Getting Old Is Criminal (22 page)

THIRTY-THREE

GRIEF THER APY

Ican’t believe this is happening to me. Here I am sitting in the car with—you’ll never guess—

three people who I didn’t think would ever speak to me again. The gloomy threesome from dining room table number three.

I’m in Seymour’s classic Lincoln and all four of us are on our way to our first Bereavement Group session. How did this happen? Amazingly, I did get through to them. Apparently, after some arguing and crying and insisting—how I would love to have been a fly on that wall—they decided I was right. Maybe they needed help. Maybe the old busybody had a point. They weren’t having any fun.

But, as they told me, it was under one condition.

Since I was also a widow, I had to go, too. Or else G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 1 7

they wouldn’t. For a moment, I was tempted to say I am not going and who cares, anyway, whether you do or not. But after all my hard work playing the insipid Mary Worth, it had worked. And after they acted upon my suggestion so fast, what else could I do? There was an opening the next day and they grabbed it. So, here I am, a very unwilling participant.

I remind myself that no good deed goes unpun-ished.

*

*

*

The therapy session is held in an ordinary room in a community center not far from town. Just plain wooden chairs in a circle. A wooden table holding tissues and water bottles. A chalkboard. On the board, these words are written:

NUMBNESS. DENIAL. ANGER.

DEPRESSION. ACCEPTANCE.

The participants are all prowling the room like a pack of coyotes sniffing the air for garbage. No one looks anyone else in the eyes. I am the only one sitting.

Finally, a young woman walks in. A very young one. She looks about twelve in her bland clothes, rimless glasses, and mousy hair. She takes a deep breath. Pats her notebook for security. Why do I have the feeling this is her first group? Right out of college textbook time. “Hi, everybody. Let’s all sit down. Okay?”

2 1 8 • R i t a L a k i n

They take their time choosing seats. Measuring who will be seated on either side of them. My threesome sits next to one another. Misery loves company? Or safety in numbers? Our leader sits down next to me. No one else comes near us.

She smiles, a little nervously, I think. When everyone is settled, she begins. “Good morning.

My name is Heather. I am your group leader. But you can call me Hetty.”

Tight smiles appear at that. I almost expect her to say,
My name is Hetty. I am your server. And
what do you want for breakfast?
Or maybe,
My
name is Hetty. I am an alcoholic.

“Let me share a few thoughts with you. First of all, this is a newly formed group, so we’ll all be starting from the same point. I can imagine what pain you might be feeling, pain you suffer alone, but you’ll find sometimes it’s easier to talk to strangers.

“Always remember: You are not alone. You’ll be sharing similar experiences and you’ll find new friends here who become your support group. And the most important thing to know is everything said in this room is private. What we reveal to one another stays here.”

A fifty-ish, husky man in a brown polyester leisure suit with flamingoes on his shirt raises his hand. “Just like Vegas, huh?”

Slight laughter. Here we go. There’s always one comedian in every bunch.

Brown Leisure Suit apologizes by making a G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 1 9

zipping motion across his lips. There is busy straightening of chairs, a few coughs, and finally silence.

“Just a few ground rules before we start. Take turns. Don’t interrupt. Be supportive and pay attention by using eye contact.”

With that, everyone seriously looks around the room, making eye contact.

“Let’s begin by introducing ourselves.” She points to Anna. “Will you start?”

Need I say that my threesome is all dressed in black for the occasion?

Anna looks around like the kid in the class who hates to be called on first. She blurts it out fast.

“My name is Anna. And my dead husband was Harry.” She clamps her mouth shut and her eyes tear up.

Seymour, sitting next to her, assumes that’s the pattern. “My name is Seymour and my dead wife was Sally.”

Lorraine, stiff as ever, recites. “Lorraine. Jim.”

Next to Lorraine is a rather large lady, redheaded, maybe in her sixties, wearing a bright green dress a tad too tight for her. She sits with her hands cradled in her lap. “I’m Brenda. I lost my darling Arnold not three months ago.” And the tears begin. The box of tissues is passed to her.

Leisure suit speaks up. “Frank. My loss was Gary.”

