by Elayne Savage, PhD
“There Is to Be No Grieving,” describes how incomplete grieving has powerful long-term effects throughout our lives.
As
with others who have experienced significant childhood challenges, I’m
repeatedly reminded that healing is a life-long process.
The
publication of my story about delayed grieving in Elizabeth Wagele's newest book: The Enneagram of Death – Helpful Insights by the 9 Types of People on Grief, Fear and Death gives
me the opportunity to
take a long look at important personal issues: dealing with exposure of
course, as well as loss and abandonment. Experiencing this healing
process has been quite a journey!
Braniff DC-3
On August 22, 1954 my mother was accompanying my grandmother to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN. They never arrived.
During
the long layover in Des Moines, my mom learned a Braniff flight would
depart earlier than her scheduled flight. What she didn’t know was the
Braniff flight was a “puddle jumper,” stopping at every city en route,
and a fierce storm was approaching. The Mason City flight controller
instructed the pilot not to land. He decided to try anyway.
The plane with sixteen passengers and three crewmembers on board crashed into a cornfield in Swaledale, Iowa,
just south of Mason City. The pilot and co-pilot died. The flight
hostess and six passengers survived. Debris from the crash was spread
along a line of more than 500 feet.
I was twelve years old. My brother Lee was nine.
The Long Wait for News
We
waited into the evening for my mom to signal us from Rochester saying
they had arrived safely. I was looking forward to our little phone
company trick where she’d place a person-to-person call for “Aloysius.”
We’d say, “Sorry, Aloysius is not here,” then we’d giggle about how we
got away with something.
But the call never came.
I
was absorbed in the sewing project on my lap, not paying much
attention to the TV news. I had just returned from overnight camp where
all the girls except me were wearing embroidered cutoffs. My dad said
they cost too much to buy, so I was embroidering my own.
I heard the announcer’s ominous voice; “A Braniff DC-3 went down during a storm … on a farm … near Mason City, Iowa.” My dad jumped up, muttering something about Braniff not being the right airline. Then he was on the phone for a long time.
I
just sat there, stitching. And thinking about that morning when I had
acted badly toward my mother. Overnight camp was my first time away
from home. I’d missed my mom terribly and couldn’t wait to tell her
about my experiences.
As
soon as I arrived home she announced she’d be leaving on a plane the
next day with my grandmother. So what if my grandmother needed medical
tests at the Mayo Clinic? Why did it have to be my mother who took her?
I wanted to hug my mom and say, “I need you, please don’t go.”
Instead, as they were leaving for the airport I screamed, “I hate you—I
wish you were dead.”
Search and Rescue at the crash site
Poof. They Were Gone
So I was sitting cross-legged
in the overstuffed chair, staring at the cutoffs in my hands. I forced
myself to concentrate on pulling the needle and embroidery thread
through the thick denim. In and out, making those tiny stitches,
repeating to myself, “Dad said that wasn’t the right plane.” Out of the
corner of my eye I could see he was still in the kitchen on the phone.
I’ll never forget the slump of his shoulders and that awful look on
his face as he walked back into the living room. “Their plane crashed.
Your mother is dead. So is your grandmother.” I couldn’t believe his
words. I could only stammer, “You’re kidding, aren’t you? Tell me you’re
kidding.”
Illustration by Elizabeth Wagele
My uncles arrived. Uncle Joe had a handkerchief tied around his neck
that smelled of Ben-Gay. Uncle Max kept repeating the story of the drive
to the airport. My mother and grandmother almost didn’t take the flight
because my mother left her purse at home. Uncle Max gave her a wad of
cash and they boarded the plane. No wonder my dad had been so long on
the phone—since my mother had no purse, she had no I.D. Finally the
temporary morgue was able to identify her from the inscription in her
wedding band.
My nine-year-old brother, Lee, was still sleeping. “Tomorrow will be
soon enough to tell him,” the adults decided. “Let him sleep.”
The next morning Dad told Lee about the crash urging, “You have to be
a brave soldier.” Then Dad bundled us off to my aunt and uncle’s. I
wanted to talk to Lee about the crash, but I didn’t know how. The three
of us rode across town in silence. “There are only three of us now,”
kept repeating in my head.
Later that morning, we were eating pancakes at my aunt’s kitchen
table. The radio was on: “Two Omaha residents were killed yesterday in a
Braniff Airlines crash—Goldie Raskin and her mother, Sarah Wolfson.”
“They’re dead?” my brother gasped. “Dead?” He ran out of the kitchen, sobbing.
Lee and I didn’t go to the double funeral. Dad thought it best we
stay home. “The biggest funeral Omaha has ever seen,” people bragged.
“There was even a police escort!”
Nothing seemed real. There was the shock of the newspaper headlines. I
was embarrassed to see my mother’s picture on the front page. I wished
they’d used a better photo. It was so blurry I could hardly tell it was
my mom. The TV and newspaper reporters were angling for an interview
with Lee and me. Thank goodness my family kept them away.
