So the Queen died
Yes, indeed she died. A 96 year old woman died having had a helluva good career. Let’s recap. She got to:
influence huge international decisions, while not technically having to take responsibility for them,
raise her kids without mat leaves and have 3/4 of them turn out OK,
have a long marriage which apparently was a love-match,
have her mom around until she was into her 70s,
drive a Range Rover regularly through the British countryside,
have as many Corgis as she wanted but never scoop any poop off her kitchen floor,
never worry a day in her life about money (or seemingly anything else),
have an amusing sister for entertainment (who also created the occasional stress, but mostly entertainment),
have a holiday home or three,
not ever be a full-time caregiver or experience a difficult illness of someone close to her, and
travel extensively in her work.
For someone like me who’s currently nosing around for new work in January, this seems like a very sweet deal.
I don’t actually understand why people are sobbing and waiting in line for 14 hours to view her casket. Oh don’t get me wrong. Despite the institution having been an instrument of oppression for centuries, I’m interested in the Royal Family. I wrote about my fascination with Diana in particular some months ago. You can read that here. I attribute some of my interest to my mother who has followed their lives from her vantage, born sandwiched between Princess E and Princess M. But mostly, as embarrassed as I am to admit it, I’m just bit starstruck, as many are about celebrity.
But seriously, a 96 year old died whom most of us didn’t know at all. Anyone who wasn’t prepared for her to die had their head in a private place. 96 is old. We all die.
I think back to the tears I shed when Diana died in 1997. I was devastated but only recently have realized that on some level, I cried because I knew I was part of the problem: the public who couldn’t get enough of photos, books, magazines, and salacious things about her personal life. We drove photographers to pursue her so aggressively her car crashed ending her life at 36. It was shocking and tragic. I cried a lot, about her, but also about the loss of our innocence about the dark side of celebrity.
In 1997, I was a grief virgin. Diana’s death was 10 years before my father dropped from a heart attack and 22 years before Jack’s illness and medically assisted death. Those two events made me develop my own understanding of grief.
For me, grief’s not about putting flowers in a place of significance or even shedding tears about losing the familiar. I liken it to a sudden roadblock appearing in the path in front to you at the same time as someone in your car has fallen out the passenger door. No detour is marked and you’re left searching for a new route to your destination without companionship or any navigational support.
That’s not what we are experiencing with the death of Elizabeth. Charles knew the roadblock was coming and his mother spent the last 70 years preparing him for what to do when he hit it. Same with the rest of the Windsors. And as for the rest of us, we didn’t even have her in our car.
I’m very hesitant to write this because In all the reading and talking I’ve done about loss, I know the worst thing a person can do is compare their experience to that of others. For example, the fact Jack and I were together only nine years doesn’t make me any less anguished sometimes about his death, even four years later, than the widow who had 50 years of marriage. Certainly the fact someone has lived to be 96 doesn’t mean that someone won’t experience their death as a loss.
I don’t mean to throw shade on the outpouring of emotion for QEII and I’m sure, just like you have, I’ve been thinking a lot about those long queues in London. Why?
Maybe we’re collectively recognizing we’ve lost the cool demeanour that Elizabeth has exemplified for 70 years. Just two days after his mother’s death, King Charles was vexed by an offending pen-set on his desk that he apparently couldn’t work around or move himself. Three days later, another pen troubled him as it apparently leaked on his pristine hands as he signed another document in Wales. The only feathers ruffled by Elizabeth in similar situations would have been on her head. “Keep calm and carry on" is no more. Boris, Donald, Pierre P, and Doug F are all examples of how decorum is no longer a requirement for a public figure.
Maybe it’s a recognition that the institution of the Royal Family which has provided a degree of stability for centuries, albeit of a privileged few, may soon come to an end in the way we know it.
Maybe it’s knowing that the death of silly hats and matching coats could be next.
What I do know is that calling what those in the queue are experiencing “grief” cheapens the experience of those of us who are in the car alone on an unmarked detour inexplicably with daily reminders of loss: welling up driving past a Tim Hortons recalling the last time you were there, or avoiding re-watching a Netflix series because it’s just too painful to watch it alone.
Let’s find a new word, shall we? ‘cause the response to QEII’s death isn’t the grief I know. It’s a right-proper celebration of a life well lived. (Except for the Corgis - I’m sad for those poor little fellahs.)
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