"You're not crazy. You can survive this, whatever 'this' is."

Joelle in South Africa

So many threads woven through Joelle Renstrom's book (Closing the Book: Travels in Life, Loss, and Literature) mirrored much of my life and writing:

 

* caregiving for her ill father and grieving after he dies

* seeking new aspects of herself in travel

* trying to teach meaningfully

* turning to literature as a guiding force

* developing a spiritual vision.

Her writing is gorgeous; her fine sentences elevate even the darkest subject matter.

One big difference between us is that she's a science fiction aficionado. I wanted to know about that, and other things, in our conversation:

 

I see your book as a coming-of-age at one of the most profound levels: coming to terms with mortality due to the loss of your dad. Is this how you would describe it? What else would you want readers to know about your book?

I shy away from describing it that way. For me, the book is really about making a choice. The choice is about what we do when our lives blow up. The first step is realizing that one has the power to make a choice in the first place. That took me a long time. It seemed that the world had spun out of control and I was powerless to affect anything. While I couldn’t cure my dad’s cancer, I could control my worldview. I could—and did, for a while—embrace a tragic view of the world and of life. But ultimately, who wants that?

 

My book is about ways we can reconcile control and lack of control, since life is a dance between these two positions, and how we can regain agency when it comes to making sense the world and our place in it.

 

Toward the beginning of the book you say, "I'm a great appreciator of terrible beauty, but I can get stuck and wallow in the terrible part for a while before I remember to open my eyes." By the end of the book, you seem to be less of a wallower and more of a wonderer. To what do you attribute this shift?

 

My answer to the previous question gets at this shift, I think, which was about realizing that I don’t have to participate passively in life. There will always be death and sadness—I can always consider myself a victim if I choose to. But I don’t have to position myself as the unwitting recipient of what other people or the universe offers. I don’t need to fix the world or the way things work, which is good, because I can’t. What I can change is my relationship to the world and the levels on which I can understand how I function within it.

 

The most concrete example I have of this shift comes by way of travel. After my dad’s death, I went on a pilgrimage to Scandinavia, my fatherland. I’ve learned that a relatively easy way to change my relationship to the world is to change geographically my location within it, which then catalyzes other, often unpredictable shifts.

 

When traveling, there are things one can’t control, such as whether a bus is late or whether it gets someplace safely, but in order to enjoy travel, one has to let that go and focus on what one can control—where am I going on my walk this afternoon? Will I talk to this person sitting on my right? Will I sit here a moment and think about my dad, even though it means I’ll start crying in a crowded place? Even though they might seem small, making those decisions was a huge step in renegotiating my relationship to the world and to myself.

 

I like how you describe your teaching experiences, how you help students to dig into books. What do you like best about teaching, and what do you find most challenging?

 

I used to work in an office—a few of them, actually—doing a variety of different jobs (a paralegal, a marketing editor, a researcher). But I didn’t like any of them. At the end of the day, I’d ask myself, what good did I do today? And the answer was always none (aside from making it possible to pay my rent). With teaching, I don’t ever have to ask myself that question.

 

The hardest part is when students struggle—academically, emotionally, socially, whatever—and all I can do is to ask whether there’s anything I can do. I can listen if a student needs to talk or help a student who has questions, but other than that, there’s not much I can. Sometimes I want to take students by the shoulders, shake them, and tell them how it is, set them straight. But it wouldn’t work. People have to find their own way, and for teenagers, this can be particularly painful. The hardest part is accepting that I can’t live their lives (or write their papers) for them.

 

Your book made me want to read Arthur Clarke, and I now have Childhood's End on my Kindle. I've read Ray Bradbury, whom you also write about, but not much more one could categorize as science fiction (unless you count Cloud Atlas, which I loved--not the movie but the book). Why do you like (and teach) science fiction, and what books and authors would you recommend?

 

Science fiction blows the doors off the confines of reality. I love literary fiction, but sometimes I get tired of reading realistic accounts of relationships, jobs, and well, reality. There’s really only so many ways to describe the situations we all know so well. Sci-fi offers alternatives to that while at the same time avoiding frivolousness. We get social commentary from sci-fi, we get thought experiments. Even works about robots and aliens are, at their heart, about what it means to be human. I’d rather explore that question from more interesting and unexpected parameters (or no parameters at all).