There is a shifting of eyes. Embarrassed, but respectful. Hoping to show a nonjudgmental attitude—gay people can love, too.

2 2 0 • R i t a L a k i n

Last and as far as I’m concerned least is me.

What am I doing here? This is crazy. “Gladys. My husband’s name was Jack.” And what about the loss of my other love? My other Jack? Do I say Jack twice? Jack. Jack? Who shall I say I’m mourning? I feel so foolish here.

“Well done,” says Hetty. “That was the easy part. What we want to do now is reach deep inside ourselves and speak out about our loved ones, identify our feelings toward them.” She gets up and walks to the chalkboard. “These are the phases of grief you will go through.” She points to the words already on the board. She repeats them:

“Numbness, then Denial. Anger. Depression. And finally, Acceptance.”

She looks at each of us to make sure we got that.

“Our goal is to open up and share. So take a few moments and revisit your memories, and our next step will be to verbalize our feelings through our memories. I’d like us to create an atmosphere of trust, where we can relate our stories without fear.”

Silence as revisiting takes place. I can’t bring myself to think about Jack. Either Jack. But I do, despite myself.

Anna seems to surprise herself as she raises her hand first. “I was married to Harry for forty-five years. We had two children, Stevie and Stanley. He was a good provider. We lived in Boca. He was a dentist. Both my sons are dentists. We all had very G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 2 1

good dental plans. I never had to worry about a single cavity.” She stops, dabs at her teary eyes.

Takes the box of tissues from Brenda. Then looks up at Hetty, as if waiting to hear if she got a good grade.

Hetty smiles encouragingly. “Very nice, Anna.

But tell us your feelings. What about losing Harry?

Tell us what upsets you the most.”

Anna thinks for a moment. She seems at a total loss. “That I don’t like anybody else touching my teeth? Not even my boys?”

Swell. Unclear on the concept. This is going to be a long two hours.

Hetty shakes her head. “Seymour? May we hear from you?”

Seymour smiles shyly. “My story is similar.”

Oy, I hope not. I lean back in my uncomfortable chair.

Seymour leans forward. “Sally kept a nice house. Miami. Kids. Good job.”

Hetty stops him. “Feelings, Harry, feelings.”

She gives him a hint. “What were your thoughts at your wife’s gravesite? Start with that.”

Seymour looks a little puzzled. “I wasn’t there.”

Anna is surprised. This is news to her. “You weren’t there? Where were you?”

“I was here. She was buried in Teaneck, New Jersey.”

Now Lorraine is fascinated. “What was she doing in New Jersey?”

2 2 2 • R i t a L a k i n

Seymour looks sheepish. “She ran away with my accountant seventeen years, three months, and five days ago. That’s where they moved to. To get a fresh start.”

His story was similar? Did I say I was bored?

Oh, my. Those three spend all their time with one another and are clueless?

Young Hetty seems nonplussed. College didn’t tell her how to handle situations like this? She tries for some retort. “And you’re feeling anger about what happened.”

“No.” He shrugs. “I guess the better man won.”

The group stares at Seymour, astonished. I, along with them. There’s a smattering of restless movement as we wait for our leader to remember she is still in charge.

“Wait a minute.” Lorraine just got it. “So who’s in the grave you visit with us?”

Seymour blushes. “It’s just a stone I put up. It’s not like I could go to Teaneck every month.”

His friends stare, shocked and chagrined.

“Can I take my turn? I’m ready.” Brenda has her hand up. “I am definitely in touch with my feelings. I loved my Arnold. He went everywhere I went. He slept with me. He rode in the car with me. He ate off my plate when he was extra hungry.” She smiles shyly. “He even followed me into the bathroom. We were inseparable. I miss him every minute, every second of every day. You want emotions?” She glances at the chalkboard. “I’m numb and in denial and angry and depressed, but G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 2 3

I’ll never accept the loss of the love of my life.” She sobs. And grabs the tissues back from Anna.

For a moment there is silence. Then Brenda cradles her arms in her lap again, as if caressing something. “He fit right here, right in the center of my chakras.”

There is much mumbling. She was married to a midget?