After the funeral, big-bosomed women, smelling of talc, pulled me
close, clucking, “Oh, you poor baby.” I couldn’t breathe. I overheard
wisps of speculations about the cause of the crash, the condition of the
bodies. I learned some new information: almost half of the passengers survived the crash! I had thought everyone died.
That’s when my mind began playing tricks. “Maybe there’s a big
mistake and they didn’t die after all,” would alternate with, “Why did they have
to be the ones to die?” In the middle of this confusion, my camp
counselor phoned me saying how sorry she was. Maybe she wasn’t upset
with me anymore about the trouble I caused in the cabin. Camp seemed
like a very long time ago.
Things stayed surreal for many years. My dad removed all photos of my
mother. Lee and I thought he’d thrown them out, but when he died thirty
years later, Lee found the albums hidden in the back of the highest
shelf of his closet. He had moved with them four times, yet we never
knew they existed. Shortly after she died he sold his business, took a
job traveling, and hired a housekeeper. So we lost him much of the time
as well.
The unspoken family rule was: There is to be no grieving. Our grief was to remain wrapped in silence.
There was no place to have feelings. It didn’t cross anyone’s mind
that Lee and I would benefit from seeing a counselor or therapist. In
those days it just wasn’t done. I was doing a lot of acting out—mostly
getting kicked out of class and study hall for talking.
Illustration by Elizabeth Wagele
My middle school principal, Dr. Brown, tried to counsel me but I
completely shut down. My high school English teacher, Marcia Blacker,
tried as well, asking “Is everything okay at home?” I said, “Just fine,”
but it wasn’t. (Years later I actually searched for and located Ms.
Blacker and thanked her for caring.) I threw myself into schoolwork,
socializing, school clubs and cheerleading so I didn’t have to feel the
sadness or spend time in a lonely house.
For many decades I lived with this tender, unhealed wound. Every year
I dreaded the arrival of August 22. I felt different from friends and
professional colleagues. It has always been awkward to explain that my
mother and grandmother died in a plane crash. People didn’t know how to
respond. I couldn’t talk about it. I couldn’t cry about it.
Thank goodness I was required to start therapy as part of my
Psychology Master’s program in my mid thirties. Luckily I found a
therapist who understood unresolved grief and abandonment fears.
I worked for many years to move past this childhood double loss.
I began to recognize my feelings of sadness and hurt and anger. I
began to understand I don’t have to be a scared child any longer.
Yet something more needed to be done. Fortunately a grief counselor
reminded me: in order to grieve a loss and move on we need to make it
real. You’d think as a psychotherapist and relationship coach I would
have known that. But we so often miss our own issues and solutions until
someone else points them out.
I woke up one morning knowing the best way to make this loss real
would be to arrange a private visit to the kind of plane my mother and
grandmother died in—a DC-3.
Becoming a DC-3 Groupie
Finally, I gathered the courage to track one down and found a DC-3 in
pristine condition in Van Nuys: the private plane of Clay Lacy, a major
aviation figure. I flew from Berkeley to Los Angeles for the adventure,
taking along my yellowing newspaper clippings of the crash, and brought
photos of Lee, me, and our children. I carried two long-stemmed coral
roses.
Interior of a DC-3
DC-3’s are really quite adorable. The plane was waiting for me on the
tarmac, it’s nose high in the air and it’s tail almost touching the
ground. When the door swings down it reveals the steps on its backside. I
was so excited as I climbed the steps and peered into the plane. Then
my heart sank: “What happened? This is not the passenger plane I
was expecting.” I had no idea many DC-3′s were built solely as
executive planes. This one was built for the president of United
Airlines and later used by Governor Jimmy Carter. There were large,
comfy chairs, burl wood cocktail tables, a sofa, and a long open bar. I
thought: “Well here I am. I’ll just make the most of it.”
I ended up spending most of the time in the cockpit because I knew it
would be identical to the one on the plane my mother and grandmother
were on.
Their plane would have had two rows of seats on one side of the
narrow aisle, and one row on the other. What a narrow, confined space it
is! I understood for the first time how difficult that flight must have
been for my claustrophobic mom. Taking off and landing several times
along the route must have been miserable for her.
I could sense the essences of my mother and grandmother. I imagined
tucking these essences into the blue pouch I brought with me. I had
never used the pouch before. Now I know it was waiting for just the
right time to be the guardian of something precious. I could feel my
mother’s presence. We could laugh together, sharing memories.
I got up the courage to talk with her about her experience of the
plane falling from the sky. I imagined her telling me her last thoughts
before she died.
As I was sitting on the plane the shackles that had confined me for
so many years fell away. I could feel myself rebalancing and realigning.
I experienced the healing and liberation that had eluded me for so
long.
Elayne and a DC-3
I guess you could say I’m becoming a DC-3 groupie! Jason Gore, a
colleague and executive coach located another DC-3 for me to visit. He
brought his camcorder and videotaped me as we sat on the plane. Thanks
to Jason’s sensitive coaching I had a long talk with my mother that day.
We were able to say things to each other that we could not say when she
was alive and I was twelve years old.
I told her how her death influenced both Lee and me in the paths our
lives have taken; how much I miss her and what I appreciate about her.
