My Essay on Harper’s Bazaar: “To Kate Spade’s Daughter…From Someone Who Has Been There”

Kate SpadeLast week was hard. It was hard and emotional and incredibly heartbreaking. Like so many, I was saddened to hear of both Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain’s deaths from suicide.

I’ll be doing a longer post tomorrow about why we need to keep talking about suicide and mental health because, of course, there’s a lot to unpack and process there, but last week?? My heart immediately went out to Kate Spade’s daughter, Frances. She didn’t lose Kate Spade the Fashion Icon. She lost Kate Spade the Mom. At 13. And, as I’ve shared over the years, the death of a parent from suicide leaves you reeling — for so many years.

So maybe it’s no surprise that I knew I had to write something to Frances. Because, well, I’ve been there. I wrote an open letter to her about what I wish someone had told me right after my father died. The essay is my first for Harper’s Bazaar. This was an emotional one to put into words, but I hope it brings some comfort to those left behind.

Here’s an excerpt of the piece, which I sincerely hope Frances is able to read someday when she’s ready…

I’d tell her that she shouldn’t be afraid to talk about it. Even in 2018, people still don’t know what to say or how to offer support to those left behind, mostly because the topic of suicide makes them uncomfortable and there’s still such a stigma attached to it, but people want to help. There’s power in telling your story, and although I’ve probably told the same stories more than once, I know the simple act of giving words to what I went through has helped to heal my heart.

Little by little, the light will start to peek through the storm clouds. Her grief might still be there, but right next to it will be tiny slivers of hope. I hope she’ll embrace those moments of hope and know that grief and hope can co-exist together harmoniously, like the two sides of a coin.

The bond between a parent and child is like a deeply rooted tree. Storms may cause the tree to sway back and forth, but its roots remain firmly planted. That bond will never break. And neither will my connection to my father. Like that tree, it will always be there, the light forever glowing against its leaves.

I’ve been reading all the comments on my essay over the last week and wanted to thank you all so much for reading and sharing! It means a lot that we’re having these conversations and working to #EndTheStigma together.

You can read the full piece here and I’d love to hear your thoughts. Feel free to email me anytime at mellow1422@aol.com and let’s chat! And of course, feel free to share my essay on Facebook, Twitter or even your local refrigerator. If you share on Twitter, be sure to tag me @melissablake so we can connect! I can’t wait to hear from you! Love you all! And please, know that you’re NEVER alone. You can always call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255).

On Martin Crane, Grief and TV Characters

Martin CraneWhen I heard that John Mahoney died in February, I was completely heartbroken. It felt like I’d just lost someone close to me. In a way, I did “know” Mahoney — or, at least, the beloved dad he played on Frasier for 11 years. Because in some very-important ways, Mahoney’s Martin Crane reminded me of my own father and helped me through my own grief journey.

Frasier quite possibly saved my family’s life. My mom and I watched it obsessively following my father’s death, and it got us through some of our darkest days. Martin Crane brought us so much laughter, joy and life lessons. He always seemed to know exactly what to say when Frasier and Niles would get themselves worked up into tizzies (usually over nothing important, as I’m prone to do too!), and Martin would also set them straight when they’d say the wrong thing or put their foot in their mouth — for what seemed like the billionth time.

But what I really and truly loved about Martin? The fact that he knew what was important in life. He knew how to have fun and not take everything so seriously, you know? It’s almost like he was keenly aware that life was incredibly finite and he wasn’t going to waste any second of it. That’s sort of how my dad was. Maybe he knew our life together would be short, so he was all about family in everything he did. He loved spending time with us, even if we were just hanging out at home on a random Tuesday night trying to figure out my chemistry homework.

Then last week, we found ourselves watching episodes of Frasier once again. We were grieving our beloved Harry and needed lots of comfort. Like so many years ago, we found it in Martin and his sons. True, we could recite practically every line from memory, but in a way, that only added to our comfort level.

