Letter 128: Understanding Suffering
When we look into the void, together
I’m thinking of Simon & Garfunkel’s song Old Friends — “Can you imagine us years from today / Sharing a park bench quietly? / How terribly strange to be 70.” Beth, one of my old friends, and I will be sitting on a park bench when we are 70, but we definitely won’t share it quietly. We recently had the chance to see each other while my family was visiting Oregon this summer and it truly didn’t feel like a day had passed since we had seen each other—over 12, 13 years prior. She makes me laugh nonstop (just like we weren’t supposed to do in our graduate classes way back when) and things feel easy. It’s always been an easy friendship. Today, she shares her heart with us in this same, easy way. In the perfect Beth-way. Perhaps her story of loss and struggle will make you feel like she always makes me feel: seen and understood. —Molly
This summer marked 11 years since my husband, Jesse, and I returned from three years teaching in Abu Dhabi with our 4-month-old daughter, Geneva. We thought it would be an easy transition, sliding back into a life we lived before, moving into our home that we’d missed.
Before departing Abu Dhabi in June, we had a Skype call with Jesse’s parents. Mark had just been diagnosed with esophageal cancer. How could it be? He’d just spent a week in our apartment, holding baby Geneva through an earthquake (literally), rocking her and catching her inevitable barf on his shoulder. He’d seemed fine.
Two weeks after his diagnosis, we heard the worst; it was terminal. They were in contract to sell their farmhouse. Where would they live? We were moving back into our rather large house and unsure how to afford it since I hadn’t secured another teaching job yet. And so, my in-laws moved into our house in August for the last months of Mark’s life.
The passing years have dulled the pain, but it is an integral part of my soul.
Watching Mark slowly deteriorate in our master bedroom over several months, watching the family navigate emotional rollercoasters and land mines, and watching my mother-in-law caregiving: these are not for the faint of heart. It is agonizing. There is anguish in every rattled breath, in every rejected meal, in the prominence of each rib. The distress of walking into the room and suspecting your loved one may not recognize you cannot really be expressed with words. The passing years have dulled the pain, but it is an integral part of my soul.
That season of life is tinged with sorrow. Our baby girl was a bright spot that seemed untouched, but surely, our newfound parenting skills were strained. Winter days seemed short, the darkness stretching outside and inside.
And then, spring arrived. Warm wind swept aside some of the grief; it started to feel like the U.S. was livable. I found out I was pregnant with our second in May. And then, in August, I sat in an appointment and watched the ultrasound technician type “no fetal heartbeat” on the screen. She glanced my way and turned the screen. I unraveled. Over the next few days, that little life was ripped away, excised from my body in a torrent of blood and grief.
When the pain of another touches us, we often recoil internally. I know I do.
American society is one of the most individualistic cultures that has ever existed. Perhaps it is because of this that we are so distanced from death and illness. I remember studying in college in Spain and feeling shocked to see the elderly population everywhere, as part of society, a jovial fixture on park benches and forest paths. In contrast, one has to practically seek out the elderly, even more, the sick or heartbroken in the U.S. We are uncomfortable with the dying, with pain and with heartache. When the pain of another touches us, we often recoil internally. I know I do.
I am a thinker. I try to solve my problems with my mind, to try and find a sense of purpose or reason. But grief touches the mind, the emotions, and the body. When I was standing on the edge of the void, toes hanging over the precipice of emptiness, my mind couldn’t solve it. I couldn’t think my way out of grief. I needed people. I needed the ones who held my hand, my body, my broken emotions and didn’t offer platitudes. They didn’t tell me about the other side of the void. They stared into it with me, and wept.
Suffering is often the price of wisdom. And though I would not say I am particularly wise, I no longer seek a purpose in the suffering. I don’t know how I crawled out of that dark space, but I know a few precious people who staggered along with me, hoisting my elbow when I fell.
It is thanks to the sacrifices made by others that I gained wisdom.
So, when my friend’s relationship dissolves, I know to hold her in misery.
When my friend’s house is in ashes, we weep together at the broken pieces of her home; we don’t talk about rebuilding.
When weeks have passed and friends are still broken, maybe my emotions aren’t there in the same way, but I know to say nothing, to honor their grief and affirm that it’s real.
Staring into the void with someone is sacred. It is a gift of trust, an honor to stand together and face the darkness.
Beth’s 5 Favorite Things
Curlsmith Hair Gel- When COVID lockdowns hit, and I realized I wouldn’t see people for a month, I decided, at 37, to learn how to style my curly hair. I’ve tried untold varieties of shampoos, foams and gels. For my long, fine waves, this is my favorite gel.
Calm Magnesium Powder- Trouble sleeping? Join the club. My sleep has improved since a sleep apnea diagnosis and addition of a CPAP, but I still have a hard time calming my mind and body. This magnesium powder is the best sleep aid that I’ve used…and I’ve tried a lot. Non-addictive and reasonable tasting, I don’t go anywhere without this stuff.
@thenutritiontea- An Instagram worth following. Shana Minei Spence is a non-diet, weight-inclusive nutritionist. Her daily doses of wisdom have helped me rethink my health and push back against the toxic culture of “wellness,” which often relies on false judgment and wealth hierarchies. I can’t wait to read her new book, Live Nourished.
Adaptive Seeds- This year, I started MANY plants from seed to expand my cut flower garden. Adaptive Seeds had lots of great cut flowers with outstanding germination rates. They’re a smaller, Oregon-based company that I love to support.
Favorite App- SkyView. This app identifies constellations and individual celestial bodies as you point your phone at them. We bust it out whenever someone asks if that is a star or a planet. It’s a must-try for all.
In gratitude,
Beth Rasmussen
P.S. Here’s another beautiful letter from Beth about connecting through her work in teaching.
