Tag: secrets

Taking Secrets to the Grave?

I am still thinking about ways to achieve serenity in these elder years, to find a taste of heaven before I die.  One barrier to serenity, it seems to me, is secrets.  Things we don’t talk about, perhaps we don’t even want to think about.  I have them.  I would guess that you do too.

Several recent books [spoiler alert here]– The Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Strout, John of John by Douglas Stuart, and Whistler by Ann Patchett – are stories about such truths: facts that finally surface (or fail to surface) at the end of life.  In Strout’s book, the true paternity of the son is known by all but not admitted to each other, while in Stuart’s novel, the Bible-thumping father is gay, and he is living with a son who is also hiding his sexuality.  Patchett gives us the story of a father and his beloved stepdaughter, whom a divorce separated from him many years ago.  The reasons for the failure of the marriage are learned by the stepdaughter, who has pined for her missing stepfather for years.  All of these secrets involve sexuality in some ways – adultery, homosexuality – things that seem important when we are young, but when we get old – not so much.  I think.  But still hidden truths fester – and they are not all about sexuality.  Some are about much more important things.  You know the ones I mean.

In The Things We Never Say the main character, Artie Dam (A.Dam?), has found out he is not his son’s biological father.  He means to confront his wife about it, but he… can’t.  And he sees his false position in parallel with the world around him, with Trump newly re-elected, and doing things that… no one wants to talk about.

Artie watched all these things, and he slowly understood that what he had felt the day of the election was true:  His country was committing suicide.

He loses interest in all things that used to mean something to him.  The discovery of a hidden truth has pushed him off balance and politics is keeping him that way. His son leaves the country to work for the EU and cautions Artie to talk to him only on burner phones.  He has a breakdown in his classroom and finally, during a heatwave when they have lost their power, Artie goes to lie down.  “When Evie went upstairs she found Artie in his undershorts lying on the bed, his arms splayed out as though he was sunbathing, dead.”  The image of Christ on the cross.  Sacrificed on the altar of getting through life without making a scene.  An autopsy reveals that his heart failed, but we knew that.

The father in John of John has hidden his sexuality from almost everyone except his ex-wife.  Living on the Scottish Isle of Lewis, he is the psalmist for a conservative Christian congregation.  His son, who is also gay but knows nothing about his father’s orientation, comes home with the need and fear of telling some truths to his father.  In the end, it is the father who has the most trouble accepting the truth of his own life – but isn’t that often the case?

Anne Patchett slowly unveils the truths that her characters are hiding.  Those who were children at the time had no clue what was going on – and mistakenly felt responsible for the anguish of the adults around them.  Some people think children know more than they seem to, but there was a lot my childhood self didn’t know, and it seemed that the adults in my life were going to make sure I stayed confused.  Telling such truths to people who were once children in our lives is often a true gift to them.  But it is not easy.

I should mention here that keeping secrets is harder than it used to be.  Ubiquitous DNA testing and data “matching” means that if you tell a lie about a child’s paternity, the child is probably going to find out about it.  Similarly, databases of newspapers, government records, census information, and criminal activity mean that if someone wants to know about us, there are a lot of places to look.  A friend of mine never told her children about an early brief marriage; they discovered simultaneously about both the marriage and the fact that their mother was not always truthful with them.  Secrets need to be weighed carefully against issues of need to know, trust, and the cost of revelation.

Time is running out for we elders – pretty soon keeping mum will not be up to us; that decision will be pre-empted by the run-up to death, or Death itself which “seals up all in rest.” (Sonnet 73)  Some people push it off until after their death – leaving behind letters to explain their past actions and money as atonement – but that is not a solution.  And remember, secrets do not have to be something locked in a real or psychological safe; they might just be things we prefer not to talk about.

In a reading about the Tao this morning I came across this description of the only goal we all have in common: “A gracious death with no regrets.”  We might keep secrets for good reasons, and we should have no regrets there.  But if secrets are impinging on the serenity of late life, it would not hurt to consider exposing some of the truths we keep from others and from ourselves.

For a story about some good deathbed counsel, you might try my story, “The More Loving One.”  And hats off to Auden.

All three novels referenced above are recommended.

 

Last Confessions – Waiting Until the End to Tell the Story

When Abulrazak Gunrah won this year’s Nobel Prize for Literature, I was somewhat abashed that I had read nothing by him.  I looked for something related to aging, and chose The Last Gift, which was published in 2011, when the author was 63. (The main character is also 63.)  It is the story of the last days of Abbas, a man who has kept the secrets of his youth for his whole life.  Even his children, born and raised in England, do not know where he came from.  We are English, his children tell people who ask about the source of their brown skin.  Abbas’s wife Maryam, much younger and the anchor that kept him on shore after a long period at sea, has an equally mystifying past.  She was a foundling whose parents were never identified, and she broke ties with her foster family when she ran away with Abbas.  Secrets all around.

When we enter the story, Abbas is getting old and suffering from diabetes.  The children of the family have grown and are successfully negotiating university and the working world.  They maintain ties with their parents, ties of obligation and guilt.  Soon, Abbas has a collapse from diabetes, and then a series of strokes, losing his speech and making him weak.  We find him working desperately to recover his voice because he finally feels compelled to tell his story before it is too late.  “He had left things for too long and there was no one to blame except himself.”  Abbas’s confession spills out in languages his family can and cannot understand; the substance of his story causes them all to re-evaluate their lives and the secrets they themselves are hiding.   Soon his wife is also telling her story, as to why she abandoned and has never communicated with her foster family.

It is a good book; I recommend it.  It is a tale of immigrants and parenthood, but I left it thinking mainly about the compulsion many of us have to tell our stories before we are gone.  Capitalism has even tapped into this – there are apps and websites (i.e. StoryWorth, Saga) that guide you through the process and print you out a glossy book with your picture on it in the end – something to be gifted to all the relatives (whether they want it or not).  There are ghost writers who will gladly do it for you (for a substantial fee) and will be less humble about your life than you might be.  Some  people write out their memories longhand and place them in an envelope with their will.  We all have secrets, but we are not quite sure that we want our secrets to die with us.

Of course, in these days of ancestry.com and DNA tests, family secrets are harder than ever to keep.  One reason to tell our own story might be to exert some control over the narrative.  But the urge to impart everything before you go is as old as man.  Classically, it takes the form of a last confession to a priest, but more often it is a plethora of tales told in one’s old age.  Even people with dementia seem to want to tell their stories; in her last years, my mother told hers over and over again, including many details of her young life that we had never heard before.

As I have said elsewhere, writing one’s life – present or past – is an enlightening and therapeutic experience.  To have to put words to the fearsome memory or that critical act is a good exercise, and the monster of memory is often tamed by calling it out by name.  And surely, if there are facts that someone is likely to unearth after you are gone, it might make sense to tell your story in context.  We all have such memories, I can assure you.  They are not necessarily secret, but they are not necessarily spoken either.  It makes no sense to pretend you are perfect.  Even if your family believed that, is that a good image to leave them with?  How will that make them feel about their own stumbles?

In Gunrah’s novel, Abbas’ family is stunned and then intrigued by his secrets (no spoilers here).  In the end, his son and daughter are happy to have both a past to investigate and a better feeling for their father as a real person.  It is, indeed, a “last gift.”

Truth is important, and communal truth is increasingly rare.  My latest story, “And Now, A Word from Dead Barry,” is a humorous look at the role of truth in life and the afterlife.  Meanwhile, I encourage you to write down your story and then think about who you need to share it with.  Or not.  But you might not be able to decide that until you can put your arms (and words) around what your story is.