Writing Lessons: Writing About the Dead

WRITING ABOUT THE DEAD presents memoirists with a special set of problems, as well as remarkable freedom, and each writer will wrestle and debate with the ups and downs of the assignment in his or her own way and time. The one thing that is guaranteed to each of us as we write about the dead, though, is insight. It’s an undeniable, unavoidable gift that comes with time, distance, and the particular brand of reflection only writing allows.

But what to do with that insight? For instance, can you replace the judgments you once had and recast a relationship in a more healing light? Let’s ask Virginia Simpson, author of the highly-acclaimed, just-published, The Space Between, A Memoir of Mother-Daughter Love at the End of Life.  

The Benefits of Exploring My Relationship With My Mother

Through Writing After She Was Dead

by Virginia Simpson, Ph.D., FT

My mother and I had many conversations while she was alive, but I learned the most from the ones we had after she died. These replays of actual discussions appear in my book The Space Between: A Memoir of Mother-Daughter Love at the End of Life (She Writes Press, April 2016). I didn’t initially intend to write about my mother, but once I started, I found myself on an exploration and excavation of our relationship through the prism of the last six years of her life when a life-threatening condition necessitated she live with me. Our story took hold and never let go until I finished writing the last page.

Life moves fast with little if any time to reflect as we interact with others.

The slowing down inherent in writing acted like a microscope revealing details and aspects of our personalities and interactions not visible while my mother lived.

Because she was never going to read what I wrote, I was unshackled by the necessity to protect her feelings and was free to expose the truth of our complex connection. I had time to examine each moment, each detail—time to see and sometimes reject my earlier judgments or need to be right.

Translating our conversations into dialogue deepened my understanding and broadened my heart in ways not possible when my mother was alive. Time and distance gave clarity to what I could not see clearly in the moment. The stories couldn’t change because a major character was gone—I changed in the telling and reflecting.

The benefits of expressive writing are well known, but it’s not enough to simply put down your emotions—that’s what we do in our first draft. The real benefits are derived as we continue to rewrite and hone our story by reflecting on the events and finding their deeper meaning. Through this, our narrative—the story we tell ourselves—is transformed and what once hurt us loses its ability to cause us any more pain. Writing about a deceased loved one allows us to relate to this person in new ways thus enabling the most profound healing.

The stories about my mother were painful to recall, but as I wrote and rewrote and examined and reexamined each event, I uncovered sides to the story I had missed as we were living our days. My mother was revealed to me as a woman of great strength—a woman who loved deeply, a woman who had been hurt immensely, and a woman who discovered that having fun, being kind, and loving were of utmost importance.

I had to write about her to be able to pull away the mask of judgments so that I could finally know this person who I thought I knew so well—my mother, Ruth.

 

The Space Between: A Memoir of Mother-Daughter Love at the End of Life

(She Writes Press, 2016), an excerpt

     Chapter 7

Home Invasion

Any  idiot  can  face  a  crisis;  it’s  this  day-to-day  living  that

wears  you  out  .  .  .

—Anton  Chekov

SUNDAY,  AUG U S T  1 ,  1 9 9 9

If  this  were  a  screenplay  for  a  movie,  the  opening  would  read

like  this:

 

EXT .  FLAT- R O O F  C R E A M – C O L O R HOUSE —DAY

Threatening  Witch  music  from  The  Wizard  of  Oz.  Da  da–da  da

–da  da  da.

 

But  this  isn’t  a  movie.  This  is  my  life,  and  there  is  no  soundtrack

or  theme  music.

“It’s  too  hot,”  Mom  grumbles  as  she  gets  out  of  my  car  and  hur-

ries  to  the  front  door.

“I  know,  Mom.  That’s  summer  in  the  desert.”

“Yuck.”

I  open  the  door  and  step  aside  to  allow  Mom  to  enter

first.  She  skulks  past  me  into  my  home,  now  her  home,  with  a

scowl.  Maggie  strolls  over  to  us  with  a  big  white  Flossie,  a  toy

that  doubles  as  doggie  dental  floss,  in  her  mouth,  tail  wagging.

