A Heartfelt Tale of Two Writing Groups and One Dying Child

And how I hold and comfort myself in sad and scary spaces

Warning: this piece deals with sad stuff.

“Whether your purpose for writing is artistic expression, communication with friends and family, the healing of the inner life, or achieving public recognition for your art — the foundation is the same: the claiming of yourself as an artist/writer and the strengthening of your writing voice through practice, study, and helpful response from other writers.” ~ Pat Schneider, AWA founder

This morning I did something brave.

I brought a very vulnerable piece of writing to one of my workshops.

It was in response to a prompt we did in my Thursday night writing group. A group based on the Amhurst Writers & Artists’ philosophy and practices, a very gentle way of holding and honoring each other’s words and hearts.

Not every writing group operates this way.

Which is fine.

We also need rigorous feedback. We need to know where our piece is confusing, unclear, or stops flowing. We pay top dollar to hear it. And if we put our ego aside, we experiment, learn, and blossom.

Let me back up and explain.

The prompt was to bring to mind a photograph, and imagine we’re having a conversation with someone in the photograph.

And begin with the phrase, In this one, you’re…

When I heard that prompt I knew exactly what picture to use.

My former husband, who I’ll call Simon, was one of five siblings. One of his sisters I’ll call Sherry died of cancer when she was eight and he was twelve. On his and his dad’s double birthday, Feb 2.

Before she died, they had a priest give her last rights. For that occasion, they dressed her in a communion-type dress with a full skirt and layers of crinoline under it as was the style back in the 1950s. Crinkly and itchy on the legs if you’re sitting or in her case, lying in a hospital bed.

Someone in the family took a snapshot of this.

One of those old Brownie camera-looking photos with the white frame and scalloped borders. Sherry’s looking at the camera, but she’s not smiling.

This photo made it from Peoria to Berkeley and hung on a corkboard in our kitchen. For years. I’m trying to remember if that board was specifically in homage to folks who’d passed away. I posted a photo of my two kitties who had, but I’m not really sure.

That picture so riveted me I didn’t see anything else around it.

Sometimes that picture would haunt me and I couldn’t get the image out of my head. Not like spooky haunt. It made me angry.

First of all cause of the religious trappings. What kind of God allows children to die of cancer? But secondly how they dealt with it. Getting all dolled up in a scratchy dress for a ritual that signals the end is nigh. I imagined that would be unbearably frightening for a little girl, so maybe spooky does fit.

I realize I’m imagining how I would feel if it were me. I have no idea how Sherry really felt, except for the hints on her face. Not at all happy.

Did her family help her understand what was happening? When I asked Simon about that, he said, they gave her a picture of Jesus to color.

That’s it?!!!

If he said more, it’s not coming to mind.

He may well have not been privy to all that happened between Sherry and say, their mom.

But in my mind, and my writing piece, this was all she had. A picture of Jesus to color.

And I was livid.

I couldn’t imagine Jesus being a comfort. But maybe He was.

Just not for me.

So I ranted about how inadequate a Jesus who didn’t have any children as far as I knew would be for an eight-year-old newly arrived in heaven, alone, crying for her mommy.

That was my picture.

It brings up rage, fear, and sorrow every time I think about it.

I got some squirrely feedback today about my writing–how it sounded like I was talking to the little girl without hiding my anger, and without really being there, so it didn’t work.

Good to know; hard to hear.

But it worked perfectly for expressing my feelings. Which was its main purpose. Maybe some healing.

Now it’s all a mad mess and my heart hurts.

Someone today asked why Simon would have a picture like that up on the wall in the first place.

I immediately got defensive.

Maybe this was the only picture he had of her. But that didn’t sound right.

Maybe the picture bore into his soul the way it did mine and he wanted to be present to that. He was supposed to be a priest and dropped out of seminary. Became a flaming radical and nature-worshiping pantheist.

Maybe he needed it to stay angry.

His relationship with his parents was tenuous at best. Maybe the photo reflected his passive-aggression.

I don’t know.

Yet I was expected to.

What I do know is Simon and I shared anger at the unfairness of Sherry’s death and our perceived inadequacy of how they prepared her for it.

Did we do anything with that anger, like talk to Simon’s mom? Not that I recall. She’s long since passed as well.

Besides, who am I to judge?

Would I be any better in the same situation?

I was on paper. Talking about how Sherry’ll be an angel with wings of swan feathers; feathers from pairs of swans forming hearts with their necks.

And how she’ll be in the arms of Mother Mary, who at least knows a little something about watching your child die.

Was I comforting her or myself with those words?

Obviously, they were meant for me.

I do relate to Mother Mary a lot more than Jesus.

As we say about our dreams, isn’t everything we write about us anyway?

It doesn’t matter if my group this morning did not get this.

What matters is that I do.

I get to bless Sherry, Simon, and their parents. I get to let the picture and my anger, fear, and confusion float to heaven on feathers of swans.

When my time comes, give me a picture of Mother Mary to color. And let a chorus of angels sing, Let it be, Let it be.

Marilyn Flower’s the author of Creative Blogging: Ninja Writers Guide to Character Development and Bucket Listers, Get Your Brave On. Clowning and improvisation strengthen her resolve during these crazy times. Follow her Sacred Foolishness and Stay in touch!