CLOSURE

In 1991, America was in the first Gulf War. As well as general concern for our troops and country, I had a husband and son in two different branches of the military then. This war was up close and personal, and I was deeply invested in news and monitoring closely.

I remember the day we learned Navy pilot Scott Speicher went missing.
Over the years, he was deemed dead, missing in action. There were sightings that included his name written on the wall in an Iraqi jail cell. His status was changed, his formal status in the military considered multiple times, but his case remained opened.

At the onset of the second Iraqi war, I heard a news broadcast with a marine who said, “We leave no man behind” and I thought of Scott Spiecher. He was gone but not forgotten.

That comment, often spoken with and heard by others with pride that our soldiers are
so devoted to each other and to us, haunted me. What about Scott?

And the storyteller took over, in a book I wrote and dedicated to Capt. Speicher and his family, HER PERFECT LIFE.

In it, a female pilot is shot down and deemed dead. Her husband and two small children mourn her, and then move on with their lives because as human beings that’s what we do.

Only our pilot wasn’t dead. And she spent the next six years being held prisoner by a tribal band.

And then she’s rescued--and that’s where the real story begins.

She comes home, unwilling to speak about her time in captivity. Others assume she’s doing so because she doesn’t want to remember. The truth is, she can’t remember. The tortures endured were too horrific and she’d survived by blocking them out, focusing only on getting home to her husband and her kids.

Only home isn’t there anymore. Her husband has remarried. Her children are strangers and unsure they want to know her. They love their stepmother--and on getting to know her, our returning heroine is full of anger and outrage at her perfect life being stolen and she can’t even hate the woman who replaced her because she’s been wonderful to her kids.

And so begins the work to rebuild a life from ashes. A future when everything that mattered to her was gone.

HER PERFECT LIFE. Shattered. Gone.

But in doing that work, our heroine Katie, discovers she hadn’t lost her perfect life. Her perfect life is now.

It’s quite a journey for Katie. For her husband, his wife, the children, and Katie’s co-pilot who was certain she was dead.
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Scott Speicher, Her Perfect Life, closure, memory, author, writer, novelist, creative writing, grief, mourning, loss, not knowing, vicki hinze, writers library

A Little One Passes

We’ve been worried about Noah. He underwent very dangerous surgery but came through it with the resilience of a blessed nine-year-old. The tumors were benign. The prognosis looked very good for him to have a long and healthy life. He was moved from ICU to a private room last night.


This morning he passed away.


Emotions riot at such times. We ask why, knowing there is no answer. We think of him, his parents and his brother, and our hearts are ripped open, raw and wounded for and with them.


We remember the last time we saw him, all of them, the occasion, the conversations, the laughter. Now we feel the pain and shed the tears.


The practical issues will be dealt with in time, but for now, emotions reign. We know he’s heaven bound. That he isn’t alone but in the palm of the purest love. We know he hasn’t left home but gone home.


And yet we mourn. For the loss of him in daily life. For his family. For those who love him, and those loved by those who love him. We think of their pain and the emptiness they are feeling, and we pray that God will mercifully fill that space with peace, and we regret that the season for mourning coincides with the season for celebration of Christ’s birth. It offers reassurance, yes, but to a freshly grieving heart, all that is felt is the isolation and loss, the pain, and so the season of comfort and reassurance is not now, but will follow after this season passes.


Some will offer platitudes and well-intended words, hoping to offer some germ of something that will ease the suffering. Their efforts will be appreciated, but the suffering remains. Grief is a merciless master and demands its due. It can’t be ignored or denied; at best, only postponed for a time. But it returns. It always returns. And only after it has can the healing begin.


I watched my mother bury a child. I’ve watched too many friends bury their children. The pain runs so deep it can’t be pinpointed or expressed. Not with words. It’s like describing faith or love. Every attempt falls far short.


One thinks of seemingly strange things at such times. Thoughts of the gifts for the child waiting at home under the tree. Gifts he will never open now. Of his parents looking at them, and doing something with them--the symbolism of which is letting go. Of doing so knowing that a parent truly never lets go of a child. A parent endures the loss and survives it, but always remembers. Memories burn strong forever in that mind, in that heart. Tormenting and heart-wrenching long before they become fond and comforting.


