Not long ago a basement pipe burst and I took the morning off from work to wait for Chris, our plumber. Scratch whatever visual you have, and picture a tall, fastidious man in his mid 50s with a head of gray hair, a diamond stud earring and iron-creased jeans. On his last visit (a stuffed toilet), I mentioned that I was training for my first marathon: a fundraiser for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society to honor my mother, who had died the year before of nonhodgkin's lymphoma. It turned out his father, too, had died of the disease a few years earlier. The following week I opened what I thought was Chris's bill and found a $50 check to the society with a note saying how much he admired my effort.
So aside from being reliable, neat and a damn good plumber, Chris is a mensche. After resolving the pipe fiasco that day, Chris inquired about my training and how I was doing. (It was a little past the first anniversary of Mom's death.) "Actually, Chris, not great," I replied, picking up one of the many living room photos of my mother. "I miss her, still everyday."
"She's a beautiful woman," he said. "Just beautiful. He paused. "You never get over it, " he said, "but after awhile, I promise, it stops hurting so much. You go on ... and even have happy days." Assuming he was talking about his Dad, I asked how old his father had been when he died. His expression was far away and melancholy.Our conversation had touched on something. Chris explained he'd experienced other losses. After a moment of silence, he replied, "My daughter."
I'd known Chris for about four years and he had mentioned a son in his early 30s but never a daughter. "How old?" I asked. "17 years old. Kate was 17." I waited for more, and when nothing came, I said. "I'd really like to hear about her. if you want to talk."
More than 10 years had passed since her death, but you could feel the heaviness of grief in the room. He spoke of her beauty and intelligence - how good and sweet she'd been - and then moved into the story of that day. It was Kate's senior year of high school. Chris had bought her a car, a used stick shift, which had stalled on her a couple of times. He had just brought the car back from a second visit to the mechanic with a clean bill of health the night she drove to a friend's house.
When she got ready to leave, the car wouldn't go into gear. Her friend came out to help but after no luck, she called her Dad. While he drove the five miles to get her, Kate decided to try the car one more time. She tinkered a bit and then walked a ways down the steep drive, just as the car began to roll, mowing her down before crashing into a tree. As Chris drove up the street he could hear sirens and see flashing lights. His daughter died in his arms before the ambulance ever came.
The conversation took place at 10 a.m. in my living room, but I had lost any sense of time; it felt as if I had emerged from a movie house into a stark, bright afternoon. Chris didn't say more about that night but spoke of its aftermath: about the what-ifs, the guilt, and the self-hatred, and how he and his wife had struggled. He told me he had wanted to die and that for weeks he couldn't get out of bed. Six months after Kate's death he was hospitalized for major depression – which, he said, runs in his family.
"My wife was my pillar. We went to therapy together,and she helped me fight the guilt," he said. "You hear about marriages falling apart after a child's death, but we were lucky. Ours became stronger."
I told him I, too, have battled depression and survivor's guilt – the latter, following a car accident in which a friend died - and have written and spoken publicly about these difficult times. The next thing I knew Chris and I had launched into a discussion about medications, comparing which antidepressants worked best. I told him I'd written a book about hypochondria in which I touch on my struggle with depression and an obsessive fear of death.
Chris became wide-eyed. "You're kidding. That has been my biggest problem. It still is: The fear that I will be struck down and die from something painful and awful. I've had every disease you can think of."
I reached on the shelf for a copy of my book, Phantom Illness. "The prologue and the epilogue tell my story; there are also stories of many others," I said. "Some of them might resonate with you." He took it and thumbed through its pages. "I cannot wait to read this," he said, and then realized that he'd better get to his next call. Our eyes met and, spontaneously, we hugged. An authentic, deep-felt hug. "I'll mail you the bill," he said, "though, on second thought, maybe you should send me one." And then we laughed, our eyes wet with tears.