Mom  smiles  and  pats  Maggie  on  her  head.  After  I  say  hello

and  scratch  her  favorite  spot  on  her  back  near  her  tail,  Maggie

saunters  away  from  us  and  plops  down  on  the  cool  tile  floor  in

the  kitchen.

I  escort  Mom  to  her  new  bedroom  and  point  out  the  canis-

ters  I’ve  had  installed  in  the  ceiling  over  the  head  of  the  queen-

size  bed  so  she’ll  have  plenty  of  light  when  she  reads.

“I  had  the  cable  company  come  out  and  your  TV  is  all

hooked  up  and  ready  to  go.”

She  nods  and  walks  over  to  the  window  to  the  left  of  the

dresser  where  the TV  sits,  and  looks  out  through  the  open  shutter

slats.  “The  trees  are  pretty,”  she  says.

“Yes. We have Meyer lemon, tangelo, pink grapefruit, orange,

and  peach  trees.  The  peaches  are  already  gone  and  the  grapefruit,

orange,  and  tangelo  will  ripen  in  the  fall.”

“I’ve  never  heard  of  a  Meyer  lemon.”

“Oh,  it’s  the  best  lemon  you’ve  ever  had.  The  rind  is  thinner

and  the  juice  much  sweeter  than  the  normal  lemon.  I  always  keep

Meyer  lemon  ice  cubes  in  the  freezer  so  you  can  put  them  in  a

glass  of  water.”

“You  know  I  don’t  drink  water.”  Her  face  puckers  as  she

sticks  out  her  tongue  and  she  shakes  her  head.

“Well,  you’re  going  to  have  to  now  that  you’re  living  in  the

desert.”

“I  don’t  have  to  do  anything.”  She  turns  away  from  me  and

doesn’t  see  my  fist  glued  to  my  scrunched  mouth.  The  carpet

mutes  the  impatient  sound  of  my  foot  tapping  against  the  floor.

I  want  to  tell  her  how  crucial  water  is  in  the  desert,  but  I’m

certain  she  won’t  listen  to  me.  Time  to  move  on.

“Let  me  show  you  the  bathrooms  you’ll  be  using.”

I  lead  her  through  the  doorway  to  the  right  of  her  wicker  bed

into  the  bathroom  connected  to  her  new  bedroom,  one  of  the

two  bathrooms  she’ll  use.  The  bathroom  consists  of  two  rooms;

the  one  we’re  in  has  a  brown-tiled  counter  with  a  white  farmer’s

sink  and  is  next  to  a  smaller  room  with  a  toilet  and  bathtub/

shower  combination  with  the  same  brown  tile.  I  open  the  drawers

to  show  Mom  where  I’ve  placed  her  toiletries.

“Thank  you,”  Mom  nods  and  moves  towards  the  room  with

the  toilet.  She  stops  at  the  door,  and  her  body  stiffens.  “What’s

that?”  She  points  to  the  seat  with  handles  above  the  toilet.

“That’s  a  commode.  It  has  bars  to  hold  onto,  and  the  high-

er  seat  will  make  it  easier  for  you  to  sit  because  you  won’t  need

to  bend  down  so  far.”  Her  eyes  narrow  when  I  add,  “It  comes

with  a  bucket,  and  if  you’re  ever  too  sick,  we  can  bring  this

into  your  room  so  that  you  can  use  the  toilet  without  having

to  walk  as  far.”

Only  after  the  words  escape  from  my  mouth  do  I  realize  this

is  too  much  information.  I’ve  never  been  good  at  knowing  when

to  quit  talking  while  I  was  ahead,  and  I’m  certain  the  sight  of  the

commode  had  me  behind  before  I  opened  my  mouth.  Yep,  I  lost

her  at  “commode.”

I  rush  her  out  of  the  room  and  escort  her  down  the  hall  to

the  other  bathroom.

“Mom,  I  got  you  grab  bars  to  hold  onto.  I  bought  the  best

ones  I  could  find.”  I  point  to  the  decorative  bar  outside  the  shower.

