Saturday, December 1, 2012

Who Is My Ghost Writer?

I wish to mind meander here a little...

I am struggling with grief loneliness.  I understand, believe me I get it, no one can actually feel my pain.  
For instance when I watch a video of someone sky diving, I might suck in breaths of fear, feel tinges of exhilaration and a sense of relief when the parachuter lands safely, but unless I actually jump from the plane, I know that I will have never get the full impact of the experience.  

I can gather together with others who have had losses almost exactly like mine and I may have the ability to empathize with them more than someone who has not suffered such a loss.  But, their tears are agonizingly and privately  their own, just as mine are.

Today, my mind is weary and my limbs seem too heavy to move.  I speak a mute's language of shrugs and sighs. The pain just above my right eye is relentless, and my heart is writhing.  

I imagine being somewhere else.  Strangely, it is not basking in the yellow warmth of a sandy beach, but instead I picture shivering in the white cold of a snowy mountain.

My scattered thoughts lead me to my mother's death bed.  She was unresponsive at that point.  She had not seen my brother for a long time.  She spent her whole life wanting him to be okay.  Although he was not able to be by her side, he called and we placed the phone up to her ear.   He told her he was doing well and that she need not worry about him because he was okay.  It is what she longed to hear.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I went in to check on her.  I stroked her hair and told her that she was a good mother, she was loved by all of us and most importantly, Adam was okay.  
She passed a few hours later.

As I think and write about this, I realize that there is never really an end to life's story.  Our life is not a sit-com TV show or a novel that gets wrapped up tight.   Life is more like a short story, a very short story.

My mother died thinking that her son was going to be okay.  He was not and still isn't.  But we gave her the ending that she would have wanted.

How silly to think that we are the creator's of our own story.  

My story had a predictable beginning, and a relatively uneventful middle. I spent hours developing and nurturing my beloved characters as I helped them grow and evolve.  How foolish of me to think that  I had the plot all figured out and I could end my story with "And they all lived happily every after".

Actually, the epiphany of accepting that my story is being written by a ghost writer is somewhat of a relief.  I can relinquish control to her, for she writes a most suspenseful story which will keep me guessing right up until the...

As I willingly and gratefully share my thoughts, I remember and appreciate those everyday hugs and "I love you's", the hours of almost daily telephone support chats, the continued "thinking of you" notes I receive in the mail, the "just when I need it most, "checking in" and Skype sessions, and of course the supportive comments from my very kind readers.

I have created a page for Anna's Diary.  It can be found under the Tab titled Anna's Diary.
I have posted all of the entries to date there, starting with January 1, 1929.

Here are the past few days from Anna's diary:

Friday November 29, 1929
Junior and Vera are invited to Doris C's party in Arlington.  Children had a nice time.  On way home stopped for alcohol in the car.  Very cold out.  Both Vera and Marie came home with me. 
Sat. November 30, 1929
Stayed in bed all morning.  Vera and Marie here with Junior.  Jean home at one.  Got lunch for us.  Mary came over about four and Isabelle and Ted.  All stayed for supper.  Tom did not come.
Sun.  December 1, 1929
Home all day long.  Raining out.  Jean studying. I read a book.  Junior took a long nap.  About six o'clock we took him to Mt. Prospect with us.  Quite good but tired towards the end.


  1. Hugs to you! Grief is uniquely our own. I think the hugs and love we share with each other are gifts and so important. Just receiving a note or an email can bring you to a better place sometimes. It is hard to explain to others. Know that when I say my prayers for Charlie, I say one for your son and for you.

    1. Hi Winnie,
      I will remember that my son and I are you in prayers. How wonderful to think that you would do that for us.
      Thank you.

  2. Your words are so very poignant and right on for today, Lynda. I like the comparison of life to a short story, a very short story. I like the notion that there is a ghost writer and we can't predict her influence. I can only write so much of my story but some I am forced to leave up to this ghost writer.
    Grief and our inner life, in general, is exclusively our own. I get that in ways that I can't communicate. That feels so lonely and maybe that's because, yes, life is lonely. Sometimes. And then there are the times when the connections are fused, if only for a few minutes or a day or two. And life is not so lonely.
    Thanks for writing, Lynda.

    1. Your comment jolted me into remembering that life is a series of brief minute periods of times. Sometimes it takes such a reminder for me to realize that by letting someone in, even if it is for just a short visit, I can establish special forever fused connections.
      Thank you.

  3. Life is so short. It is such a mystery to me how one minute someone you have loved all your life is there and the next they are gone. HUGS. The passing of one you love so is heart wrenching.


    1. Ahh, the mystery of life. I sit and shake my head every day and and ask why?
      Thanks for the hugs, Cathy. I need them!

  4. This is a powerful post and I think a really thoughtful way of looking at story and life. Thanks for sharing it and thanks for the reminder to appreciate the many ways friends, family, and even strangers have supported me over the past year (and more).

    1. Anne,
      Thank you for your support. I know you understand how much your "checking in" means to me.

  5. I like your idea on life being written by a ghost writer. I think that's an inspiring way of looking at it.