How Do We Become the Person That We Are?

GRACE HARLOW KLEIN

My first prose poem was written in the aftermath and death of my father titled, “What Have We Done to Him?” Five years later, my mother died in just twenty-two days after the diagnosis of metastatic cancer.

Combined with events in my professional life, I began to write a stream of poems, maybe two hundred, on the themes of death, loss, transition, and change. Eventually they were published as books on the same themes. I had established a pattern of writing about events in my life and began to play with the idea of writing a memoir.

In an emotional crisis when I was thirty-two, I began a process to answer the question of the book title, along with other questions. I was unhappy in the midst of accomplishments beyond what I ever imagined, and I had no idea how to even think about it.

In my studies in human development and in extended experiences in psychotherapy, I sought to understand how I had become the person that I was.

Two years ago, with encouragement from Sheila Kennedy, I began to seriously address writing my memoir. It has been a consistent part of my journey to remember events, feelings, and being open to changing meanings I had assigned to events. In other words, writing my memoir has been a growthful, sometimes painful process in itself.

My memoir is the story of my journey, my life experiences, and the drive in me that has propelled me forward all the years of my life. It is the story of my life relationships, including the love affair of my life which began when I was forty-five and met Armin Klein.

It is also the pathway of my life’s work as a nurse, a professor and administrator that brought me to my work as a psychotherapist, now twenty-five years ago in our Center for Human Encouragement in Rochester, NY.

The memoir is not just about me; the “We” in the title is meant to convey the universal drive to understand self, and our life’s journey to create a meaningful life.

What Have We Done to Him?

Today I accompanied my father to the nursing home –

A place that is to become his home. I cried. Twenty days ago he lived in his own home, Slept in his own bed,

Compromised by the thief that had taken his memory

Over the past nine years.

He still enjoyed his home, his music, Accompanied my mother on the errands

That kept him involved in life. He responded to love and touch

And slept with my mother in the bed they have shared

For almost fifty-seven years.

Nineteen days ago he awakened early

With pain in his stomach—

A lot of pain

And said, “yes”

That he wanted my mother to take him to the hospital. Soon the physicians said the problem is severe And that they must operate. They wanted her that at 84 he might not withstand the operation—

That he wanted my mother to take him to the hospital. Soon the physicians said the problem is severe And that they must operate. They wanted her that at 84 he might not withstand the operation—

But his heart was good and maybe he would. But did they warm her of the possibility that he might live, With no prediction of the impact of the assault

On his fragile grasp of reality –

Held together only by familiarity

And his own determination

To keep his world small enough to control his terror

In a world he could no longer manage

But still tried valiantly to do. Without the surgery he would die.

A matter of hours, days – I do not know –

And with what pain – I do not know –

And could he have been helped to be comfortable—

I don’t know.

I only know that by the time I knew what was happening

It was too late to say, Wait!

Would it be all right to let him die now; what lies ahead?

More time to let the thief rob him of everything—

A gamble that he might survive both body and mind.

There was no way for the impact to be positive –

Only degrees of loss – a little, a lot – everything--

No one can say.

And could he choose to take the risk?

No! The thief took that as well.

Which he no longer opens.

It is as if life outside has become too confusing, painful

For someone who always wanted to be in charge.

Deciding, directing, taking care of those he loved. He has given in, sometimes gracefully, often not.

To a world too complex to manage.

For me, the agony is almost more than I can bear. But I walk with him one step further

In this path that he began with me—

Where love and care is all there is –Until eternity.

Something is wrong!

It is as if we as a culture are so terrified of death,

We will impose any pain— No matter how bizarre (and call it healing –medicine)

To avoid the end we all will meet. It does not have to be this way. Death is not always kind— It can come without warning. It can come slow with suffering.

It comes to some alone—others surrounded by love.

But faced, it can come lovingly with care—

By strangers or those with whom life has been shared.

Whether it is a transition or completion is not certain. But death’s anchor is life –

Lived fully, purposefully, lovingly or poorly But seen clearly at the end. Death is life and life is death. We can choose to live it well.. We can choose to end it well.

Courage is required. Courage to question, to choose, to act, In love.

But I am troubled by the larger questions. What kind of living hell do we inflict

By surgeons’ knives and nurses’ needles; Tied in bed with cords of steel.

I see the helpful become bizarre

When outcomes no longer matches intent. Something is wrong! And then the bills will come.

Please pay for what we have done to you.

What have we done to him?

Grace Harlow Klein A Bridge of Returning An Empowering Journey 2010

Grace Harlow Klein is a psychotherapist, artist and author. She runs her psychotherapy practice out of The Center for Human Encouragement in Rochester, NY.

To learn more about Grace, her practice, the books and art she offers, please visit https://graceharlowklein.com/

The website is where you can order your signed copy of Grace’s Memoir too.