This I know, and I think today of Noah and in particular of his father, whom I’ve known well since he was in high school. I know that never again will life for him be the same. Never again will Christmas be the same. Not for him, not for his other son. There will come a time when life and Christmas will be good and laughter will again fill his home, but that will take time, and even when it has, he will always remember the child gone home, first with inconsolable grief, then with a sad, empty ache. With time, with tugs at the heart, and then with wistful longing for what was a bright and shining time in life that is no more.


These passages each will be difficult, but finally comfort will come, and eventually with it dulling the sharp pains to dull aches he will find acceptance. And then there will be room in his heart again to hold joy. Then, Christmas will again hold joy. He’ll still remember, still speak a Christmas wish to his child and feel pangs of sadness that he isn’t with him, but heart will also embrace hope and joy and laughter.


My wish this morning is that grief is tempered and the only Comforter who can comfort comes to them all and sustains them, strengthens them, consoles them in their journey to acceptance and to peace.


Until then, I’ll pray for them, and cry with them. Godspeed, Noah.


Blessings,


Vicki

CHARACTERS ON DEATH

CHARACTERS ON DEATH
SUNDAY, AUGUST 24, 2008
WARNING: This is a no-edit zone...

When someone close to us dies we are profoundly impacted. Our...
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Tags: creative writing, characters, characterization, vicki hinze, writers library, death, grief, mourning, emotional reactions

A FALLEN ROSE

©2008, Vicki Hinze

This morning, a mother realized her greatest fear. Her daughter, she thought, overslept, and so she went in to awaken her. Her daughter had died in her sleep. Quietly. Without fanfare or bedside vigils. Without a deathwatch. She just slipped away.

She was an only child. She was the core of her mother’s world. And she passed without her mother having an inkling that death was coming, had arrived, had spirited her daughter away.

We who believe know that her soul is safe. That she was not alone because we are never alone. But her mother is desolate that her daughter died alone and that mother is left in deep mourning, raging against this death. She’s lost her husband, lost her two sisters in the past year--and now her daughter. She is devastated, despondent, and feeling each one of those losses again with the full force she felt them the first time. All at once.

She doesn’t want platitudes or kind words. Her sorrow is so deep that they fall on empty ears. She doesn’t want sympathy; it changes nothing, and she is, she feels, still alone.
This misery is too deep to be borne. A mother, she says, should not outlive her child. Death is a mean, merciless master.

This is not the time to tell her that death is a natural part of life. The only way to avoid it is to not be born--and its coming for anyone is never at a convenient time for those who love us. They don’t want us to go--at least, not until they look outside themselves and see suffering and pain and then they accept that one’s death isn’t about them, it’s about the one doing the dying, and they’ve suffered enough, welcome the respite, embrace the end of suffering.

This is not the time to tell her of He who conquered death. She knows Him. She knows this but the loss of her daughter has clouded her mind, as grief does every mind for a time.

To everything there is a season, and this is her season to mourn.

And so I’ll offer her no platitudes or reminders or even kind words or sympathy. I’ll give her what she needs now when she most needs it: I’ll listen.

She’ll work through the shock, suffering yet another loss, the shattered heart, the grief that runs so deep inside it permeates the marrow of her bones. She’ll go through the motions of what must be done and tolerate the well meaning acts and good intentions of others and she’ll grit her teeth and bite her tongue and privately wail her sorrow while uttering all the right things to all the right people, wondering why in heaven she should care to draw another breath.

But she will breathe. She will survive. And she will go on. Because that’s what we do. And when the shock wears off and its protective numbness fades and the ache is still raw, then she will remember where her darling daughter is now. What awaits her. She will remember He who conquered death and went ahead to prepare a place for us, for her child. She will turn to Him, desolate, and He will comfort her in ways no mortal can. And when He does, she will heal. She will again see worth in life and beauty and reason to go on.

She will remember that while her husband and sisters and now her daughter are no longer physically with her, she is not and never has been and never will be alone.

But today... Today begins her season to mourn. And so today, I will remember those things for her, and I will listen...

Blessings,

Vicki



Tags: death, dying, empathy, mortality, passing away, survivor guilt, sympathy, unexpected death, grief, mourning

WRITING DURING THE DARK TIMES

Photo credit: beliefnet.com

WARNING: THIS IS A NO-EDIT ZONE...

Writing is never easy. Oh, sometimes we get into the flow or the zone and the work flows, but usually that comes after intense planning and effort and only post intense focus.

A friend asked me about a week ago how long it had taken me to put together a proposal for a new series I’m very excited about writing. My response surprised her: “About a week and twenty years of experience.”