 

As for recommendations, I’m more about soft sci-fi (sci-fi that focuses on people, rather than on technical specifics) like Bradbury and Clarke. That said, I’m a sucker for Asimov, whose prescient robot works predicted current and future trends in the field. Hyperion by Dan Simmons, Sirens of Titan by Vonnegut (which is and isn’t sci-fi, depending on who you ask), Dune by Frank Herbert, Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card, Old Man’s War by John Scalzi, Glasshouse by Charles Stross, Frankenstein (the father of them all), anything by Ursula LeGuin, Philip K. Dick, William Gibson, Neal Stephenson, Octavia Butler…I could go on and on.

 

 

 

What surprised (and captivated) me the most was where the book led by the end, to what I would call a growing spiritual awareness. Is that how you would define it? What led to this shift, and why does it matter to you?

 

I don’t think I’ve used the phrase “spiritual awareness” to describe what happens in the end of the book, though that’s certainly an accurate description. “Spiritual” is a buzzword that people generally take to mean something specific, and probably not how I would define spirituality for myself. And while spirituality and religion are in my mind quite distinct, part of the reason I tend to avoid that word is because the two are so often associated. But anything that involves something significant that happens to us on the inside could be called spiritual. A feeling of awe, or peace, or whatever—all of that is spiritual. And by the end of the book, I was able to cultivate those feelings again, which is how I knew I’d be okay.

 

For me, the biggest piece of this transformation was realizing that thinking about something isn’t the only way to interact with or understand it. I’ve always been an analytical person. When confronted with something difficult, whether it’s a problem at work or a conflict with someone else or even death, I tend to lodge that problem in my brain and turn it over and over in an attempt to work it out. But sometimes, that’s not possible. Sometimes, it’s even detrimental.

 

That’s one thing I love about travel—you can’t just sit and think. You have to move. For me, spirituality comes from a shift away from thinking and analyzing and a movement toward simply feeling and being. My brain puts me at the center of the world, which often inhibits my understanding of things on a bigger scale.

 

Joelle in the Azores

 

 

What would you tell your younger self?

Dear self,

You think you have a plan. You think you know what you want from life—you even think you know how to get it. But listen, and don’t take offense at this: you can’t possibly know those things. And honestly, you don’t want to know. What fun would that be?

 

Life will not go according to plan, but ultimately, that’s the best possible outcome. If it went according to plan, you wouldn’t learn much about yourself and the world. If it went according to plan, your seven-year-old worldview and goals would dominate your life, and that’s not really what you want (trust me on this one).

 

Planning doesn’t determine who you are—it’s how you react to all the things you didn’t plan that shapes you. And you’re way, way better at dealing with the unexpected than you think. You’ll see.

 

Is there anything you'd like to add?

 

Death and coping/recovering from the death of a loved one is an intensely personal experience. In a lot of ways, it’s also a selfish one. I don’t—and can’t—write about how my mom, brother, or sister processed my dad’s death. That’s not to say their experiences don’t matter, just that they’re not mine to tell. I don’t want to project my journey onto anyone else or to suggest that what helped me is anyone else’s Rosetta Stone.

 

That said, such narratives do offer invaluable comfort. Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking kept me sane—if Didion feels like I do, I thought, then I’m not crazy. If Didion can survive this, then survival is possible. Ultimately, that’s what I hope to offer readers. You’re not crazy. You can survive this, whatever “this” is.

Joelle Renstrom is a freelance writer based in Somerville, Massachusetts. She maintains an award-winning blog, Could This Happen?, about the relationship between science and science fiction and her work has appeared in Slate, Full Grown People, Guernica, The Toast, and others. She teaches writing and research with a focus on science fiction, space, and artificial intelligence at Boston University.

The Trip of a Lifetime

Our family, circa 1990

I'd been wanting to write about this for quite some time, and being invited to read at The Celebration of the Muse prompted me to do so.  It was a joy to share the stage with twenty local women writers.  The evening was a display of heart and talent.

The poem is about my parents.  It's about angels.  It's about dying as a transformation.  My mom and my dad each had their own path--and they continue on their own journeys. 

