The Word On Film

Precious Spikes of Anger

I always thought grief was an emotion dripping in sadness. I was wrong. Grief is itching anger. You scratch, and for a moment it feels good, as you think about your loved one. Then it starts to burn as you rub the skin raw, raking your fingers back and forth, trying to remember and trying to hold on to the good feelings.

Recently I was discussing Sophia Coppola's Lost in Translation with a good friend of mine. We particularly hovered over the relationship between Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson) and Bob (Bill Murray). While we both saw the lover dynamic between the characters, I also recognized a father/daughter slant. I recognized the act of children judging mommy's or daddy's new partner. When children are older, like Charlotte, they have full comprehension of the introduction to a single parent's 'new friend.'

I saw the character of Charlotte sit across the table from Bob and sulk like a child. Yes, I could see jealousy—the rearing of the ugly head demanding "why not me?" as Charlotte made a snide remark about Bob's one-night stand with a lounge singer. But, I saw that adult child judging the parent's lover. I remember those emotions so well because I had experienced them with my own father and his girlfriend. For the rest of movie, and even as I look back on the film, I place Charlotte and Bob in a father/daughter context.

The death of my father has exposed me to many opportunities for regret and self-pity. Movies and television have been there time and time again to remind me of my loss. When I look back to key moments in the narrative or even the action of a film, I realize how my sense of loss adds impact to many scenes that have now become cliché. An episode of StarGate SG-1 almost brought me to tears. Jack and his team come across a malfunctioning time machine. Instead of traveling back to the past, they relive the same day over and over. In the end, Jack breaks the time loop. He says that he can't go back in time to watch his son die—that he could never go through that again.

I agree full-heartedly. I could never relive my father's death. It was just too damn hard. But, I realize that I am still grieving, especially if an episode of a sci-fi show could make me want to cry.

Strangely enough, while a sci-fi show can feel so real, an after school special about coping with the death of a parent can feel so fabricated. Tracy Gould isn't my mom and an unknown Brad Pitt is not playing my supportive boyfriend. These dramas never explain why 31 months later I can still be grieving.

Is this natural? I miss Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Every so often I think of my black cat named Indigo and my fat little dog, Maggie. We surround ourselves with things that we like. When these things go away, we miss them. It seems quite elementary to me. I like my father. He has gone way. I miss him. There. Simple.

But, why does it hurt?

I hate this type of hurting. A twisted ankle hurts. A bumped head hurts. Grief sucks. The ache gets into your head and chest. If I open my mouth to say two words I'll starting sobbing before I finish the first syllable.

So, does grief mean denial? Is grief healthy? Am I a functional human being, worthy of deodorant and magazine subscriptions, because I have been grieving for over 129 weeks? I wonder if there are awards for the most consecutive days of grieving? I'm not sure I could be a contender. My mother called me May 2nd this year to ask how I was feeling. I said fine... feel a bit blotted and I need a haircut, but I feel fine.

May 2nd was the date my father died. I had forgotten.

So I moved into grief overtime for the next few weeks. I asked my fiancé who's going to walk me down the aisle at the wedding? Maybe we'll name our first son Sam, because there really is no pressure being named after a dead person— just ask all of the children of Holocaust survivors.

My grieving diligence ended a few days shy of July 15th, my father's birthday. I did remember it was his birthday. I was writing an email to a client and realized the date. I had meant to send money to his memorial fund. The plan was to send money on birthdays, Christmas, and Father's Days—you know—the money that would have been spent on a gift, or a card, or a phone call.

And there it is. The anger. Grief isn't pain and heart ache. It's anger. I am angry. I am furious that I can no longer pick up the phone and make a simple call. I cry and say that I am hurting but in reality I am really, really pissed off.

Hi'ya dad. How're you today?

I haven't called his number in over 903 days. I still have it memorized. Sometimes I feel like I just spoke to him yesterday. Sometimes I feel like I haven't spoken to him in years.

Grief, whether you like it or not, lets you travel through time. I flash to moments where I can see him ambling along with his straight-legged walk and then flash again to moments where I cannot recall the inflection of his voice as he says my name, "Rebecca Lynn…"

So, does time heal all wounds? Is it a miracle salve for the angry itching?

No.

No way.

21,672 hours and counting…

And so I am back to the end of the film Lost In Translation. The grand finale, the emotional coupe de gras, was Bob giving Charlotte this huge, Papa Bear hug. He whispers in her ear, and you don't hear what he says. You just see that Charlotte wants to cry, but doesn't. She pulls it together long enough to smile and walk away.

I feel like that some days. I feel my father holding me and whispering in my ear. Mostly I am not certain what he says, but I always manage to pull myself together long enough so that he can see me smiling and not sobbing before he has to walk away.

I really do cherish these moments and memories induced every so often by movies. They split my head and ache my heart, but they are precious spikes of anger, nonetheless.

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