It did take roughly a week to put the proposal into format. But I’d been thinking about elements of this series for months. And it took all the experience and expertise I’ve scooped together in the last two decades to know what those elements were and what would work with what. It is also that experience that taught me what wouldn’t work and to avoid--and that information is equally important.

That was last week.

If I were being asked that question this week, my answer likely would be very different. It’s been one of those dark times around here.

I do all my annual medical checks around this time and I got some worrisome news. For two weeks, my mantra was, “Okay, take this cup from me if you will. If not, give me the strength to drink from it with dignity.” That was the best I could manage. I don’t know if it was enough.

What I do know is that in more extensive testing, we discovered there’d been a reporting error and those problems were not mine. My results were fine. Some would say, “Oh how horrible. To go through all that for two weeks unnecessarily.”

I say, if it weren’t necessary, then it wouldn’t have happened. I did a lot of thinking and assessing during that time, as one would expect, and I took a more intense look at priorities and interests and desires.

My relief was enormous, of course. I’m not ready to leave this world yet. But I can’t say that this dark time wasn’t valuable. It was extremely valuable to me.

Then a dear friend’s house burned. Fortunately, she wasn’t in it. Unfortunately, her two dogs were and she was by them like I was by my Alex. She’s grieving and grateful to have been spared. And of course, badly shaken.

I hadn’t yet gotten my feet back under me when I learned that a lifelong friend had passed away unexpectedly. This hit hard. Really hard. We’ve been friends forever, and I was her maid of honor at her wedding. She was beautiful inside and out and always had a kind word for anyone, a hug for anyone in need of one. Less than a month ago, her oldest son, who was born within months of my oldest son, passed away. I swear, I’m reeling. I don’t know whether to be devastated or thankful that she was spared a long battle with grief. And my heart aches for her poor mother and father--kind and gentle souls both--who have lost their only daughter and their grandson.

These things aside, there have been a few other significant challenges happening to those in my circle. One lost her sister, and has been diagnosed with breast cancer. Hospice is with another friend’s mother and they’ve called her to come home. And on it goes.

There are dark times. We all endure them. They’re never convenient or easy or merciful. They always exact a high toll and payment in full. And during them, we find writing challenging and we give ourselves hell for it. We shouldn’t. Writing is a creative art, after all, but we have to produce to eat, and so we’re not permitted to wallow in those dark emotions.

I think that’s a blessing. If we did wallow in the dark times, we’d be there far too often and we’d be not doing a lot of constructive things while we wallowed.

That doesn’t mean we don’t feel. It doesn’t mean we don’t acknowledge the dark times. They command our acknowledgement. Demand it, I should say. It’d be so easy to just go cover my head and hide out until the dark time passes. So easy.

But so wrong. Thinking of my friend, and the way she lived her life. We had a two-hour life, death and the universe phone conversation less than a month ago. During it, we laughed a little, cried a little, talked about those we love who are no longer with us, and about kids and grans. And we talked about dreams and hopes and wishes we held dear as kids. Do you know, she got her dreams. She was content and happy and fulfilled.

We all know there are seasons in life. Cycles. And as much as we hate acknowledging death of the physical, it comes to us all. But in recalling that conversation, I’ll tell you something. My friend lived. She really did.

And so while the dark times might make writing hard, they don't make it impossible. Actually, they add rich layers to the writing that couldn’t exist without experiencing the best and worst of life.

I’m sad. Yes. Of course. And grateful I’m well. And I feel horrible for the woman to whom that report was actually issued. Bless her. I know exactly what she’s going through. I went through it for two weeks. Let me tell you, from the inside out, it seemed much, much longer.

So how much writing have I managed to get done during this dark time? Not a lot, frankly. But I’ve gathered a lot of fodder and experienced things that when I do write will explode on the page because they’ve exploded in me.

I don’t think we have to experience everything to write about it. I do think that when we experience relatable events, it adds that extra insight that not only brings authenticity to the work but empathy and compassion.

Some find writing during the dark times therapeutic. Some find it impossible. I guess I fall somewhere in between. Though it’s definitely not evident in this post, I will share that the only time I really write humor is when I’m mourning. That’s one of my most apparent writing quirks.
We all have them, right? Regardless of where you fall on that scale, be at peace with it. You--your mind, your body, your spirit--knows what you need. Respect it in this.