She told me about her dreams for us and how proud she was of our
successes. She assured me she would always be present in our lives,
watching over us . . . and our children . . . and our grandchildren.
My visits to the DC-3s have been life changing. The best part is how
this profound experience has been captured on video to share with others
who are grieving.
My college roommate has reminded me over the years of my inability to
grieve in those days. She thought it odd how I never talked about my
mother dying in a plane crash. Recently we watched the DC-3 video
together. Bette made a powerful observation: how much I’ve matured in my
ability to grieve and how I have allowed my mother to mature as well.
My mother and I were having an adult-to-adult conversation on the DC-3!
And we could at long last develop understanding and compassion toward
each other.
Elayne following first DC-3 visit
Out of the Ashes — A Community of
Survivors
Truth be told, each time I’ve told
my story, I’ve fantasized someone will recognize the circumstances of the crash
and contact me: "I knew someone who survived that crash" or "I
know a family who lost someone on that plane."
And then it happened. The editor of
the Mason City Globe Gazette interviewed Lee and me. One by one, members
of the Swaledale community stepped forward to share their stories and to
describe how deeply affected they are by memories of the day the DC-3 crashed
in the cornfield. How neighbors volunteered for search and rescue to save the
injured and protect the dead. How their farm tractors pulled ambulances through
muddy fields. How they pulled down barn doors to use as stretchers.
I was
stunned to learn how this community has been dealing with their own unresolved
grief all these years. Just like us! Even the newspaper editor wrote,
"Thank you for the opportunity to tell your story and to open another door
in my life." He reflected how our reminiscences are a reminder that people
heal at different speeds.
Passing
Down Fears
For some of us it is a struggle to
move on. And some of us pass our unresolved grief along to our children. I had
developed massive fears that loved ones might die and I’d be left alone. And I
was passing these fears along to my daughter.
One Mother’s Day brunch when
Jocelyn was about twenty-one, we were recalling how she would sob
uncontrollably whenever her dad or I were late picking her up from after-school
care. She remembers how she agonized that we had died in an accident.
Jocelyn and I made an amazing
discovery that day. She remembers outgrowing her fears about death when she was
around nine years old. I‘d been working on my own abandonment fears in therapy
for two years! I don’t think it’s a coincidence that once my anxiety abated,
her fears lessened as well.
My fear of abandonment affected my
daughter in another way: I sometimes held back from showing my love for her. I
guess I felt if I showed too much love I might lose her, just as I had lost my
mother and grandmother.
3-Girl Photo
Overcoming Fears
Now I'm the grandmother, Jocelyn is
the mother and Cora is the child.
I’ve been working hard to create in
my life what I lost in that Iowa cornfield. I’ve been trying to do for my
family what my father could not do for his—searching for ways to address our
fears and overcome them together.
Because we live so many miles
apart, we have created the ritual of “The Three-Girl-Photos.” Ever since Cora
was born I insist on taking a photo of the three of us when we are together.
After all, we are the surviving women of the family now! The photos are a
reminder that each of us has an inherited potential that is unimpeded by the
tragedies and limitations of the past.
We can fly—even soar. And
carry our dreams into the world.
© Dr. Elayne Savage
Elayne's
story about recovering from childhood grief appears in Elizabeth Wagele's
newest book: The Enneagram of Death – Helpful Insights by the 9
Types of People on Grief, Fear and Death
or on Amazon:
http://amzn.to/QLyeFk
Elayne Savage is the author of ground-breaking relationship books published in 9 languages.
You can order books and CDs directly from my website:
http://www.QueenofRejection.com/publications.htm
To order DON'T TAKE IT PERSONALLY! THE ART OF DEALING
WITH REJECTION from Amazon:
http://tinyurl.com/5cg598
To order BREATHING ROOM — CREATING SPACE TO BE
A COUPLE from Amazon:
http://tinyurl.com/2e3objs
REPRINTING THESE BLOGS
You can use the articles in 'Tips from The Queen of Rejection'®
as long as you include an attribution and, whenever possible, a live link to my website. Please notify me where and when the material will appear.
The attribution should include as much of the following information as possible:
Elayne
Savage, PhD is a communication and relationship coach, professional
speaker, practicing psychotherapist and author of Don't Take It Personally! The Art of Dealing with Rejection and Breathing Room-Creating Space to Be a Couple. To
find out
more about her speaking programs, coaching
and consultation services visit:
http://www.QueenofRejection.com
or call 510-540-6230
AND if you or your group can benefit from how not to take
rejection so personally, let's talk about tailoring one of my
speaking programs for you.
Contacting Elayne
I welcome your feedback as well as suggestions for topics you'd
like to see addressed in this e-letter.
Here's how you can reach me:
Elayne Savage
elayne@QueenofRejection.com
510-540-6230
Note: The COMMENTS included below are a compilation from the 4-part serialization of 'There Is To Be No Grieving' published previously.
The problem lies not in drinking a beer or having some ice cream, but in the thoughts that lead to the actions; as well as those that follow.
Recent Comments