Layers of an Onion:

Report from Grief Central.

This whole grief thing is not for the weak.  They don’t tell you that (and who are they, anyway?). New, exciting revelations of particular losses, particular things now gone unfold like layers of an onion throughout the day. 

I am establishing a songwriters scholarship fund in Sandy’s name to support up-and-coming songwriters — something he did throughout his life and career in music. The co-founder of our non-profit drafts a blurb on the fund’s mission.  From my work position at the dining room table, I edit it, then turn to the other room and look to the couch to ask Sandy to put his spin on it.  Oh: he’s not here. Gone are Sandy’s insights on my writing, our writing —any of our projects.  I will never get to ask Sandy for his take on my work, or gain his perspective, or benefit from his clever phrasings, his big ideas. These are gone. My smart, funny, inspirational collaborator is gone. 

I am meeting with a co-writer on a new musical I’m writing. We are being blessed this fall with a production of our new piece on women suffragists, Ladies, How Dare You!. We discuss rewrites, production ideas, dates, schedules, plans. I hear my voice discuss these things with clarity, enthusiasm.  Yes, we’ll have the script completed by these dates.  Yes, the idea to move that song to that spot in Act 2 makes more sense.  Yes, it is all very exciting. Except, after the call I am upended by tears, moans; wailing sounds emerge from my sacrum. It is not that I have no idea if or when I will be able to write again, or when I might ever feel excited about something (though both are true).  It is this: I can’t tell Sandy!  I can’t share our idea for moving that song in Act 2, or say how cool the production team is, or ask if he’ll come with me to PA for rehearsals in the fall.  He will not know about the song or the production team. He will not come with me in the fall. 

I can’t find the title for one of his vehicles. I need this document to sell it, something I am now tasked with to complete one of his many projects, the project that was his unusual/sometimes classic car venture (buying, enjoying, fixing up, selling for a profit). I check the RMV site to find how to obtain a duplicate title. The application requires you to have the “Title #.” This is found on the title, the polite insurance agent tells me after I’ve waited on hold for 37 minutes. But I do not have the title, I explain.  That is why I’m applying for a duplicate. You might try calling the RMV, he offers. But this advice denies any knowledge of the RMV as a place where one does NOT go to ask questions, or, rather, to obtain answers. Sandy would know what to do, would not look it up or wait on hold 37 minutes (or any minutes) to get non-advice from an insurance guy.  But, worse, he is not here to vent to, to laugh with about the absurdity of the situation.  “Hon, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve gone through just to...”  I instinctively turn to tell him, so he can say, “Oh, don’t tell me… come ‘ere, Hon… don’t worry about it… take a break… I’ll figure it out.”  Those words, his arms around me — all of them.  Gone.

I am checking a date on our wall calendar in the kitchen, the calendar he made for me with pictures from our prior year together. This month features pictures of me with various friends, plus a larger one of Sandy and me at dinner somewhere, smiling. He selects pictures he thinks would make me smile, makes it so that the boxes of each day are large enough for me to write things in. This year, after he picked it up and brought it home, he saw he’d unintentionally made it too small; the boxes were not big enough for me to write in.  He said he’d make another one. I said, “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” I did not want him worrying about things, doing things, exerting.  Ignoring me, he made another one, a bigger one.  This is the one I look at now, write something in because the boxes are large enough.  And I realize: He will never make another calendar for our kitchen.  He will never re-make one because I would enjoy it more, even when I say it does not matter.  He will never again be in our kitchen. 

I am in the grocery store. I am in the baked goods section, contemplating which ones to get for Sandy. He loved baked goods — especially apple puffs, or turnovers… but, really anything defined as a “baked good.” But I will not get baked goods for Sandy, or if I do, he will not enjoy them.  I have lost the person for whom I could pick out nice things at the grocery store. The way I think about him in each moment is lost, changed, because HE is lost, changed. 

Sandy loved apple puffs

And the inner-most layer of the onion: It is a particular cruel move of the universe that, when you lose your person, you lose the person to whom you most want to turn to in the loss of your person. Sandy’s the one I want to talk to, cry to.  He is the one who’d be helping me through this. He knows how to comfort me, what to say, what to do. He’s had 30+ years of training! Why throw in a rookie (friend, family member) as Chief Comforter of Liv at a time like this? No one can do the job like Sandy.  But he will not serve in this role. Liv has lost her Chief Comforter.  

I know what you’re thinking: He’s still here. Well, then, where?  This ‘being here in another form’ or ‘another realm’ is not a helpful idea right now. That’s all it is: an idea. But Sandy was real, a real human being, an important person with a whole life! He created things and felt things and laughed and loved. I want that person— not the ‘one who is still with us.’  

I know what else you’re thinking: I have his songs. Well, I listen. I look through them every day. I know them all by heart anyway.  Here’s one: Find a Way.  Easy for him to say. 

This is one of his classics. Take a listen. He’ll help YOU find a way.

Find a way on your own

Find a place somewhere inside you

Where your heart keeps a warmth just for you

Find a way you can go

When there’s no one there to guide you

Find a way…

Find a road that takes you home

Find a faith that you believe in

Find a reason for it all

Find out where you’re going

Find a way on your own

Find a place somewhere inside you

Where your heart keeps a warmth just for you

Find a way you can go

When there’s no one there to guide you

Find a way… find a way… find a way