But why?

 

Growing up I was, as I am now, not a kid who went unnoticed. I was loud, silly, and opinionated. My parents told me my body and voice were mine and even as a kind in the 70s, I knew that I was meant to question when things simply did not make sense to me. I was raised to believe that if I asked good questions, I would get good answers. Mostly. I clearly recall an exception to that rule. It was the “but why” exception. Often when I asked my mother “but why” about any number of things – why can’t I have ice cream, why can’t I watch that show, why can’t I stay out later - her response was “because I said so.” That phrase made absolutely no sense to me. I was a scientist’s daughter – I knew why the sky was blue and why baby bird sometimes fell out of the nest and why sedimentary rock could tell me how old an area was. So how was it possible that the answer to other very important (to me) questions were shot down with no explanation.

It enraged me so that I remember knowing even at 10 or 11 years old that I would never say that to my children. That even small, they were people, and all people deserve a why. That understanding my reasoning, would help them understand me. Hopefully one day understanding me would help them navigate the world of adults.

I kept that promise. I assure you that there are 1,000 others I did not. Bribery – anything to make them stop crying on an airplane, junk food – it will not kill them, R movies – I will take bad language and sex over gratuitous violence any day. But that one I kept. Partly because I have a vastly different communication with my kids than I had with my parents and partly because I cannot handle not knowing why.

Ask my wife and she will quickly tell you that I need my world to make sense. I think one of the reasons I never gravitated to science fiction or fantasy is grounded in my need for things to make sense. I have a strong commitment to fairness, reality, and a disdain for lying, fakery and a lack of why. Even as an adult when something happens that does not compute for me, I need to try to get to the bottom of the why. This is where the growth happens for me. 

I should be clear; this need is not esoteric. It is not a why did this person have to die, or why is there antisemitism, racism, or hurricanes. I am humble enough to know that those are answers are way beyond me. This more personal, more soul searching and reflective. It is the why that require someone else to provide an answer they are often unwilling to give. Why aren’t we friends anymore? Why didn’t I get that job? Why would you say something bad about me behind my back? Knowing these answers would allow me to reflect on my own self-improvement as well as to recognize that many times when it feels like it’s about me, it actually isn’t. I tell my kids all of the time “no one thinks about you as much as you think about you.”

But those “whys” hurt as much now as they did as a kid. It is the knowledge that someone could provide the answer but chooses not to. It is the self-flagellation I go through trying to determine if it is me or them or none of the above. It is the deep dive into my self-confidence. It is the NOT KNOWING that keeps me up at night.

I know I am not alone, nor am I paranoid. I simply want things to make sense to me. Countless people (especially women) feel this way. That makes perfect sense to me. What makes absolutely no sense to me are the people who can move on with a “I am sure there’s a reason,” “it is not about me,” etc. I was clearly not born with whatever that gene is.

I also never want to burden someone with my needs. I try to ask for constructive feedback when something does not work out and I mean it. I would give I the same if asked because I want to honor the way that a lack of why impacts people.

I am not sure if it is a blessing or a curse to be a person who questions. I know it makes me a better mom, a better wife and friend. It also makes me a better marketer to ask why – it helps me get to the insights that matter, the nugget that will make us matter. Unfortunately, it also leaves me regularly frustrated when a why is just not going to materialize no matter how much I want one.

So, I am left with questions. How does someone not turn inward when there is no why - not assume it is about them or try to unbox the puzzle that likely cannot be unboxed? Rationally I know that not everything has a why and not all things make sense, but damn if I am not stubborn enough to want them to.

Peripheral Grief

Today two of my camp friends will fly to attend another friend's funeral. The irony that they are flying on 9/11 is not lost on any of us. Tomorrow I will attend the same funeral virtually. The irony that COVID is the reason that is even an available option is not lost on me either. 

On 9/11 I was a New Yorker in the Midwest. Completely freaked out and so far from "home." It took hours to confirm that those closest to me were alright, though no one was really alright. I was here and yet my pain was real and raw. In reality though, it was peripheral. Do I have college friends who lost spouses and parents, yes. Did a mom from my hometown never come home, yes. Did that day change me more as a lifelong New Yorker, also yes.

Your peripheral vision is your side vision, the ability to see things outside of your direct line of sight. And so often, such is our grief. My friend lost her sister, a boy lost his mother, and a father, his daughter. They are the mourners. They are the ones with the right to cry and scream and curse the sky. They are the ones who must put aside their grief to plan and organize and respond to questions. So why is my heart so heavy when I had not seen this friend in 30 years? Why did I have to be physically restrained from driving to my mother in New York 22 years ago today?

I used to think that everyone felt as deeply as I do. That they felt the pain of others and their own grief was not based on how recent or frequently they connected with someone who was now gone. I have come to understand that is not the case for everyone, that I am both blessed and cursed with peripheral grief.

If you have never attended sleep-away camp, it is a difficult concept to explain. It is hard for someone to wrap their minds around the bonds built in such a short but intense time together. It is hard to imagine that neither time nor distance can diminish how it feels when someone you grew up with in that environment is struggling. It is peripheral grief, and it is heavy.

If you have never felt your city in your bones, then it is equally hard to imagine why anyone who was a New Yorker, considers themselves one for life. That when something or someone destroys the fabric of what makes it the greatest city on earth, New Yorkers around the globe mourn. It is peripheral grief, and it is hard.

I still cannot wrap my brain around the idea that Randi is gone, or that Amy has lost her sister. I was just texting with Randi on July 20^th as she shared the astonishing news that the pharma company was going to cover her immunotherapy. I had reached out to her as soon as I knew she was sick and then again when she was fighting the insurance company with ideas with the little expertise I have in the area. I cannot wrap my heart around it either. It is peripheral grief, and there are times when I feel guilty for it. Who am I to have the right when those so close to her are the true mourners. But then a text dings or a call comes through, and it is another camp friend, and they share the same hurt and I know that we can find comfort in each other. In the past. In the knowing.

Earlier today I responded to one of the women flying today – “I know you are flying to the funeral today of all days, and luckily you have a newly anointed angel watching over you.” And while I do not really believe in g-d, or angels in any literal sense - I do believe in camp friends. I believe in cities that are part of our fabric. I believe in our collective peripheral grief, and it makes us all a little less alone.