Lorraine is furious. “You’re talking about a cat?

Or a dog?”

Brenda bravely lifts her head. “They don’t call them man’s best friend for nothing. I dare you to find someone as wonderful as my Lhasa apso!”

Seymour is confused. “What about your husband?”

Brenda huffs. “He’s dead, too.”

It’s beginning to feel like a circus in here, with the keeper losing control and the animals about to run wild. Hetty is speechless.

Lorraine starts to address the group. For a moment we don’t know it is she. Her head is down, her voice is low. “You want to talk about an emotion? How about hate? I hated the way he cut his toenails and let the bits fly across the bed. I hated the way he picked his teeth in public. I hated the way he snored and mucus dribbled out his nose. I hated the way he treated our children. I hated the way he told stupid jokes at parties. I hated his mustache. And his beard. In fact, I hated his whole damn face. And his body wasn’t much either. I hated the way he lay on top of me and grunted.

2 2 4 • R i t a L a k i n

And never giving me an orgasm.” She stops. We all stare at her.

I wonder if our leader might like to take a break. Maybe she needs time out. Maybe to go outside and phone
her
therapist.

Frank jumps out of his chair. “My emotions are running over. I need to talk about Gary.” He paces the room, all eyes following him. “We met at the country club. I was so young, such a novice. He taught me everything I know. I was naïve; he had to lead me through every step. He could have had others more experienced. But no, he chose me. He wanted to be my mentor. How he made me keep up! Going to the gym, working out. Keeping the body a well-oiled machine. Every morning, noon, and night, practicing ’til I got better at it. And he was always so patient when I was so clumsy.”

Anna throws her arms up as if to push him away. “Stop it,” she cries. “I can’t listen to this.”

Lorraine jumps in. “These are not things one should confess to a mixed audience.”

And talking about her non-orgasms is?

Even Seymour professes embarrassment.

Brenda says she can handle it.

Frank is angry. “When Gary died, my game went to hell. I couldn’t putt worth a damn. My swing turned to crap. I had a right to cry when my golf pro dropped dead on the ninth hole. You’d cry too if you’d spent three thousand dollars trying for a halfway decent score!”

G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 2 5

He sits down. Utter silence. He’s crying over losing his golf pro?

“You have a wife?” Anna finally manages to squeak out.

He bats his hand as if to swat her away. “You mean my wife the hooker?”

Is he still talking golf or is he talking sex?

Nobody’s about to touch that line.

“Time’s about up,” Hetty whispers, wide-eyed, without looking at her watch. “But before we finish, I’d like to say, we’ve made some progress . . .”

The group stands and begins to disperse.

Suddenly there is the sound of hysterical laughter.

Everyone turns. To me. I am the one laughing.

And crying and laughing. I am hysterical. “What about my turn? I want to tell you about my two Jacks. I lost them both. One of them was murdered and the other stopped loving me.”

One by one they sit back down and listen to me.

“There is something powerful about not allowing yourself to give up your pain when you lose someone. There is comfort in holding it close. It warms you. It keep you from ever letting yourself take risks again. No matter who or what you loved. It lives forever inside you. I say to myself over and over again, I got over my husband. After all, it was over forty years ago. Ridiculous. No one mourns that long. Try telling that to someone who survived the Holocaust. You look at yourself—this outside shell of you. You seem to be functioning in 2 2 6 • R i t a L a k i n

a real world. You get on with your life. You have children to raise. And friends who are there for you. You even have a career. But there is always that piece that is missing. Once you admit the truth, that it can never be filled again, you start to heal. Something similar might take its place. But it will never be the same. Your only hope is to try to make peace with that part that will haunt you forever.”

I get up. I start for the door. Suddenly this mot-ley collection of strangers engulfs me and hugs me.

I hug them back. Lots of tears and tissues being handed out.

Lots of smiling and
See ya next time
and
Take it
easy
and off they go.

Anna shakes Hetty’s hand. “Thank you,” she says. “I really got a lot out of this.”

*

*

*

At dinner that night, I can’t believe my eyes. There are my tablemates waving eagerly to me as I enter.