Everything is Horrible and Wonderful: A Tragicomic Memoir of Genius, Heroin, Love, and Loss

by Stephanie Wittels Wach

Joan Didion said it better: “Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life.”

He understood that on a basic level, we’re all the same. We’re all human, and we’re all just doing the best we can. In his words: ‘Let’s stop finding a new witch of the week and burning them at the stake. We are all horrible and wonderful and figuring it out.’” That was my favorite thing you ever said. That is my favorite thing anyone has ever said. And it was exactly you—horrible and wonderful and everything in between.

It’s both an honor and a punishment to be the person in charge of your estate. There’s a lot of shit to notarize and fax and scan and fill out and keep track of and document and follow up with and put into piles and file in folders. And I’m terrible at filing. My skill set really ends at making piles. There are just so many things that need to get done in a timely manner. We weave a complicated web in our time here on earth, and untangling it amounts to copious forms to fill out and battles with fax machines and conversations with customer service reps that go like this: “I am calling because my brother died, and I need to close/cancel (fill in the blank).” At first, these words were impossible to say; uttering them made it real, and I would inevitably break down and cry into the phone to a stranger working off a script. But I’ve said them so many times now that it’s become entirely unemotional. When they say the obligatory, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I respond with a quick “thanks” and scurry on to the reason for my call. I’m certain they aren’t sorry for my loss, so it’s ever so slightly insulting. Plus, I just want to get on with it.

Like most instances of closing a deceased person’s account, there are numerous unnecessary hoops through which to jump. I’m convinced that institutions make it hard so you’ll just say fuck it and leave all your shit there indefinitely. I was certain I had all the right things—a copy of the trust, an original death certificate, a warm smile—but this doesn’t satisfy the needs of our banking institution. The guy calls some 800 number and asks the representative to guide him through what I assume must be a very common occurrence. After all, death comes to us

I finally understand the meaning of acceptance on the grief chart. It’s not that the bereaved ever accepts the death of the loved one—I will never accept your death—it’s that you come to accept that these really are your shitty, irreversible circumstances. One day, it just becomes clear: this is the way it is now. The delusions, denial, hysterics, depression, torment—it eventually starts to melt into this pit of mush that lives in your stomach and just sort of weighs you down. It’s not even necessarily fueled by emotion any more. It’s just the way your body works now. Like the day you accept that your stomach will never again look the way it did before you grew a child in it. You’re never gonna like it, but you’ll eventually get to a point where you go to the fucking store and buy pants that are the next size up because you have to wear pants. Acceptance.

Change and movement is inevitable. Unstoppable. And tragedy can function like fuel. After surviving The Tragedy, I realized I didn’t give a shit about outcomes in the same way I used to give a shit about outcomes. Because when someone you love with all your being suddenly drops dead, it’s a reminder of a few things: 1. We aren’t in control. 2. Time is running out. 3. Nothing matters. At first, the nothing matters was a sinking ship or a mound of quicksand or a pile of rubble where I sat, paralyzed, for months and months. There wasn’t much to do during that time except for the Irish keening and the crying and the occasional pounding of my fists on the floor. You read the book. But after 365 days of grief, my tears dried up long enough to lift my head and survey the damage, and I realized, I don’t have to sit here forever. It’s uncomfortable—even painful—to live on a pile of rubble. Not sustainable. Unsafe. Devoid of plumbing and pillows. And since nothing mattered anymore (see above), the stakes felt lower in a way. Like I could do anything I wanted to do and be anything I wanted to be. I could revise the script. I had to. Because I was no longer myself. My debilitating sadness started morphing into something empowering. Positive. A freedom and a courage that I’d never really felt to make the most of the time I do have.