grief Archives - Lisa Manterfield

September 18, 2017 - Lisa Manterfield Leave a Comment

When Tragedy Strikes, Supporting Characters Suffer Too

Over the past couple of weeks, the threat of tragedy has set many people on edge. First Harvey swept into Texas, then Irma battered the Caribbean and headed for Florida. Meanwhile, Jose and Katia built, bringing more uncertainty of what they would become or where they would go.

People in the direct path of the storm faced the very real possibility of tragedy. They stood to lose their homes, livelihoods, pets, and even their lives. Many were called upon to tap into reserves of strength and courage to get through a situation for which they had little time to prepare.

Meanwhile, many of us outside the danger zone could only watch and wait. Although I didn’t have anyone close to me directly affected by the storms, my social media feeds were full of posts from friends who did have loved ones in danger. Lots of people were afraid of what might happen, but felt powerless to do anything about it. That kind of stress can have a huge emotional toll.

I thought a lot about the effects of powerlessness while writing The Smallest Thing. On the pages of the main story, Em finds herself stuck in the middle of an unimaginable tragedy that she is completely unprepared to handle. She does what any of us would do, which is to figure out how to survive. She doesn’t always make the best choices, especially at first. She has no role models or experience to call upon, but she does what she has to, and then she does what she needs to do. She finds her inner strength and a side of herself she never knew existed. And while she thinks she is powerless, she finds ways to take action.

Meanwhile, in the fictional world beyond the book, Em’s mother and little sister Alice experience the powerlessness that many of us felt last week as Hurricane Irma barreled towards our loved ones. Although their story isn’t told in the book, I’ve imagined them watching helplessly as Em and her father fought for survival.

I imagined that Em’s mother, like many us last week, would carry enormous guilt that she had gone to visit her sister and so had avoided being swept up in the quarantine. She’d feel helpless because there would be nothing she could do to protect her loved ones. She’d be terrified and probably frustrated that she didn’t know, at every second of the day, what was happening to them. She’d have moments of fury when others judged her actions or those of her loved ones, without full knowledge of the situation (hello, social media haters) and perhaps relief when one kind person asked how her family was doing and how she was holding up.

In fiction, and in our real-world tragedies, the stories of the supporting characters aren’t generally the ones that keep us riveted. But if you were a supporting character in the recent news headlines, you know, like Em’s mother, that you have your own story, too.

September 4, 2017 - Lisa Manterfield 2 Comments

A Royal Member of the Grief Club

It’s hard to believe that 20 years have gone by since the death of Princess Diana. It’s one of those moments that I remember exactly where I was when the news broke. I was in the kitchen at the restaurant where I worked as a server when the host came running in to share the news that she was dead. I remember thinking he’d lost his mind, as there was no way someone so young, vibrant, and such a huge part of popular culture at that point could be gone. But she was.

In an interview earlier this year, Prince Harry opened up about dealing with—or rather not dealing with—his grief after his mother’s death.

“My way of dealing with it was sticking my head in the sand, refusing to ever think about my mum, because why would that help?” he told The Telegraph’s Bryony Gordon in the first episode of her new Mad World mental health podcast.

Prince Harry was only 12 when his mother was killed in the infamous car accident in Paris. As I listened to his very frank interview about how he suppressed his grief and refused to seek help, even as it affected his personal and professional life, I couldn’t help but think about Kat and how her inability to work through with her grief affected her decisions.

During some early readings of the manuscript for A Strange Companion, a couple of people asked me why it had taken Kat so long to deal with the deaths of Gabe and her father. Hearing Prince Harry talk about ignoring his grief for almost 20 years reminded me once again that grief is a long and messy process that is different for each of us. It takes as long as it takes. That said, ignoring grief doesn’t make it go away.

“Once you start talking about it,” the prince says in his interview, “you realize that actually, you’re part of quite a big club.”

It’s this idea of speaking out that is behind the Heads Together charity the prince had founded, alongside his brother William and sister-in-law Kate, to help raise awareness and break the stigma surrounding mental health issues.

You can hear the full interview with Prince Harry here, and find out more about his charity work at https://www.headstogether.org.uk.

