None of us are. He could get pretty grouchy sometimes when things didn’t go his way and ate too many ramen noodles. But he was a damn great guy. And I miss him with all of my soul.
I spend my mental time now in a constant concentric spiral, riding it up and down between those two extremes of our calculus of grief, trying to find balance, trying to find good, knowing that neither collapsing into a point, nor expanding past all that I love are good. What I seek now is to be good at grieving. It’s physically and mentally draining. And it’s no fun.
Good grief
Facebook confounds me now. My main reason for using it all these years was to keep my family, every one of whom does not live anywhere nearby, apprised of and connected to our family activities. But of course my list of friends has extended well beyond my family. I think social media is a wonderful way to keep people connected, contrary to naysayers’ opinions. I really enjoy Facebook, YouTube, 8tracks, Imgur, Reddit, Snapchat and Instagram (I just learned about Tumblr too). I know so much more about so many people that I would not otherwise, some people say too much, but doesn’t that then mean we are more connected? I know that I shouldn’t care what people think, but I do, we all do at some level. I also know that no one can answer my questions but me.
Do people get tired of photos of Hans because I am just reminding them of what they already know? That he’s dead? Do people really even care? I know that some do, many don’t. They have their own problems and crises and living people and dead relatives. Do I not pay enough attention to sweet Zatha anymore? If I do post a photo of her with a smile on her face, will people think that she’s gotten over Hans? That any of us have gotten over his death? I never will. Sometimes I want to blanket my Facebook and Instagram with my kids. Sometimes I wonder what is the point. I have family members who think it’s too much and bragging. Maybe I will share again. Maybe not.
What of Hans’s things should we keep, for Zatha, for her children to know a little about their cool uncle? If your brother died would you put his clothes on your child? What of his things should we give away? We still haven’t touched his room, we’ve only given away a few of his small things to people who want them, will enjoy and use them. I don’t seem to have the time or the mental energy to organize it all, to catalogue all my photos, to find a way to preserve it all, or not. How do I do good by Hans? By Zatha? For each of us? I don’t think I’ll ever be able to answer any of these questions well.
I continue spiraling up and down, between the infinitesimal and the infinite.
I haven't changed my basic values, or core life activities, it's just that my life is now forever tinged with the sadness of Hans’s death, just like his draining brain fluid was tinged light pink in the bag hanging from his hospital bed, pink with the blood from his torqued and bleeding brain.
Explaining not complaining
I read blogs, books, and articles with insights from other parents of dead children. I notice that we tend to have so many similar, yet independently realized feelings and revelations, at about the same time in our grieving. I am not discovering or divulging anything new about grieving the death of my son, though it may be new to you on this platform.
Not everyone has to save the world with a new invention or idea, or start a nonprofit, or become the president of the United States, though everyone has the legal opportunity in America to attempt each one of those. We can reach our own fullest potential with the unique resources we have available to each us. If we don’t utilize those resources and end up in a place where we don’t want to be then we have no reason to complain.
Hans’s death explains my behavior. His death was not a choice for me. It does not excuse the ugliness and pettiness I often now feel. I feel I have aged beyond my years. I still have some drive. I still have some energy. I do not sit. I try not to complain. I try not to settle into any extreme. But I don’t feel very successful at any of it sometimes.
I love you less
Hans, like millions of other toddlers, loved Toy Story. I can’t say, “To infinity and beyond,” without saying it just like Buzz Lightyear did, such is the power of movies. Hans was very generous with his “I love you”s. He and his girlfriend Alexis would say to each other, “I love you,” the other responding, “I love you times infinity,” the other finishing with, “I love you times infinity plus one.” That’s how much Hans could love – love beyond measure.
Our conversations always ended like this, Hans ever the jokester:
Hans: I love you, mom.
Me: I love you more, son.
Hans: Ok, I guess I love you less then.
Eventually he just shortened it to, “I love you less, mom.”
I love you more, son. From every infinitesimal, adorable freckle on your body to the infinity of your beautiful soul and beyond.
P.S. Hans was always trying something new. He once, for example, took a multi-day skydiving course, one where you jumped all by yourself at the end of it. He was quite disappointed when the weather turned bad, there was no good day for the jump, and he had to return to the Naval Academy without completing his newly-learned skill.
During his senior year of high school, for his required senior project, Hans researched the effects of adrenaline and other hormones secreted into the human body when engaging in the extreme sports he wanted to eventually master (skydiving, mountain climbing, etc.), and some in which he was already engaging (kitesurfing, backcountry snowboarding, off-road triathlons, etc.)
This first video is the short, two and half minute trailer he made before submitting his final product, the second video.
In Hans’s spirit of learning something new, being a lifelong learner, Eric bought an electric guitar and has been teaching himself the song in the first video. And I am going to plant a big bed of sunflower seeds, Hans's favorite flower, for the first time today in my backyard, splashed with some fiery Zinnias (Z for Zatha!). What new thing will you do or learn today?
