Excerpt
Letters From The Ungrateful Dead
A Note From Deborah
Dear Reader:
My post-death correspondence with my daughter made a huge difference in my grieving process. I hope this book will help others who are mourning and also help those with loved ones who struggle with addiction and mental health issues. -- Deborah
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December, the dreaded “first” holidays without Hilee, I found my grief therapist in mid-November and started writing to Hilee two weeks later. The holidays were always a hard time for Hilee and she was often grouchy, angry, or depressed. Our correspondence during this challenging season helped me feel connected to her. I loved pouring out my heart at odd hours of the day or night, knowing she would write me back. After forty-seven years, Hilee and I started getting to know each other in a new way. -- Deborah
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Dear Hilee,
Sarah and I miss you so much. “Inconceivable.” Isn't that what Wallace Shawn says so often in the Princess Bride? That’s the way I feel about your death.
Last night I dreamed you popped into my room, very alive. I was surprised, excited to see you. And I was confused.
“Where have you been?” I asked.
”Oh, here and there,” you said.
You told me you’d gotten sick of life and you’d decided to disappear. You were so casual, like you didn’t realize all the sorrow and grief I’ve been through. I pressed my lips together, wanting to shout at you.
“You owe me a lot of money,” I said instead, listing the cremation costs, the lawyer’s fees….
Then I woke up.
Hmmmm…
Mom
Dear Mom,
Really? You talked to me about money after I mercifully returned from the dead in your dreams! Remind me not to do that again!
Plus, surely you know I’ll never pay you back!
Mom, who else do you know who can communicate without a computer, cell phone, or internet? I’m definitely one with “the cloud.”
We have a TV channel called Stuff on Earth. It’s pretty cool, kind of like if Google Maps could gossip. I can tune into any city, any neighborhood, even hone in on a house. I can think about an address and see what’s going on there. It’s not just Santa who can “see you when you’re sleeping!”
Love,
Spy in the Sky, Hilee
Dear Mom,
A big plus about being dead: I am not anxious or panicked. I am not depressed. I am calm. Of course, that’s means life’s not too interesting, but I am trying to be in the flow and see if I can tolerate it.
It’s hard to stir up drama here. Everyone is sanguine. Or enlightened. Oh God, what if I’m becoming enlightened! You are entitled to make fun of me if that happens.
Remember how I scorned all your suggestions to breathe, think positively, create affirmations, vision my life. I thought those things were so stupid. Then I went to that cognitive behavior therapy class. They were into that and since I had to do my homework—I was trying to be more normal— I started doing affirmations. It wasn’t as bad as I thought.
Love,
Hilee
Dear Hilee,
I had such hopes that the behavior classes would help you. I always expected great results the few times you agreed to therapy.
Love,
Mom
Dear Mom,
You always wanted to change me.
Bad idea.
Love,
Hilee
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January, the new year dares me to step into it. I am getting more comfortable jumping into painful or difficult topics. For me and Hilee, this open communication is relatively new territory. Her revelations and insights are both sobering and illuminating. I wonder how she feels about mine. -- Deborah
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Dear Hilee,
Sarah and I went for a walk last night and talked about how unbelievable it is that you’re not here. You’re not in your duplex on Grandview Lane. You’re not calling us, desperate to persuade us to go to Wal-Mart to pick up your meds. You are not texting because you need a Diet Coke or a ride to the doctor or you’re out of food—you’re not really out of food but you may need fish sticks for dinner or a Kit Kat for dessert.
I miss those calls, some more than others, of course. Remember how mad you could get if we failed to instantly fetch you what you needed? Still, it must have been frustrating that you couldn’t drive because of your random seizures. You had to rely on “the kindness of strangers,” as they say. And of family members.
Love,
Mom
Dear Mom,
No meds is another good thing about being dead. I practically have a degree in pharmacology from all the drugs I’ve juggled through the years. Half the time I was advising the psychiatrist on the medications I needed.
In a way, I miss being angry. When you’re mad, you know you’re alive. You feel powerful, righteous, in charge. At least I did. And being angry helped me get what I wanted. With Dad at least. And sometimes with you. Oh well, those times are gone. Maybe I don’t miss them so much.
How long am I going to be here, do you know? I’m wondering if I should get used to it, try to make friends? Or should I just chill, in case I’m leaving soon.
Love,
Hilee
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