May 15, 2017 - Lisa Manterfield 2 Comments

Weird Things That Happen When Someone You Love Dies

I was 15 when my dad died suddenly and unexpectedly. None of us is ever prepared for this kind of loss, and I was no exception, but I was surprised by some of the strange experiences that came along with grief. Only much later did I understand that almost anything extraordinary is “normal” when it comes to grief. Here are a few weird things that happened to me:

Every time the phone rings, you’re sure it will be them

It takes the brain a long time to process the idea that someone who has been there since the moment of your birth is suddenly gone. Every time the phone rang or there was an unexpected knock at the door, my first thought was always, “Oh, it’s my dad.” My adrenaline would start flowing and it would take several seconds for my grief-addled brain to catch up and realize that it couldn’t possibly be him.

The experience was worsened when, on the day of my dad’s funeral, I answered the door to find him standing there. It took me a lot longer than a few seconds to realize that the man on the doorstep was my dad’s younger brother, who’d I never met in person and who happened to bear an uncanny resemblance.

It’s a wonder the shock didn’t kill me.

Flippant expressions sting like hell

And speaking of flippant expressions like “It’s a wonder the shock didn’t kill me”, only when someone you love dies do you realize how often people use death-related expressions in daily life. “Don’t have a stroke”, “The good die young”, and “It’s like a cancer” all take on a different meaning when they happen to your loved one. “I almost had a heart attack” was an expression used often by many of my friends, but it stung like hell to hear it after my dad actually did have one.

Random items that belonged to your loved one suddenly take on new meaning

It’s been over 30 years since my dad’s death and I still have the travel alarm clock he woke up to every morning. It doesn’t work and I don’t even keep it on display, but I will never part with it. Same goes for the monogrammed handkerchiefs into which he always blew his nose. My dad won trophies for running and was an avid gardener, but it’s the clock and the hankies that suddenly became significant.

In my collection of worthless, but priceless, treasures, I have costume jewelry brooches from each of my grandmothers and a miniature ceramic teapot that belonged to my auntie. These items have become hugely significant to me.

Even if you don’t believe in the paranormal, you’ll get messages from the other side

You think about your loved one all the time in the weeks after their death. You’ll probably talk to them a lot, too. Then one day, as you’re walking down the street, you’ll recall a fond memory and in that instant, the sun will peek out from behind a cloud and shine on you. And you’ll know, I mean absolutely know without a doubt, that it’s a sign that your departed is thinking about you.

About six months after my dad passed away, my mother and I adopted our first cat. The cat had been abandoned, taken in by a relative of my friend, but hadn’t settled with the cats she already had. My friend couldn’t take the kitten, and so by a series of random events, Smudge came into our lives. One day, Smudge looked at me in a way that made me speculate if he could be the reincarnation of my dad. Crazy, right? Perhaps, but the possibility gave me a lot of comfort.

One day you wake up and can’t remember what they looked like

The dead never age. My mother is almost 85 now. She has white hair and her body has lost its strength. But my dad will always be young and vibrant, his body lean and strong from running, and his face slender and tanned.

For a long time, I couldn’t shake off the images of the last time I saw him on the night he died. But over time, I replaced those with fonder memories of him at the beach or walking in the hills. I’m no longer sure if I remember him this way in real life or just from the photographs I have. But I do know that there were days when I woke up and could not remember what he looked like. Those were terrible moments, filled with panic. But they passed because you never really do forget.

You never fully get over losing someone

Losing someone you love changes you forever. You immediately feel like you don’t fit in, that you are the sole member of a club that even your closest friends aren’t eligible to join. Eventually, you learn to live without your loved one, you get on with your life, and you even love other people. You don’t drag around your grief forever.

But you never really get over losing that person. You always have a little hole in your soul that no one else can ever fill. But somehow you learn to live around it.

March 13, 2017 - Lisa Manterfield 4 Comments

Remembering to Savor the Moments

Things are suddenly getting very real around here. After months (okay, years) of writing and revising A Strange Companion, it’s suddenly a real book.