The Trip of a Lifetime

1)

My dad has become much more spiritual

since he’s become a spirit.  Maybe his blue eyes

and handlebar mustache signaled he always had angel

potential.  He’d been gone only three months

when, as I sat at the computer, he—

I don’t know how else to put this—

came over for a visit.  My body filled with

a warmth I recognized as him.  My fingertips

froze on the keyboard.  I resisted saying,

“Hi Dad!” because I worried he’d

evaporate if I spoke or moved.  A

softening cupped my heart.  He spoke

without language, filling me with this message:

Everything’s fine.  Fine as in whole, as in

flawless.  Fine as in don’t worry—as in lovely

and pure.  As fine as the sand on an endless beach

that spreads toward the eternal horizon. 

A few days before he died, he said if the afterworld

was real, he’d find a way to pinch me. 

This wasn’t a pinch, though.  Maybe spirits

don’t have fingers.  I remember Dad’s fingers,

thick fingertip pads that fumbled as he

turned newspaper pages.  Yet he grasped a hammer

so resolutely that he built redwood decks in record time,

laid down railroad ties and hauled thousands of

buckets of firewood.  He’d always slide

his ring back on after his shower, before dinner.

2)

A week after the funeral, Mom and I found

Dad’s wedding band in a drawer

next to the bed, gold and round as a tiny halo. 

“Toss it,” Mom said.  All afternoon she’d been saying

“toss this, toss that” about most of Dad’s things. 

The geriatric psychologist asked my mom:

“In what way are a rose and a tulip alike?”

 Mom said:  “They are not alike.”

He said:  “How are a watch and a ruler alike?”

She said:  “They both measure time.”

“A bike and a train?”

“They are both machinery.”

“A corkscrew and a hammer?”

“I don’t know.”

He asked:  “What would you do if there was a fire in your house?”

She answered:  “I’d close and lock the doors.”

“Patient described as showing a change in cognitive status. Her husband of 48 years passed away two months ago.  She worked as a school nurse for many years but doesn’t recall when she retired.  Patient is a poor historian.”

3)

The doctor wrote:  “Patient is a poor historian.”

Pablo Neruda wrote:   “Love is so short, forgetting is so long.” 

4)

Hospice literature says:

“One week before death,

the average patient

still has

a 40% chance

of living.”

It says:

“There is no medical definition

of terminal.”

It says:

“There is no medical definition

of  dying.”

5)

The next time Dad popped in for a visit

I was jogging through my neighborhood. 

“Wow,” he said without words, “Look, look,

look, look, look!”  As my feet metronomed

on the pavement, the colors brightened.  And I saw

through new eyes the crystalline winter day,

the razor-sharp infinite blue of the sky, and the

preposterous fuchsia blossoms as unabashed as the sex of

the world.  Mom gave me the same gift once:

a ViewMaster in my Christmas stocking. 

I’d spent hours peering in,

atingle at the Wonders of the World in 3D—

azure seas and golden windows, lush veils and drapes

and rushing waterfalls—places my mother dreamed of.

6)

Mom began to leave long before she died.

Her language left word by word

as though she was packing a suitcase.

She hadn’t spoken in almost a year.

But when I showed her my engagement ring—

sapphire blue like my father’s eyes—

she reached out and touched my face. 

She doesn’t visit.  I can still feel the release

of her last exhalation, like the lift of a plane.

She’s off on the trip of a lifetime.

*

For more about my mom:

Mom as a writer and school nurse

Mom's writing about her Alzheimer's Journey

Mom loved to laugh

And Mom lives on...

For more about my dad:

Dad's lust for life

And Mom lives on...

Mom's non-funereal-funeral was this Saturday.  It was a gorgeous day in San Francisco (the city of her birth) filled with tears and laughter and love.  With the trio of musicians playing Hawaiian music that my mom loved, with wine and stories flowing, it was a true celebration of her life.  I could feel her presence.  And this morning I received a timely reminder that we do live on, in so many ways.  Here it is, from a woman in Tennessee:

"I just learned that my 5-year-old twin sons have red-green Color Vision Deficiency.  I began madly searching for resources for my sons and his teachers, and I found Seeing Color:  It's My Rainbow, Too. 

The book for kids.

"In my search, I learned that there really aren't many resources out there on CVD for children.  From what I could find, this was really the only one.  I found it out-of-stock on Amazon.com and could not find it in Borders or any other Nashville bookstore.  I finally found it on a couple of web sites and have ordered three copies.

Mom also wrote one for teens and adults.

