The Case for Talking to a Stuffed Walrus 

Like the brain, bereavement is replete with patterns, circuitous routes, furrows, and mystery. Bereavement seems to be a complex function of the brain, encompassing memory, hormones, resilience, and genetics. Memories are an important and necessary part of grief. Resilience and how one reacts to the feeling elicited by memory will shape the experience of loss. The death of my grandfather and my grandmother's way of experiencing it highlights the important roles played by memory and resilience.

David B. Kahane, my namesake, was a great father, orator, and gifted Rabbinic scholar. He was born in Williamsburg, NY, in the '20s and died in 1996. Batyah Kahane is an outstanding mother, matriarch, quintessential New Yorker, self-esteem builder, and all-around cool person. Batyah is the hero in this story. She is also my grandmother, cheerleader, and best friend. My grandmother agrees to tell me how she handled her husband's death. We discussed the events over lunch, which may not seem an important detail, but to us always is.

When my grandma was 56 and my grandpa 63, he was diagnosed with a cerebral aneurysm. My grandmother took care of him, post-surgery and stroke, with the devotion of a true warrior. Then on a trip to Aruba, armed with complicated tracheostomy cleaners, awkward protective bibs, and a dizzying slew of serious medications, my grandpa died in their hotel room – it was either a massive stroke or heart attack. He died while my grandmother went to the gift shop to get him some Tylenol, as he had been very cold and under the weather. When my grandmother returned to their room, she found his body on the floor, blocking the doorway. She screamed, pushed through a bit, assessed the situation, and called the front desk. When the paramedics arrived, they operated protocol. My grandma, shocked and in despair, assumed everything would be okay. She begged the paramedics to try harder to save him, but he was dead. Adding to the drama, this happened in January 1996 during one of the worst snowstorms in New York history. My mother raced to JFK, where she sat on the runway for four hours until it was finally announced that no planes would be taking off, my two uncles were abroad and unreachable, and most stores and businesses had already shut their doors. So, alone in Aruba with her dead husband – the man she had been married to since she was eighteen years old, the man who she loved, had three kids with, shared everything with, built a profession with, cared for, was cared by, and said good night to every night – my grandma did everything in her power to hold it together. The people in Aruba were incredible. The police, who were required to investigate any hotel death, gave her a quick pass. The community's Rabbi organized a service, a bar mitzvah boy made her a mezuzah, and the florist agreed to place my grandfather's corpse in his fridge until the plane could take it home – for three days, or an eternity, so it sounds.

My grandmother was stoic. She had to make sure that her kids were alright, she needed to figure out the service, the funeral, the speeches, and the flight to Israel, where the burial was taking place. My grandmother's priority, she tells me, became my mother and two uncles' immediate wellness. They could be sad, but not too sad that they completely collapse. For the time being, certain feelings and needs would take a backseat in the long limo of mourning. The funeral took place – it was nice, warm, and meaningful. It would be difficult to sum up the life of such a great guy in a short time, but they did. My grandfather was buried at night in the hills of Jerusalem – wrapped in a tallit and placed in the soil – dust to dust. There were prayers, tears, memories, and lots of nova. In Jewish tradition, people came to mourn for seven days; the mirrors were covered, my family's clothing torn, and the seats low. It was mostly sad, I was relayed, but with a few dear moments. A friend of my uncle came in and voiced his sorrow, "you know, life is a pickle," he said. 

Life and death, I guess, is quite the pickle.

My grandmother describes the month after my grandfather's death as "lonely, uncertain of what's next, and [having] an intractable feeling of loss." When searching for respite from her pain, she found comfort in sharing memories, good and bad. The tendency to seek solace in memories is a practice that esteemed bereavement specialist, Dr. George Bonanno, derives in his book, The Other Side of Sadness, which is a central tenet of healthy and effective grief processing. Sitting with my grandma, she enjoys recounting funny stories of her late husband driving into a ditch because of his horrible driving, how the only sport that he could play was handball, how when he was courting her, he pretended that he could horseback ride and asked the stableman to put him on an ancient horse, to sell the lie more easily, and more. The memories were what she needed to keep the gloom away. The memories did not haunt her, rather they nourished and helped to ease the pains of her loss, and they still do. 