I know it’s a real book because:

It’s available for pre-order on the major bookseller sites.
A printed proof arrived and I have held it in my hand.
I’m throwing a Publication Party, and I couldn’t do that without a real, published book.

It’s all been a bit of a whirlwind these past few weeks and I’ve been living or dying by the task list. I’ve eaten meals but, more than once, I’ve looked at my empty plate with no recollection of cutting, chewing, or swallowing food. My husband has asked me questions and I’ve found myself staring at him as if he’s speaking an alien language, while my brain spins to catch up. If someone asked me my plans for the weekend, I’d say, “Oh, nothing special,” but I’d be thinking, Duh. I’m working on my book!

I think it’s supposed to be this way. A book launch is supposed to be a crazy time of preparation, of dotting i’s and crossing t’s, of smoothing the way for the shiny new book to burst out into the world.

As insane as it’s been, it’s also been a lot of fun. I’ve had some incredible moments, such as:

The moment I finished inputting the proofreader’s final edits and realized I’d never have to read this book again. (I still love it; I just don’t want to read it again for a very long time. Plus, I know what happens at the end!)
The day I arrived home to find the printer’s first proof copy sitting on my doorstep.
When I read the first review and realized that someone other than me and the people who care about me loved my book.

So, in all the swirling madness, it’s these moments that I’m trying to remember and savor.

Now for some details:

If you’d like to pre-order the book, grab it by April 3^rdfor a special bonus gift. All that information is here.

Here’s the wonderful first review I received from The Reading Wolf.

Here’s my video of the unboxing of the proof.

And, if you happen to be in the L.A. area, I would love for you to join me at my Publication Party. It’s at {pages} a bookstore in Manhattan Beach. 7 pm, Friday, April 7^th. There’ll be drinks and hors d’oeuvres. And of course, there’ll be the closest thing I can find to Owen’s legendary chocolate cake. (And if you’ve no idea what I’m talking about, you’d better take a look at the sneak peek of the book here.)

February 13, 2017 - Lisa Manterfield 3 Comments

For Those Who Don’t Love Valentine’s Day

It wasn’t until I hurried into the card shop to buy a birthday card for my brother that I realized I was going to be solo for Valentine’s Day this year. Mr. Fab had made travel plans and when he’d asked if we had any conflicts on the calendar for those days, I’d said no.

The thing is, we really don’t make a big fuss out of Valentine’s Day. We don’t join the throngs of couples in local restaurants and we often poo-poo the whole thing as over-commercialized nonsense. But now that we couldn’t celebrate together, the occasion suddenly seemed more important and I was disappointed we’d be spending the day alone.

I’ve always had an odd relationship with Valentine’s Day. As a girl, I loved it. The British custom of giving cards was a little different to the U.S. custom of handing cards to everyone you care about—friends, siblings, parents, and teachers. Growing up, Valentine’s cards were sent anonymously, an annual chance for secret admirers to overcome awkwardness and tell someone they fancied them. The fun came in using detective skills, analyzing postmarks and handwriting to guess the identity of the sender, both of which the truly bashful worked hard to disguise.

There was a fly in my romantic ointment. My dad hated Valentine’s Day. His father had died on February 14th several years before I was born, and my dad didn’t even like to hear word of any joy on that day. I was sad about my granddad’s death, but I’d never even met him and it didn’t seem fair that my happiness should have to suffer. I also suspected that my dad might be using it as an excuse to express his displeasure at his young daughter being courted by boys. So, on Valentine’s morning, I’d listen for the postman and sneak downstairs to rescue my cards before my dad could rain on my parade.

Only years later did I come to understand how hard that day must have been for my dad. No matter how much time passes and how well we do with moving past our grief, anniversaries can remain painful for a long time, even more so when they fall on days when others are celebrating.

Had I been older or had the benefit of hindsight, I might have reached out for my dad, instead of being annoyed at his grumpiness. I might have suggested we go the cemetery on Valentine’s Day and taken my granddad a red rose. It’s too late for that now, but the experience has made me aware that, for people grieving lost loved ones, or those spending the day alone, it might not always be a happy Valentine’s Day.