"I am emailing to tell you that I ran across a link to your blog when searching for availability of this book.  I read about your mother's recent passing, and even though I am a stranger, I am very sorry for your loss.  I read your words and her obituary, and I could tell that she was a very special person.  I am so grateful to have found copies of her book.  I am a former elementary teacher, and I plan to give one to my boys' kindergarten teacher and another to the art teachers at their school.  I consider her book a true gift for parents of children with CVD.  I hope my sons' teachers will read it and gain a better understanding of "colorblindness" and its impact on approximately 8% of the boys (and possibly a few girls) that they teach. 

Mom's novel, a romantic comedy-mystery with a colorblind hero.

"My twins learned to read early and easily, but their preschool teacher was concerned about their difficulty with (and lack of interest in) puzzles. Even though my sons don't go to preschool anymore, I will now share with them what I'm learning and recommend your mother's book.

After releasing a mix of Mom and Dad's ashes into the Bay,
in their beloved city where they married.

Thank you for your work in editing Seeing Color, and I know that your mother's contribution will continue to help parents like me and children like mine.  I believe her amazing spirit will remain with you forever."

Nurse, Writer, Mother, Grandmother, Wife, Adventurer...

Mom with her friend Nancy, both nurses in Hawaii, circa 1955.

She lived a rich life.  I'm glad her obituary reflects that.

"True humor's essence is love." - Thomas Carlyle

My mom died last week.  Because of her dementia, she hadn't spoken in over a year.  The last word I ever heard her say was "yes."  In fact, that was the only word she used for quite some time.

No language, but a big smile.

Another thing she did for a long time after losing her language was laugh.  When someone cracked a joke, she'd grin--even though it didn't seem possible she understood it.  And as it had throughout the years, America's Funniest Home Videos continued to make her giggle.

Taken a few years ago at Christmas.  Mom thought this was a hilarious picture.

My mom always loved to laugh.  Especially at self-deprecation and irreverence.  Five years ago--after my father had died and she'd not only been diagnosed with Alzheimer's but had fallen and broken her arm and spent months in and out of the hospital because of various maladies--she was staying at my house for a while.  I put on Monty Python's Life of Brian, ready to turn it off if it was just too much.  But mom laughed the whole way through.  We howled with laughter together at the end--you know, the scene when the crucified men merrily sing from their crosses:  "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life."

Mom as a young nurse in Hawaii.

Soon after her diagnosis, she told me she'd been considering suicide.  I told her no one wanted her to do that--that her death journey was part of her life, and we'd all be in this together.  Later, she shared that with a longtime friend of hers, also a former Catholic.  The friend--who also had struggled with illness--said, "I've thought of that too but I'd have no idea how go about it.  Besides, isn't suicide a mortal sin?"  She and her friend laughed hard over that.  And my mom totally cracked up when she shared the story with me.  Sometimes we'd kind of cry and laugh at the same time.

Years later in Hawaii, with her daughters and her favorite drink:  a Lava Flow.

I'll never forgot her 70th birthday, nine years ago.  We had a family party.  When it came my turn to toast, I said: "I'm glad you've lived long enough for me to appreciate you."  She roared!  And whenever I reminded her of the line, she laughed again, like it was the first time she'd heard it.

Our longtime family friends Gary and Laurie wrote a beautiful letter to my sisters and me telling us they can still "hear her laughter rising in the California foothill sun."  

Yesterday I said to Dave:  "When the day begins with paying bills and writing your mom's obituary, you know things can only go up from here."  She would have loved that line.  In fact, I think she did.  Her laugh seemed to echo off the kitchen walls.

They loved nature.  And they were great dancers.  I think they're now foxtrotting in the stars.

Gary and Laurie characterized my mom perfectly as a "gentle soul with toughness and resolve who not only performed the art of motherhood as well as any we’ve known, not only served as caregiver to her husband for decades but here was a woman who allowed her own personhood to blossom beyond her life duties. ... Hers was a special beauty." 

They added:  "She saw you grow and settle, she experienced the future of her DNA as she enjoyed her beautiful grandchildren, she drank deeply of a marriage, friends and the recognition she received as a vital professional and community member.  Most never live so much life."

No one is ever really gone.  All we have to do is think about them and they can be right there.  I've had great conversations with my dad during the five years since he passed.  And I know I will with my mom, too.  I think there will be more laughter.

Mom in her beloved Yosemite, where she worked as a nurse and met my dad.