My grandmother's response to grief fluctuated within the first couple of months after her husband died. It did not turn into prolonged grief disorder or complicated grief disorder. My family has no known history of any of these disorders. My grandmother most probably experienced normal grief caused by losing a loved one. However, to note that my grandmother's grief was certainly burdened by the traumatic experience surrounding my grandfather's death. My grandmother's symptoms of grief, including irritability, preoccupation with her loss, anxiety, and low mood, definitely faded with time. My grandmother's impressive ability to cope and overcome is aligned with Dr. Bonanno's idea that "bereaved people who are able to deal with a loved one's death and who are able to accept the finality of the loss are also able to find comfort in memories of that person."

"A righteous man falls down seven times and gets up." In this message, King Solomon recommends that greatness lies in getting up and persevering. Another important aspect of my grandmother's normal grief and her response to the traumatic experience of losing her husband of 40 years is her resiliency. In the notable book Man's Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl, an Austrian psychiatrist and Auschwitz survivor, echoes a similar sentiment. Frankl remembers a day during the Holocaust when he was worrying about whether he should trade his last cigarette for a bowl of soup – at this moment, he realizes that to survive, he needs to find a purpose. By imagining and planning his future, he succeeds in rising above the sufferings of the moment. Frankl advises, "We must never forget that we may also find meaning in life even when confronted with a hopeless situation, when facing a fate that cannot be changed." This quote rings true to my grandma, whose innate resilience and ability to look ahead allowed her to get through her unchangeable fate – the unexpected death of her husband – not unscathed, but maybe a little stronger.

The Other Side of Sadness illuminates the topics of loss and trauma, and my grandmother's story personalizes it. Dr. Bonanno explains in the book that "humans are wired to survive." He describes adapting and changing gears – which I am happy to learn that my grandmother was able to do. She was resilient. And she did not shy away from remembering. It may be noteworthy that immigrants in apartheid South Africa raised my grandmother; as a young child, she spent six months quarantined in a country hospital receiving daily treatments for diphtheria, and displeased with the grotesque inequality in their country, she was uprooted at 14 years old and moved to America. Her life experiences have played a considerable part in the power of her resiliency. I appreciate when Dr. Bonanno writes, "Resilience doesn't mean, of course, that everyone fully resolves a loss or finds a state of closure. Even the most resilient seem to hold onto at least a bit of wistful sadness." This quote is a perfect description as I sat listening to my grandmother's story. She isn't over it, the book is certainly not closed, and as we are debating over which dessert to order, I see a small tear roll down her cheek – of course, this could be related to the agony of having to decide between the flan or the chocolate tart – but I imagine it is a bit of wistful sadness for what she has lost.

Uncharacteristically, my grandmother has designated a stuffed animal from when she was a kid to sleep with. She tells me that sometimes she will talk to it as if she is speaking to my grandfather. This seems to help retain a meaningful and supportive bond. In Jewish thought, a person's soul continues to exist after they die. Being able to hold onto the connection of a relationship as long and deep as theirs has been a great gift for my grandmother. As Dr. Bonanno shares in his book, "The experience of an ongoing relationship with a deceased loved one tends to be salubrious later in bereavement... it becomes easier to utilize these kinds of bonding experiences to sustain a sense of calm and connection." 

The intricacies of memory are observed in the temporal lobe, the area of the brain responsible for hearing, sequencing, language comprehension, and memory. Memory depends on encoding information, storing the information, and then recalling that information when needed. While the temporal lobe is where our memories live, other parts of the brain play an important role in memory. The hippocampus plays a significant role in autobiographical memory with the passage of time. Bereavement is dependent on this passage. The brain receives information through our five senses of sight, smell, touch, taste, and hearing. A pristine jumble of information is masterfully encoded by the three-pound organ, stored in a nook, and this is how we exert control over who we are, what we do, how we see the world, how we mourn, and how we experience the past. Being the case, having a physical object to help access and engage with these feelings and memories more readily is a profound tool in helping to address the difficult realities of bereavement. My grandmother is a testament to that.