Grief Reads

A Note About The Year of Magical Thinking, Soup, and Flowers

I have always loved Joan Didion’s book The Year of Magical Thinking. Here she recounts the year after her husband John’s death, a year fraught with adversity, sickness and overwhelm.

This book is a gift for those looking to feel seen; people in acute grief that aren’t quite sure how they are going to survive. It is also for those who know someone in that state and who struggle to understand or know what to do to be of support. It is a cerebral book, and she speaks from the Didion position of privilege, but it is a very human book too, raw and worthwhile.

One of my favorite pieces of advice comes from this book, and I often share it. She recounts a kindness from a friend – someone who didn’t pester her or ask what they might do to be of service, instead they sent soup and left it at Joan’s door.

This is a powerful gesture. When providing a meal, it doesn’t have to be soup, but what an intuitive decision from the gift-er. It is nourishing and hydrating. It feeds the person and the soul unlike any other food. It is easy enough to eat, and easy to store. At a time when any effort may feel impossible, when getting out of bed is a stretch, when one is dehydrated from crying and the effort of chewing even seems like too much, soup can save the day.

What I also appreciate about this is that the person did not ask what they might do, they just did something, and they didn’t wait around to be thanked. What we often don’t realize is when we ask someone what we can do, we are requiring them to think - and they aren’t very good at that in moments of acute grief. We would do well to remember this, and when we do take an action, it should be unobtrusive and ask nothing of the recipient. I am reminded again and again by those in grief that gestures mean more than words.

Joan talks about the blur, the lapses in time, the unnerving triggers and the confusion. She walks you through her year as the grief changes in form and shares what she learned in the process.

At one point she muses, and there is no answer, “I can’t see the upside.” If I had the opportunity to answer her, I would want her to know that the way she used her talent to serve us, the reader, was a gift from both John and Joan. It was the upside of her husband dying, if we were looking to identify one. By sharing her experience with others, she is making a difference – and it serves to contribute to their legacy.

It is the brave people willing to speak their truth that will help to eliminate the stigma of grief. To articulate it in such a way that others don’t feel so alone – rather they are comforted in the knowledge that what they are experiencing is a part of what happens. I am grateful Joan used her talent and her experience in the service of others.

I want to address one more point in The Year of Magical Thinking. She mentions early on that she had been warned to expect an artificial rose from the funeral home when they came to take her husband’s body into their care. The gesture was an irritant. She was clear on this point - she was not having it and you, potential griever, should be armed with the knowledge as well.

As an employee of a funeral home that regularly provide artificial roses (and sometimes real, depending on the location), I am reminded that not all gestures are welcome and it is true – opinions are varied and sometimes, our attempt at thoughtfulness is a miss.

When someone dies and we come to retrieve the person, we leave a rose on the bed as a gesture of kindness, something that is left other than a rumpled sheet. I recall one family who, upon our arrival at the home, requested the flower before we even entered the person’s room. She gestured to a vase on the tv – a collection of flowers, each signifying a life, someone who had died that they continue to memorialize in their home. This is an extreme example of the flip side of these flowers.

After reading Joan’s take, I questioned our gesture.

There is something for me about the ritual of making a bed after someone has been removed from it. It’s always felt like a little something I could do right away to show I cared. Pull up the covers, straighten the pillows, smooth any wrinkles and lay a flower lovingly on the pillow. It’s me doing something as an attempt to make that space easier to confront, knowing of course that the space where someone died is heavy. The death bed is complicated - those sheets and often the bed itself will need to be removed. The void that the person has left, literally in that bed, is painful and confusing. I honestly don’t know a way that the death bed is ever something that is easy to face. What to do when you are me, the person in charge of taking your loved one away?

My dear Mrs. Didion – for now I will continue to leave the flower, although I will do it mindfully and when I have the opportunity to gently inquire if the gesture will be offensive, I certainly will and act accordingly. When faced with no direction, I would rather do something kind and have it miss the mark, then stop all together knowing that some cherish the flower.

I don’t know if this is the right answer. To me, the right answer is to always follow the lead of the griever, I don’t want to perform the ritual just for me if it doesn’t serve a helpful purpose to the recipient. Sometimes I don’t know, so I do what I can. I can only hope someone takes my gestures in the spirit that they are intended, but I am also aware that I may at some point have to apologize… and that also has to be ok.

I am grateful to Joan for sharing her experience, and I am grateful it is there as a resource for those looking to explore the topic of death, dying and grief.