Grief

Intertwining Beneficence

~ Katie Carlson ~ 2 Comments

I was nervous to go to the Midwest Writer’s Workshop. I had been looking forward to it for months, but then the unthinkable happened.

Deputy John Durm was killed in the line of duty on Monday, July 10th, 2023. From the earliest moments after the attack to the final moments of the burial, I had been involved in one way or another. But my biggest personal responsibility was overseeing the Peer Support Team’s response to a tragedy that struck the Marion County Sheriff’s Office in so many ways.

The whole time I felt immensely sad, and impossibly heavy, and sick to my stomach, but I had only cried a few times, and only one of those was a decent cry. The rest of the time I kept my face soft and my heart open to support other MCSO employees to the best of my ability.

I was prepared to miss the Wednesday or Thursday or both of the Workshop, should the funeral have fallen on either of those days. But it didn’t work out that way, and I was able to attend from the beginning.

I was nervous because I was already feeling like most people – other than my colleagues and friends in public safety and the friends that had been keeping close tabs on me – wouldn’t be able to understand what I had just been through. I was nervous that I hadn’t had time to process what had just happened. And wIthout having had time to process, I was nervous about what might be going on underneath my surface. (Sometimes it seems like it’d be easier not to know about stuff like trauma and just act out unconsciously in the good old fashioned way.)

From the moment Mom and I entered the Workshop, we were received with incredible, heartwarming kindness… after all, a lot of folks here knew and loved my Dad. Who didn’t? Would I even be there if not for my Dad, whose death inspired me to start writing more intentionally? I think not.

I did not bring my “A” game to the Workshop. My “A” game had been drained. After those first welcoming moments, I sat down, and felt like I had been hit by a train. Despite my credentials as a mindfulness and meditation teacher, the only thing I could think about was the week before. I knew that rumination is a normal reaction to a traumatic event. But being aware of it didn’t stop it. For most of the Workshop, I felt awkward and disconnected. Occasionally, I would try to share what my week had been like with a new acquaintance, but it came across as a stark contrast to the present activity of talking about all things writing.

The starkest contrast for me was shifting from that of the collective “we” I had been operating in since Deputy Durm was killed, to the individualistic nature of a writer’s conference. It being my first, I had no idea what to expect, but while this Workshop is an incredibly fertile ground of support for writers by writers, everyone there has their own story to tell, and if not books or other forms of their writing to promote, they have the aspiration to do so. Including me. But I felt so torn. I had come to promote the personal writing you’ll find on this website, but the story that was on my heart and my mind was that of the previous week, of the unimaginable pain, and of the tremendous honor, love, and service that was intricately woven into every moment by my colleagues, friends and the community.

But I felt too self-conscious to tell that story. To share my pain, which is nothing to that of Deputy Durm’s incredible family and brave friends, or my small contributions, when my colleagues at the Sheriff’s Office put their blood, sweat, tears, heart, and soul into ensuring that every moment of his visitation, funeral and burial were perfect.

I skipped out on the afternoon of Day Three for the Workshop. I went home to rest and could barely peel myself off of the couch until we went back that evening to hear the author Haven Kimmel. All I knew was that my Dad had been a big fan. I was enchanted by the entirety of her talk. She talked about the shadow and Jung and eros and compassion and I could have listened to her all night.

I skipped out on the morning sessions of Day Four, too. Guided only by intuition – which had been on point for the duration of the previous week – I visited the Beneficence statue, something I don’t know that I’ve ever done intentionally. I think I was compelled to do so by her name, meaning the moral obligation to do good to others, showing others kindness and mercy. I visited the Farmer’s Market at Minnetrista and bought a pair of earrings from a local artist (one of my favorite things to buy). I drove through downtown Muncie without intention, and ended up having a latte and a long visit with a friend from my teenage years at the lovely coffee shop and roastery he and his wife opened several years ago. This was my first visit as I’m rarely in Muncie in the morning, let alone with time to myself. But Dad was a fan of Frank and the Caffeinery. And vice versa. This little Tour de Muncie nourished my heart and rooted my soul with the essence of my hometown (something Haven had talked about the night before). I could feel the fog start to lift.

I went back to the Workshop for an early afternoon session with plans to head home to Indianapolis afterwards. On my way out, I visited again with Jama, the retiring Director of the Midwest Writer’s Workshop, who’d been so kind to me, specifically about my writing, as I entered. So I felt guilty when she suggested that I write about the Workshop on my way out, given that I’d played quite a bit of hooky (though for the benefit of my personal mental health). Mom kept reminding me that it was I who had paid for it, and looking back, both my attendance at the Workshop, and the time to myself, were well worth the price.

As I left, I thought the story was over, but I was wrong. Later that afternoon, my Mom, who had stayed for the duration, texted and then called. The Instagram post that I had made on Day One – a post that included a picture of Mom and I, a new photo I had added to my website, and a caption that mentioned both the “SUPER hard and challenging week” I’d had and that attending the Workshop felt like a huge pivot – had won an award for being the best social media post. Mom told me that the post was read aloud, in its entirety. So even though I felt isolated and misunderstood (which is a normal response to a critical incident), I was in fact very seen by this group of writers. Even in absentia. Mom said that someone in the crowd said “‘Katie Carlson’ is a great name for a writer”. Well done on that one, John and Nancy.

