Finally my career has taken off. Hired by plushy corporations, I am wailing in upscale offices all over the city. I am able to demand top dollar for my sodden, twisted expressions, the spurts of anger accompanied by my clenching fists, and my seemingly endless tears (see the Water Works! section of my website).
Grief facilitator, my card says. Crybaby, my critics say.
My Humble Beginnings
My photo in the local paper brought the industries to their phones. I just happened to arrive at a grisly scene involving an out-of-control snow plow and a visiting dignitary at the same time the media did.
The flashing lights brought me right back to an untimely death I witnessed as a child. Always an animal lover, I watched in horror as a sweet turtle crossing the street was crushed by a passing ambulance. �Hurry!� I cried, but it was no use. My child mind could make no sense of the senseless death and my sense of powerlessness. That is just one of the surprising things about grief � just when you think you have it resolved, along comes something to set about a fresh torrent.
I was also upset over a recent dismissal. It wasn�t much of a job but it paid the bills for a time. My supervisor didn�t come out and say it but my frequent, hurried trips to the bathroom and the overuse of company tissues seemed to have something to do with my suspension. �Your job is to greet our customers and answer the phones from 9 am to noon,� she said, as if I didn�t know, �and you barely make it through a half hour without needing back-up coverage.� Could I help it if the young man in the mailroom reminded me of my former best friend�s brother who took me to my first prom and then abandoned me in the parking lot when I didn�t �put out�? If the frequent calls from the CEO�s wife, increasingly desperate, brought back my poor mother�s hopeless quest for my own missing-in-corporate dad? If, no matter how I timed it, I could never get to the coffee when it was fresh?
To top it off, as I walked along that night, my pantyhose sagged so that the crotch was practically at my knees and I was unable to stride fully. Another loss!
Chance intervened. I was at the right place at the right time with no Kleenex, standing in the fading light just the right way. My face looked like an ancient Mayan mask of despair, according to my ex-ex-boyfriend who was the first one to alert me to the morning paper the next day. I barely had time to register that fact: where was my ex-boyfriend?
�I was just about to drink my coffee and there you are screwing up your face like the pro that you are,� he said. �I�ll bet you get calls from plastic surgeons.� He was correct, of course, but then again, he�d rather be happy than right.
There were two photos of me, one of the front page and one on page seven, section B. They show my range quite well. I didn�t need that photographer�s comments of �Show me the sadness.�
The plastic surgeon, new in town, felt obligated to warn me of impending wrinkles.
My second call was from a therapist. He paused when I told him I was just a passerby at the scene, not the poor dead man�s wife or colleague or mistress. �Perhaps you�d like to explore your unresolved losses and learn to let them go,� he quietly suggested. I politely told him I was fine, thanks.
After all, I have my own therapist. The �putz� as my ex-ex calls him. How could he? That man helped me uncover my true talents, I realize now. How many times had he told me �Don�t be ashamed of your tears� and �I think you need to come in again this week�? Such support! Such validation! It wasn�t easy but eventually, after several long years of dedicated work, I was able to cry deeply, soundly, madly. I believe I�ve reached so far into my body that I now have access to original, embedded tears. Tears that I may have inherited from my parents, my grandparents, indeed the whole human family.
Upcoming chapters:
o Crying for corporate shame and big bucks
o Tools of my trade: Little black dresses and waterproof mascara
o The peculiar world of men�s misplaced grief: how-to bridge the gender gap and cash in