Yes, I know John Mahoney isn’t really Martin Crane, but during the time I needed him most, he was. He embodied the character so fully and completely, and I’m forever grateful for that.

How is it that we become so attached to TV characters? How is it that they become part of our lives, that their story becomes our story? And their story, ultimately, helps us heal. It’s such a powerful thing, isn’t it, friends? Thank you, Martin Crane. For everything… xoxo

Saying Goodbye to Harry: The Cat Who Changed Our Lives

Harry HarryI’ve been dreading writing this post for two days. Really, I’ve been dreading it for the last 14 years. On Saturday morning, we said goodbye to our sweet Harry. There are no words. The world is sad without him…

It still doesn’t seem real. Even writing those words now feels sort of hollow, as if this is someone else’s life that I’m just peering into for a moment.

Sadly, it’s not someone else’s life. And I hate that. We’re all so heartbroken. We keep walking around the house, expecting Harry to come around the corner like he used to do — with his trademark trot that he always did when it was time for treats or when my mom would get home from work. Even Stella is looking around for her brother in all their usual hangouts, like the basement, my mom’s bed and Harry’s favorite chair.

But that’s who Harry was. He was a member of our family…such an important member of our family. For 14 years, he brought such joy to our lives every single day, and I am so thankful for the time we had together. I never really understood the allure of cats until Harry came into our lives. Who could people become so obsessed with a little ball of fur? How is it that cats can get their owners wrapped around their teeny tiny paws?

Harry HarryOne look at Harry, though, and everything just fell into place. I finally “got” what all this feline fuss was about.

Some of Harry’s favorite things…

• Ham, in his pre-diabetic days, of course!

• Pizza crust

• His favorite sleeping spot, on his pillow right next to my mother. He’d sleep there every night.

• Games, like Yahtzee and Bananagrams. He like to sit on our kitchen table right where the action was. Sometimes, he’d even push the dice around!

• Posing for photos. He was the original cat model, don’t you agree?

• Halloween. Every year, he’d sit by the front door and wait for the trick-or-treaters and they loved seeing him!

• The apple orchard. Harry was the only cat I knew who got to sit in a giant chair in the middle of a cornfield on a sunny fall day. He was thrilled!

Here’s the essay for Redbook that I wrote in 2016 about how Harry saved us after my father’s death. My mom said it best on Facebook over the weekend and I wanted to share her wise words…

When he first got diabetes, I told him I would save his life the way he saved mine after Brian died. Month after month of him rocking with me in the dark living room as I cried, and never once did he get up until I did. So, when he got diabetes, he got top-notch care until the time came yesterday to let him go. We saw him through and stayed with him until the end. He was truly part of our family.

In the last two days, I’ve mentioned several times how the house is so quiet without Harry. Too quiet. It’s not that he was a particularly loud cat, but he had such a loud personality that he just brought such a joyous energy to our lives, hearts and home. This will always be Harry’s house.

Harry Harry HarryThanks for all the loving kindness, friends. It’s comforting to know Harry was loved by so many. I’ve been sleeping with his favorite “Mousy” toy next to my pillow. I love you, Harry. Thank you for being part of our family… xoxo

What to Say (and Not Say) to Someone Who’s Grieving

GrievingIf there’s one thing I’d never wish on my worst enemy, it’s to lose a loved one. It’s unimaginable and shatters your world in ways you never thought possible. But as quickly as it takes to lose someone, the actual act of mourning that loss takes far longer. Maybe that’s why I’ve always found comfort in the fact that grieving is a verb…

Naturally, I’ve been thinking about grief a lot this week. This Saturday marks the 15th anniversary of my father’s death.

Fifteen. Years.

Fifteen birthdays. Fifteen Christmases. Fifteen summers. So many memories without him. The scale between memories with him and memories without him is really starting to tip — and not in the direction I’d like, either.

