Navigating Grief: Reflections on Loss, Culture, and Unexpected Acts of Kindness

Welcome new subscribers! It was great to meet you IRL at Coronet!

I'm not a stranger to death and dying. Kübler-Ross and I go way back to AP Psychology, ironically being studied a week after my father had passed. My teacher asked the class, "What is the one thing you have too much of when someone you love passes away?"

A few hands shot up in the air. "Greeting cards?" a student answered. "No," my teacher replied. “Flowers?" "Nope!" she replied. After a beat of silence, she glanced in my direction, and I timidly raised my hand. "Food," I said confidently. “That's right, Caitlin. Food!"

I don't remember the rest of that lesson other than brushing over the stages of grief. Consequently, I failed all my AP tests that year and received a poor score on my ACT, eliminating my top college choice. It ended up being a blessing in disguise.

My top choice was the University of Pittsburgh, where my grandfather, mother, father, and cousins attended. I grew up in the Midwest, but my family lived in Pennsylvania, and my grand plan was to settle there. I'll be sure to let you know more about that at a later date. However, I remember arriving in Pennsylvania for the funeral and being overwhelmed by food. It was more than we could store. People came from all over the state to bring casseroles, gobs, halupki, and raisin-filled cookies.

What is strange is the contrast between this experience and my experience directly in the Midwest. Though my Midwest friends were aware of the death, families thought it more polite not to intrude or interrupt. They didn't want to bother us in our time of grief. A passage I read from Martyr! encapsulates this perfectly in the narrator’s experience of comparing Iranian and Midwest cultures:

“At the intersection of Iranian-ness and Midwestern-ness was pathological politeness, an immobilizing compulsivity to avoid causing distress in anyone else. Cyrus thought about this a lot. You cooed at their ugly babies, nodded along with their racist bullshit. In Iran it was called taarof, the elaborate and almost entirely unspoken choreography of etiquette that directs every social interaction. The old joke, that two Iranian men could never get on an elevator because they’ll just keep saying “you go,” “no you,” “no no please,” “I insist,” as the doors opened and closed. Midwestern politeness felt that way too, Cyrus learned, like it was burning cigarette holes in your soul. You bit your tongue, then bit it a little harder. You tried to keep your face still enough to tell yourself you hadn’t been complicit, that at least you weren’t encouraging what was happening around you. To you.”
― Kaveh Akbar, Martyr!

Fast forward to about a week ago, my partner’s father was admitted to hospice. We were all running on empty. Case in point: hospice coffee labeled, “MADE FRESH AT 11:13 AM!” Drunk at 10:15 PM that day.

In a world where how many followers you have matters, every experience is documented and uploaded in a second, staged with professional lighting, filmed with an iPhone Pro or DSLR camera, I decided to document my most recent experience with grief. Shot on my shitty iPhone mini, camera lens dirty with my oily fingerprints. I attempted to capture the beautiful acts of kindness over politeness, even with myself. What does grief look like?

Tacos eaten at midnight in the family room. Packed lovingly in containers and with disposable bamboo plates.

I documented one small act of kindness for myself, too exhausted to cook, too stubborn to spend money on anything. Raiding a near-empty fridge to heat freezer-burned peas, a leftover shrunken burger patty, and 1/2 a wrinkled cucumber.

It's strange that the ingredients are all in one place. Despite knowing this, I still put it together to force, “lunch”.

Amidst the chaos of the week, I forgot that I had agreed to do a book signing at Coronet for their Gay Weimar night. I very nearly didn’t make it. My partner, along with her family urged me to go despite the circumstances. I think I remember her saying, “I will be so pissed at you if you don’t take this opportunity.” How often does Tucson, Arizona have a Weimar night? The same week as my book is released?

So, I headed to Coronet. I packed everything so quickly, I forgot the most important thing: a suitable pen…So I texted my supporters (the ones who encouraged me to come):

I responded, “anything is better than a hospice pen.”

I ended up signing my first two books with the hospice pen. It was for my bestie in Tucson, who came to the signing when I told her at the last minute. She bought my first two books.

And then filmed my first signing.

My partner’s father passed away early Friday morning. If you've ever lost a loved one, especially a parent, you understand that grief is not black and white. People are flawed. I would be remiss to say this death was straightforward and beautifully uncomplicated.

However, the small acts of kindness to meet our basic needs did not go unnoticed. It was the Pittsburgh native, Mr. Rogers, who said in times of distress and tragedy to, “…look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”

Thank you for helping.

xoxo,

Caitlin