Today, I’m not writing. Today, I’m spending my writing time in prayer for my friend, for her son, for her family and loved ones. Today, I’m thinking of family and the others in my expanded circle who are facing challenges and the woman going through now what I went through then. Today I’m remembering, and I’m genuinely grateful that I have so many good memories to recall. And so many good friends.

And, well, I guess to put it simply, I’m spending a day steeping myself in gratitude.

I am.

And I’m grateful.

Blessings,

Vicki

Vicki Hinze


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TIME DOES NOT HEAL--BUT TWO LITTLE MIRACLES...

Two years ago today, my beloved sidekick, Alex, died. It was a year before I could think about her without tearing up, and nearly another before I could speak of her without choking up.

We both worked at home and she was my constant companion for fourteen years. Her tags still remain on my personal altar; I see them and I remember all of her endearing and adorable qualities. The thousand things she did that made me smile--and shake my head. Experts say dogs have limited vocabulary and understanding. Extremely intuitive and sensitive, Alex understood more than many people--even spelling.

My darling husband would say, “I’m going to take Alex for a walk.” She’d get so hyper, eager to go, that he started spelling (versus saying) “walk.” If he was a letter off, she’d ignore him. If he spelled “walk” correctly, she’d get hyper, eager. So he started spelling “walk” backward. Again, a letter off, she’d totally ignore him. But if it was spelled correctly, forward or backward, she went into high gear.

She loved Milk Bone “cookies.” And when she wanted one, she’d lift her paw--her standard “please.” If that worked, great. If not, and she really wanted a cookie, she’d go get a sock--always dirty, always white--bring it to me and put it in my lap. That worked every time. Her no-fail get me a cookie method. (An FYI for anyone contemplating coercion. Spare yourself. This ONLY worked for Alex.)

Once, early on--she was about 2 or 3, I sat at the computer writing and she went outside then came back in and dumped a dead frog in my lap. No cookie, but I wigged out on her. She never brought me a frog again, though I’m sure she considered it a high form of compliment and me a dense twit for not understanding that. Then is when she started with the socks.

She loved to ride in the car--and at 110 pounds always, always wore her seat belt. We’d get odd looks, but hey, safety first. And she loved to eat ice. So much so, she earned the nickname, “Slush Gut.”

Once, during a hurricane, after the storm passed and we were out of the safe room, where we’d spent five long hours, she went to the fridge and tapped the ice-maker (her equivalent of having a much needed drink after a harrowing experience (tornado ripped across our front yard). She expected ice. She’d always gotten ice when tapping the ice-maker. But we had no power and no ice fell. That time, she kind of wigged out on me. I’ll never forget her, “What is up with this?” expression. Hilarious. And of course we gave her ice from the ice-chest.

Many, many wonderful memories...

Today definitely would have been a difficult day. Memories, even great ones, really crowd a body on anniversaries, especially because the body stares them in the face knowing there will be no more new memories made.

But as fate would have it, instead I’ve had two very good days--little miracles, actually--and they’ve balanced my emotional scale in ways I can’t begin to explain. My granddaughters have been with me. We’ve played games, played dress up, complete with jewelry and headgear and handbags (and it seems the gaudier the better--which deserves an article on gift-giving all of its own). We’ve created art, giggled ourselves into side-stitches making silly-face photos, built and demolished block designs, baked, had a bubble blowing contest (eldest angel won) and we did some computer artwork and lots of other “fun” stuff. It’s been a very full, very active two days--and I’ve loved every second of every minute of it.

The eldest angel remembers Alex and we talked about her today. With laughter and fond memories and twinges of missing her plucking at our hearts. But something significant was absent. That overwhelming sense of sadness and the heretofore inevitable tears. Gone, but love remained.

The girls were supposed to be with me to receive care. Instead, bless them, through their blunt and honest dialogue, their laughter and contentment at just being, they gave it. And I am grateful. Now, on future anniversaries, I’ll remember the gift I received on this one from them and Alex’s loss, which won’t be so stark because never again will it be standing alone. Memories of today will stand with it.

And a universal awareness emerges. Time doesn’t heal. Sometimes it does help. A little distance, a little life crowding now empty space that someone beloved once filled. But my angels’ gift was humanity personified. And I experienced its power firsthand. So time can’t heal. But humanity can dull the edges of grief, stand with it and make its burdens bearable.

A few days ago, I posted on faith my belief in holiday magic. Today that faith proved well placed.

Laughter and Alex... experienced together again... magical... thanks to two little miracles.

Blessings,

Vicki