“I decided  this  should  be  the  room  where  you  bathe  because

these  couldn’t  be  installed  in  the  other  bathroom  without  making

it  awkward  for  you  to  get  into  the  shower.”

I  open  the  shower  door  and  show  her  the  other  grab  bar,

the  extra-safe  non-slip  mat,  bathing  chair,  and  special  handheld

showerhead  I  bought  for  her.  I  watch  her  like  an  expectant  child,

but  I’m  rewarded  with  a  frown  and  a  grunt.

I  lead  her  back  to  her  bedroom,  where  I’m  sure  she’ll  be  hap-

pier  with  the  other  things  I  got  her.

Mom  walks  over  to  the  dresser  and  her  eyes  rest  on  her  black

inlaid  onyx  set  consisting  of  a  large  handheld  mirror;  a  cracked,

smaller  mirror  with  a  bendable  handle;  and  a  small,  lidded,  round

jar.  She  fondles  each  piece  with  a  wistful  smile.  She’s  had  this  set

for  as  long  as  I  can  remember.  I  have  no  idea  when  she  bought

them  or  if  they  were  a  gift.  I  don’t  know  why  I  never  asked.

She turns back toward me. “Where’d you put my jewelry case?”

“In  the  top  drawer.”

She  opens  the  drawer  and  picks  up  a  weathered,  oval,  leather

case  and  rubs  her  fingers  over  the  abstract,  raised  pattern  carved

into  the  tan  surface.  She  holds  it  with  the  same  gentleness  a

mother  holds  her  baby.

“My  mother  gave  this  to  me,”  she  says.  “She’d  been  in  the

hospital  for  months  and  she  was  dying  and  somehow  she  got  this

for  me.  I  don’t  know  how  she  did  it.  This  is  the  only  thing  I  re-

member  her  ever  giving  me.”  She  shakes  her  head  ever  so  slightly

and  with  a  wistful  sigh  returns  the  case  to  the  drawer.

“That’s  so  special,  Mom.”

“She  was  special.  My  mother  was  the  smartest  person  I’ve

ever  known.”

“Including  me,  Mom?”  I  say  with  a  playful  smile.

“No.  Of  course  not.  You’re  brilliant.”

I  don’t  let  her  words  inside  where  they  might  soothe  me.

Why  do  her  harsh  words  penetrate  and  stick  while  her  praise

echoes  off  into  the  distance?

“I  have  more  things  for  you,  Mom.”  I  point  towards  the  glass

nightstand  at  the  left  of  her  bed.

Mom  picks  up  and  begins  to  fiddle  with  the  alarm  system  I

got  her,  a  small  white  square  on  a  white  string.  “What  is  this?”

“An  alarm  system  you  wear  around  your  neck  so  that  if

something  happens  and  you  need  me,  all  you  do  is  push  the  little

button  and  I’ll  be  alerted  to  come  help  you.”

“Oh,”  she  says  as  frost  begins  to  cover  everything  in  the

room.  You’ve  never  lived  until  you’ve  heard  one  of  my  mother’s

“ohs.”  That  small,  two-letter  word  speaks  volumes,  but  the  tune

is  anything  but  melodic.  No  one  can  chop  a  word  into  shards  like

my  mom.  I’m  certain  she  doesn’t  realize  how  she  slices  into  me

when  she  does  this.

Although  I’m  hurt,  I’m  not  ready  to  give  up.

“I  got  you  something  special,  Mom.”  I  hold  a  small,  gift-

wrapped  box  in  my  outstretched  hand.

Mom  hesitates  but  doesn’t  look  at  me  before  she  takes  the  box.

“Open  it,  Mom.  I  think  you’ll  like  it.”

I’m  certain  she’ll  love  the  pretty,  pink  leather  Raika  calendar

and  address  book.  I  scouted  everything  at  The  Village  Inscriber,

an  upscale  stationery  store  in  my  neighborhood,  before  I  pur-

chased  this  expensive  gift  for  Mom.  I’d  never  buy  anything  this

pricey  for  myself,  but  after  all  Mom  has  been  through  I  wanted

to  give  her  a  gift  that  would  make  her  feel  special.

