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Published on 08/31/1998 All articles from this issue

Life-defining moments

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By Kerri Havnen Gordon

The Living Experiment

I always feel blue when I hear about plane crashes, such as last week's SwissAir crash off the coast of Nova Scotia. I am deeply saddened for the people who lost wives and husbands, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, dearest friends. And I know I'm not alone. The media frenzy surrounding such tragedies suggests that the general populace, at worst case, wants on some level to vicariously experience what it feels like to lose someone in this manner. At best case, the media exposure nudges people to step outside their comfortable, safe worlds, and experience alternating feelings of sympathy for those left behind and conscious gratitude for the riches and joys of their own lives.

Twenty-three years ago, I lost both my parents in a plane crash, so it's a safe bet that my reactions are more acute than those of most people witnessing the events from afar. I watched the TV coverage of the unfolding SwissAir story, and I said to my husband, "While the media is talking about explosions and debris and survivors and bodies, tragedies are unfolding in people's living rooms." There were wives who dropped off their husbands at the airport, gave them a kiss, and reminded them to call home when they reached Geneva. There were people anxiously waiting, wanting neither to watch the TV nor pick up the phone, terrified. These people are experiencing the most unspeakable dread. I heard about a man who, in a panic, rushed through a mob of 70 reporters at Kennedy Airport, saying his wife and two daughters were on the flight. At that point, there was still hope of survival, because the alternative was truly unthinkable.

As the SwissAir families will learn over time, this tragedy will be one of those life-defining moments, one of those things which splits time into befores and afters. I feel for all of them, on a very gutteral level, as they begin their own painful journeys of mourning. In their shock they haven't even begun to see down the road of mourning, much less beyond it.

But there is a beyond, which is what I wish I could tell them, but I wouldn't, even if I had the opportunity. These are private journeys, and I believe others shouldn't thrust their own definitions of mourning upon them.

Here is a snippet from my beyond: the morning after the SwissAir crash, I wore a heavy heart after learning of the 229 deaths. Then I heard my 6- year-old son call me from his bed. When I walked into his room, I was so glad to see him there. His eyes were half-way shut, he wore a sleepy grin when he saw me, and his arms were outstretched and waiting for me to fill them. As he hugged me, one of his hands gently and methodically patted my back, and he said, "Good morning, mommy." I felt an exquisite, pure joy. "Ah, this is a perfect moment," I thought as I gave him his good morning I-love-you and kiss on the cheek. Unadultered delight.

This recognition of a perfect moment is one of the gifts I received from my tragedy. Having spent the early years in sadness following my parents' deaths, I have since been able to recognize joy and perfect moments when I see them. In the deepest core of my being, there lies a juxtaposition of the burden of grief and a gladness of heart. As the years passed, gladness of heart gradually overcame the consuming burden of grief, and for that I remain grateful. The perspective the juxtaposition has given me is one I consciously bring to my everyday life.

These days I have endless perfect moments, countless adorable snippets of time with my sons and husband and friends and work and my kids' school and on and on. The trick for all of us is to recognize these moments and consciously and wholeheartedly appreciate them. The juxtaposition of grief and gladness makes this an easier task for me than perhaps it is for others, but appreciation of life's simple gifts can be cultivated, I believe, by anyone, even if it takes media coverage of someone else's tragedy to inspire the consciousness.