Chapter 24, PART 1

Before the death of my son, I had established a worldview and attitude about how I thought the world might operate. In an instant, however, reality shifted to the surreal and that which formerly made sense to me suddenly did not. I had entered Salvador Dali-land, and former, accepted practices no longer seemed pertinent. The familiar no longer existed without a deep heart-rending emotion attached to what before seemed insignificant. I walked in a daze through a world that no longer looked the same.

During this period, a month to two months after Logie’s death, we had a series of hurricanes pass through our county in Florida. The college where I teach closed each time because the area had lost power and water. Driving around the small town in which we live after one particularly bad storm, I saw only the occasional store which had generators to even light up the aisles. Cold showers became the norm; nightlife had to take place around Coleman lanterns and candles. I cooked on a camping stove.

Chapter 24, PART 2

After the return to work, concerned co-workers worried about my stress level due to the loss of a child and the additional stress of the hurricanes. I could only explain to them that the survivalist way of living after the hurricane seemed more normal for me than having hot water, power, and things the “way they were before the hurricane.” I told my friends that the hurricanes actually alleviated stress for me because this strange landscape echoed my inner feelings. The surrealism in the aftermath of the hurricane matched the surrealism of life after the death of my son. The unfamiliar is now a friendlier place than that which I knew so well.

Our brains, which have to restructure our internal landscapes, also work on restructuring our external environments, unless as in my case, nature or some outside force has done so for us. It often begins with refurnishing or renovating a home, which seems rather heartless unless you understand the deep psychological need to make a new world.

Chapter 24, PART 3

In my mid-twenties, I knew an elderly man who lost his wife of forty years and within a few months, he bought all new furniture although the old couch and chairs were certainly not in need of replacing. The man then changed the configuration of the living room. By the time he had the carpet replaced, I had decided he must have been waiting for the woman to die just so he could have the house the way he wanted it and I pondered how hen-pecked his life with her must have been. I thought perhaps he had inherited money from insurance. Then, another elderly man’s wife died, and I saw the same behavior. At this point, I realized what the men did was to change the familiar into the unfamiliar.

The chair in which the wife sat while she and Mr. B watched television was now empty. The magazine stand by her side of the living room no longer was filled with her crossword puzzles. The tan carpet, the brown drapes, everything was just as it had been and it must have intensified the loneliness to Mr. B; hence, he needed to change it to fit the strange new landscape inside his heart. The familiar becomes too painful. A lifetime of memories resides in a home with its occupants and when one of them leaves, the void can be intensified by looking at their empty chair at the table.

Chapter 24, part 4

Although the hurricane season reflected my feelings for a while, I ended up redoing my study where I sit and write, making it a sanctuary of sorts for meditation, music, reading, grading papers. I have maroon curtains and a futon covered with many pillows. Candles, baskets, small decorative boxes and books help clutter the room but give it an ambiance that helps me in meditation. I suppose that was my changing the familiar into the unfamiliar, along with the weeks of help nature provided in the forms of hurricanes.

Chapter 24, part 5

This process of redoing your environment and surroundings is natural and I would imagine even more so after a child dies in your own home. The person must be torn between leaving a room untouched, renovating the room, or in some instances, even moving. If you look around your walls and remember that’s where your daughter stood when reciting a poem, or see the stool that your son perched upon while eating his cereal in the morning, the reminders through everyday living of your loss are constant. On the other hand, it must be tempting to leave everything untouched, not as a memorial, but more as a sign that we are not ready to accept the death.

Chapter 24, part 6

One friend told me she got rid of her son’s king-sized bed and rearranged all the furniture after he died. She couldn’t stand to have the association. My son lived with us for a while until about two months before he died, but he didn’t live there long enough for me to form that many associations. However, I did have to alter the arrangement of the living room furniture, an act which displeased my husband, but which he accepted once he heard my reasoning. The last time I saw Logan, I was on the couch facing the dining room and we said goodbye as he was walking through the dining room door. I realized after about a year that this memory kept gnawing at me every time I looked up from the couch, so I rearranged the couches. Now, the memory is not in front of me every evening when I get home from work.

Chapter 24, part 7

I believe it to be very therapeutic for several reasons to make these changes. First, they help remove the cues that continually remind us of the past and the way it used to be “before.” In addition to changing the cues that remind one of loss, it also keeps the grieving person busy, which helps the mind, at least for a while, remove itself from the truth and gives it a different framework from which to think. Lest anyone think this is negative, our minds cannot dwell on one thought constantly for too long until it reaches the point of obsession or insanity. The act of renovations keeps the mind active and still connected to the present.

Although the renovations or simply rearranging might help, you might feel too tired to do anything for a while. The tiredness hits you and you wonder, what’s the use?

Chapter 24, part 8

ACTIVITY

Is there anything that prompts a painful memory that you can change? For example, if seeing your child’s sneakers in the laundry room causes you grief, it might help you to remove them or have someone do it for you. The sneakers are a desperate sign of hope that your child might return, but leaving them will not alter the fact that he or she is gone. What to do with your child’s room might be the hardest choice you ever have to make, but it might give you a small balm to know that your child’s clothes are used by the needy. I suggest you make at least one room unfamiliar to remove the associations, even if it’s moving the couch.