She  opens  the  box,  pulls  back  the  tissue,  and  stares  at  her  gift

for  a  moment  before  removing  it.  No  smile.

“Do  you  like  it?”  My  neck  cranes  forward  and  my  eyes  are

wide  with  expectation.

I  want  her  to  toss  me  something,  but  she  just  looks  at  it

and  when  she  does  speak,  her  “yes”  is  as  dry  as  the  harsh  desert

outside.

I  swallow  hard.

I  can’t  believe  how  excited  I  was  to  show  Mom  everything  I

did  for  her.  I  want  her  to  be  comfortable  and  happy  here,  but  so

far  she  hasn’t  liked  anything  I’ve  done.  I  slink  inside  myself  and

try  to  shove  down  the  rush  of  emotions  rumbling  inside,  but

they’re  too  strong.  I  wish  I  didn’t  feel  so  unsettled  by  her  pres-

ence  and  ruffled  by  my  feelings  of  failure.  I  never  stop  to  consider

what  this  massive  disruption  to  her  life  means  to  my  mother,  or

that  she  has  just  faced  down  her  own  death.  I  fail  to  consider

her  vulnerability  or  how  afraid  she  might  be.  I  don’t  know  if  she

is  aware  of  those  things  in  herself,  or  if  this  is  her  experience,

because  I  don’t  ask.  We  seem  to  be  isolated,  blind  women  lost  in

this  new  life,  and  we  continue  to  bump  against  one  another.  Our

relationship  reminds  me  of  “All  I  Know,”  the  Jimmy  Webb  song

performed  by  Simon  &  Garfunkel,  which  speaks  of  the  way  two

people  can  easily  bruise  each  other  despite  knowing  at  a  deeper

level  that  their  love  is  the  only  thing  of  importance.

And  so,  although  the  physical  space  between  us  is  smaller

than  it  has  been  for  almost  thirty  years,  the  emotional  space  is  our

own  Grand  Canyon,  deep,  wide,  and  treacherous.

“I’m  extremely  tired,  Ginni.  I’m  going  to  lie  down  and  take

a  nap.”

“Okay.  You  must  be  exhausted  after  all  you’ve  been  through.”

I  kiss  her  on  the  cheek  before  I  make  my  escape.

I  race  across  the  house  towards  my  bedroom.  Maggie  fol-

lows  and  scoots  in  before  I  shut  the  door.  I  can’t  scream  or  swear

because  I  no  longer  live  alone  and  Mom  might  hear  me,  so  I  am

in  a  silent  fury  as  I  pace  back  and  forth  across  the  room,  shaking,

my  insides  on  fire.

This  is  the  first  day,  the  first  hour.  What  have  I  gotten  my-

self  into?

 

Author bio

Virginia A. Simpson, Ph.D., FT is a bereavement care specialist and Executive Counseling Director for hundreds of funeral homes throughout the United States and Canada. She is the Founder of The Mourning Star Center for grieving children and their families, which she ran from 1995 to 2005, and author of the memoir The Space Between: A Memoir of Mother-Daughter Love at the End of Life (She Writes Press, April 2016) about her journey caring for her ailing mother. Virginia has appeared on numerous television and radio programs. She holds a Fellowship in Thanatology from the Association of Death Education & Counseling (ADEC) and has been honored for her work by the cities of Indian Wells, Palm Desert, Palm Springs, and Rancho Mirage. She lives in El Dorado Hills, California with her husband Bob and Golden Retriever Shelby.

HOW TO WIN A COPY OF THE BOOK

Love the author featured above? Did you learn something in the how-to? Then you’ve got to read the book. And you can. I am giving away one copy, and all you have to do to win is leave a comment below about something you learned from the writing lesson or the excerpt. I’ll draw winners at random (using the tool at random dot org) after entries close at midnight Monday, April 11. Unfortunately, only readers within the US domestic postal service can receive books.

Good luck!