Plus, it’s been 15 years of grieving. I’m not talking about that deep pain, can’t-stop-crying kind of grief that dominated those early years after my father’s death. Thankfully, that fog has lifted and given way a new sort of grieving — it’s a dull heartache, a tug at your soul, a general sense that something isn’t right, a particular awareness on every birthday, holiday and anniversary. This new feeling settles in you and it’s ongoing. Because grieving is ongoing. It’s a verb. It’s something you do every day for the rest of your life.

That’s what I wish people understood. That grief is never something you just “get over.” As I remember my father this year, here are some grieving dos and don’ts I wish someone had given me 15 years ago…

DO

•   Let people tell their story: Sure, they may have told it before, but there’s immense healing in giving voice to our experiences.

•   Check in: Helping someone who’s grieving doesn’t always have to include grand gestures. It can be as simple as a “thinking of you” text. Trust me, they’ll appreciate it more than you know.

•   Give them space: Sometimes, though, people need to be alone. That’s OK too…healthy, even.

DON’T

•   Tell them how to grieve: Basically, don’t give advice unless you’re asked for it. I’ve noticed this unsolicited advice runs rampant on social media. In fact, there’s even an official name for it: Grief policing. In the digital age of social media, where grief has become a much more public process, experts describe grief policing as “the notion that there is but one way to grieve, and that deviation from that way is wrong. The tendency to tell mourners that, essentially, they’re mourning too much, or not enough. The desire to restore order to a practice that has become, culturally, chaotic.” Don’t be the person who tells someone how to mourn, or even worse, to stop mourning altogether.

•   Tell them to remember the happy times: Believe it or not, sometimes remembering the happier days can make someone feel even sadder. Telling them to focus on the happy times is not only patronizing, but it also minimizes their experience. Sadness and remembering the good times are not mutually exclusive. You can have both; in fact, feeling sad that you lost someone you loved doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten the happy memories you shared with them.

•   Tell them they should be “over it” by now: Grief has no timetable and it’s a different process for each person. Don’t shove your experiences and expectations on someone else. It’s not helpful. AT ALL.

Bottom line: Grieving is a process. It doesn’t happen overnight — and maybe not even over a lifetime. Be patient. Be respectful. Be present. And listen.

GrievingSometimes the best thing you can do for another person is just *be* there with them. Don’t muddle the moment with words. Sending love and healing as we all go through this grief journey. I love you all…and I love and miss you, Dad… xoxo

[Photos via We Heart It]

Remembering My Father on His Birthday

Remembering My FatherI’ve been remembering my father this week — he would have celebrated his 66th birthday today.

Here’s a question I’ve had on my mind lately: What does it mean when you don’t know what to say? I’m not talking about processing his suicide — not really, I don’t think. I suppose I’m talking more about processing the fact that he’s not here, that so much time has passed since he’s been on this earth and just the fact that I genuinely don’t know what to do with all that sometimes. It’s a lot to process, you know? And a huge milestone moment like a birthday always seems to put things in stark relief, as if I’m looking through a telescope and zeroing right in on it all.

Everything just seems heightened — my feelings, my senses — and everything is just a bit brighter, louder and weightier today. I’m sure things will ease up tomorrow, but for right now, that’s where I’m at. It’s not a bad place to be, and I could be feeling far worse than I do, but as Ms. Bear would say, it is what it is.

So I’ll be gentle with myself today and smile when I remember my father. The above photo shows one of our many beach adventures. Maybe the water is a metaphor for my emotions. The tide carries the water in and out in a never-ending cycle. There’s a rhythm and a soothing calm to it, like it will always be there. My emotions will come and go, in and out like those waves, and that’s OK. Maybe all I should do is notice them, not questioning them or judging them. Taking them for what they are? That sounds like a revolutionary choice, but perhaps it’s the best one in the end. Happy birthday, Dad…I love you… xoxo

P.S. More posts about my father…