thoughts
Like millions of other music lovers, I’m more than a tad obsessed with the musical Hamilton. But a year ago, one of the songs began to hit a little too close to home. In the context of the musical, “It’s Quiet Uptown” narrates Alexander and Eliza’s struggle to deal with the death of their son, along with Alexander’s attempts to apologize to his wife for all the mistakes he’s made. Though most of the show is told from Aaron Burr’s point of view, this song features Eliza’s sister, Angelica Schuyler. That perspective change is where the song connects with me. Because regardless of how it’s used in the context of Hamilton, “It’s Quiet Uptown” is essentially the story of an aunt dealing with her own grief while also trying to help her sister and brother-in-law after the death of their child. On August 11, 2017, I became an aunt dealing with my own grief while also trying to help my sister and brother-in-law after the death of their child. Quinnley Marie was the 5th child in a family of 8. She was the 9th of my 13 nieces and nephews. She was a dancer, a singer, a drama queen, an artist, a born leader, and one of the prettiest little girls I’ve ever seen (and I don’t just say that because she had my chin). She was 8 years old. I won’t go into the details of Quinnley’s death except to say it was unexpected and shocking. It also taught me more about grief than I ever wanted to learn, and made me hyper aware of the way we treat people who are going through the loss of a loved one. Immediately following a death, everyone outside of your inner circle reacts. You’re hit with a seemingly endless deluge of texts, Facebook messages, casseroles, visitors, flowers, cards, etc. This continues for a few days until the funeral. And then everything goes back to normal. Except it doesn’t. Everyone else slips back into their everyday lives and goes on as though nothing happened. But if you’re the one grieving, you no longer have a normal life to return to, because a huge part of your life is now missing. And as much as you expect that bubbly little girl to come skipping through the door at any minute, you know it’s never going to happen again. I used to be a spectator to the grief of others. Not to say I’d never lost someone before, but most of those deaths were grandparents, older relatives, or people who had been sick. Even the few younger people I’d lost were separated enough from me that I was able to mostly pull myself together and move on once the funeral was over. I used to send a quick text or Facebook message after a death and consider my work done. I’d shoot off a “Thinking of you” or “Let me know if you need anything,” comfortable with the knowledge that my grieving friend or acquaintance was unlikely to take me up on the offer. I used to scribble generic “Sorry for your loss” sentiments in hastily purchased Hallmark cards and toss them in the mail. I never stopped to think that I could have used my talent for words to convey a genuine, heartfelt message. After Quinnley’s death, I was astonished by the number of people who reached out to my family. They brought enough food to fill several freezers, dropped off games to keep the other kids occupied, and donated money to help with funeral expenses. Friends, relatives, co-workers, and sometimes people we barely knew went out of their way to help in any way they could. Despite everyone doing their best to make things easier for my sister, her husband, and their other kids, I couldn’t help but feel overly protective of them. I found myself hovering around my sister, ready to step in if she appeared upset or on the verge of tears. I tried to keep her other seven kids and the rest of my nieces and nephews in sight at all times, which isn’t the easiest task. As soon as I woke up every morning, I drove over to their house and I stayed until everyone else left and the kids were in bed. After the funeral, most people drifted back to their own lives, leaving the rest of us to figure out what came next. This time together made me more grateful than ever to belong to such a large family. And because we all live within an hour or two of each other, we were able to easily show up if anyone needed someone. But then it was time for school. The kids had to learn how to get through their classes and sports practices without breaking down and my siblings, parents, and I had to return to work and do our jobs without letting on that anything was wrong. We’ve all been doing this for a year now, and I honestly don’t know that it’s gotten any easier. I can’t speak for the rest of my family, but for me, I still have to drag myself out of bed every morning and put on a brave face to get through the day. I cry at least once a day and I talk to Quinnley every night before I go to bed. Three days after the funeral, I got a tattoo of a “Q” and an eighth note on my wrist in memory of her and it’s always the first thing I see when I wake up. I’ve used the word “grief” several times in this post, but it’s not a strong enough word to truly convey how it feels to lose someone you love. I’m a writer, and I still haven’t found a word that feels right. I desperately wanted to end this post on a hopeful note, but I can’t. Because the wound is still too raw even a year later. Maybe someday I’ll have some words of wisdom to help other people fight their way through this kind of pain. But for now, I’ll just leave you with this:
1 Comment
|
Jacinta M. CarterProfessional Book Nerd Archives
March 2019
Categories |