Translator: Sylvia Garrido Reviewer: David DeRuwe
Who brought me here today is José,
my son who left this world too soon,
only 11 days after being born.
I have two other children: a boy and a girl.
They are well, healthy, full of energy.
I like to think that, of the three, José, the middle one,
is the one who gives me the most work to do.
He challenges me every day to do things I never did,
like being here right now speaking about mourning.
He invites me to deal with the unimaginable
and the unthinkable: death.
Yes, dear audience, I came to talk about death
because it's part of life!
When my baby died,
counter to life's natural course,
I was inconsolable, asking, ''Why me?''
I soon realized the real question is,
''Why not me?''
Why should I be special,
preserved from suffering a loss?
Or coming face to face with death?
I have nothing to protect me from death,
and neither do you.
So it's possible that you have also suffered this pain,
the pain of mourning,
which opens a hole so great inside of us
that even breathing hurts.
My hole was as huge as the world.
I lost a son; the pain is indescribable.
But I gained other things.
I got my life back again.
Death takes something away and brings us something in return.
It brought me hope.
A desire to transform, to write.
I've learned it's common, after a loss,
for people to reinvent themselves, to relocate and find new jobs,
start new projects, decide to travel, to paint, to embroider, to sail.
It's life, pulsating.
From rock bottom comes this strength to live.
The death of someone close to us
strengthens our commitment to life.
This boost of hope isn't immediate.
It takes time.
Mourning begs time.
Time, not measured in days and hours,
but a very particular time.
In the beginning, it's sad and lonely,
as if the world were black and white.
Little by little, the days become lighter,
laughter reappears,
and life redevelops in strokes of color.
Something is born!
With my boy's passing,
friendships, new connections,
new ideas, and the book "José" were born.
The book is my account
of my encounter with this void,
its pages doused in tears.
I wrote it because I simply needed to describe
this encounter with the void, and the subsequent reunion with hope.
There's beauty in mourning.
There's poetry in it, also.
I wrote what I wish someone had told me.
A friend who might lovingly have told me,
''It will be fine. Take your time to say goodbye, then go live again!''
It's not what they say.
We're so unprepared to deal with death;
meaning to help, we say too much.
We talk about our reasons, our beliefs.
How to resolve - as if there were something to be resolved -
in a hurry to suppress, to eliminate the sadness.
Phrases like: ''God knows best.'' ''It was better this way.''
''You can have another child.''
"No big deal, right?"
''You can have another child.''
''You need to get over it.'' ''You need to forget!''
People, we don't want to forget!
We want to remember, to honor the one who's gone.
So, from the bottom of my soul
I say that these words don't cure.
To someone who's bleeding inside, they mean nothing, they aren't healing!
The healing comes with a tender look, with affection,
the giving of comfort, and a listening ear.
I believe it's possible for you to feel my pain,
without experiencing it.
It's possible to feel someone else's pain inside ourselves.
When we cry together, we feel together;
it's the moment we empathize.
So this is the only thing to be said
to someone who has suffered a loss,
''I'm so sorry!''
Please, may it be the first thing we say,
to the one who has lost someone.
''I'm so sorry!''
Offer your heart, a gesture, your presence.
Be present.
Be present in that period,
even after everyone else is gone,
not just in the initial crucial moment of the rites of wake and burial.
Be present when the silence comes.
Offer to be of practical help:
water the plants,
run an errand, cook, care.
This way, the one mourning may simply cry ...
because crying is necessary.
Perhaps, with your support, they'll try to go out,
change out of pajamas, face the outside,
answer that trivial question,
''Hi, how are you?'' several times a day.
I'd make an effort to say, ''Fine!''
But inside my heart, I'd say, ''I'm not 'fine.' My son died.''
It wasn't easy.
It isn't easy until this day,
but I've managed.
I've managed to restart, to work,
go out and attend parties, get pregnant again,
give birth to my daughter,
write about mourning and even talk about it right here,
and I've managed
because I've received support from friends and family,
a network of solidarity that embraced me.
I am receiving support right now, from you!
Here is the second message I'd like to pass on to you
that we can share with the one who suffers a loss,
"You are not alone."
We are many; we are together.
Mourning is already a desert too lonely for anyone to cross alone,
so if you are experiencing this pain, allow yourself to accept help.
Take advantage of the insane vulnerability mourning confers upon us;
put aside the comments and tackle the mourning that is yours alone.
At the end of the day, we all want to be happy again!
The third and perhaps the loveliest message
I have to share with the one who has lost someone,
''You'll be happy again! Without them. For them.''
I'm happy.
I might even be happier now
because I am more connected to life.
I feel stronger and braver. I'm a more powerful mother.
I'm more awake; I'm celebrating life.
I came here to celebrate life and hope.
I came, invited by my son, José,
who is flying around the world.
One day we will meet again.
See you soon.
(Applause)
(Cheers)