I didn’t have the words to tell these two stories – the heartbreak of Deputy Durm’s line of duty death and my experience at the Midwest Writer’s Conference – on their own. I didn’t feel qualified to tell either. But somehow they intertwined and synchronized with each other into a story I could tell, a story of beneficence – from laying down one’s life for their community, to properly honoring such an enormous sacrifice, from giving your all to support your colleagues, to giving yourself the support you need, to accepting kindness and support from others.

“Never to Suffer”: Unfinished Business in Baltimore

~ Katie Carlson ~ 6 Comments

I had unfinished business in Baltimore… or rather… my Dad did. So when I learned that I would be presenting at a conference there, I knew I had a second, unrelated mission.

I’d only been to Baltimore once before… as a kid, and the experience was underwhelming. The internet may have been invented, but not MapQuest and surely not Apple Maps. If you wanted to get from Point A to Point B, you really needed to know where you were going.

On a family vacation to Washington, D.C., we took a detour to Baltimore. Point A was the National Aquarium. Point B was the burial place of Edgar Allan Poe. While I have no memory whatsoever of the Aquarium, I have vivid memories of trying to find Poe’s resting place… emphasis on the word “trying”. 

We walked the streets of Baltimore as a family of four, so it was unusual that my Dad was solicited twice by sex workers (did that work on other Dads?!), but we proceeded onward with the rigid determination of a man who did not want to admit he wasn’t sure where we were going.

Eventually, we entered what looked like a housing project, and a couple of ladies shouted “we wouldn’t go any farther that way if we were you”. Dad finally relented and turned around, although his disappointment was palpable.

As the one year mark of Dad’s death approached and passed, I was busy planning and preparing for my trip. I was not worried about whether or not I would find it. I Googled it once, and knew that I would take an Uber to eliminate any guess work. The rest of my energy was devoted to creating and practicing the presentations I had been selected to present.

But as I packed, I threw a black dress in my suitcase, a dress I thought dark, romantic, and mysterious enough for the mission at hand.

First, I thought I would go on Tuesday night, but there was a busy agenda for the conference. On Wednesday night, I had dinner plans with friends, but thought I’d be able to visit it before dinner. As I sat in the Uber, I looked up the location on Yelp and it said “closed until 8:00 am”. I proceeded. It was only 5:00 pm. How can a graveyard be closed? I arrived, and it was locked. I took a few photos from outside of the gate, thinking “could this place be any more freaking elusive?” Eventually, I walked back to the hotel and figured I would try again in the morning.

After a fun night of dinner and dancing with friends, I put on the same dress as I ventured back in another Uber. I was hoping that it wouldn’t be too touristy. I knew I wanted to take a lot of photos, and getting the right photo would take some time. When I arrived, there was one other couple in the vicinity, but they moved on to several of the other historical figures entombed in the area. I had the time I needed to get the photos I wanted… photos mostly intended to accompany this essay. 

A woman walked up and placed four carnations around the large monument, “one for each of the family members buried there”, she shared. She was sullen, and dramatic, and seemed very invested in what she was doing. So even though I don’t often talk to random strangers, I tried to engage her. I asked if she was a fan, and she said she was a graduate student. I asked “Of Poe?” and she said “yes”. I didn’t know you could get a Master’s degree in Edgar Allan Poe, but I was in Baltimore.

In all honesty, my intention to engage her was probably selfish. I wanted to tell her why I was there. I wanted to tell her about the time we’d tried to come before. I wanted to tell her about my Dad. That he was a beloved writer, who, though mostly known for his humor columns, had also been a published mystery writer. She wasn’t interested.

Before leaving for Baltimore, I had to drop off my (sweet, perfect) dog to stay with my Mom in Muncie. After I left Mom’s house,  I thought “oh shoot – I should have taken a smidge of Dad’s ashes to take with me”. It was a nice thought, but I quickly realized that I didn’t need his ashes. He was going to make it. I am half him, after all. He was even going to get a column out of it. 

While I sat at the monument, I didn’t feel any sort of magic or eeriness. More than anything, I felt in a hurry.  But there had been magic and it had been there all week. The magic remains in the undeniable connection to my Dad that I feel every time I write. And it will remain as it’s shared with the world, or whoever cares to read it. 

This magic, however, could also be described as grief. And the feeling of grief seems to go hand in hand with love. And what is love if not magic? 

In the words of Edgar Allan Poe, “Never to suffer would never to have been blessed.”

My life is beyond blessed.

As I rushed back to the hotel to change from the gothic dress I’d danced around in the night before into business clothes, and then raced, late, toward the convention, I turned a corner to run into two of my closest people, Brittany and Kallan. They were the last people I was expecting to see in Baltimore, but they’d flown out because, unbeknownst to me, I was about to be honored with an award. Both of my presentations were successful and engaging, as well… a HUGE relief after several months of preparation.

I leave Baltimore finishing this essay on an Amtrak to visit my dear friend Kristen and her family in Philadelphia. Behind me on the train lies one of the most significant weeks of my professional life to date. Behind me lies the proper ending of a story that started in Baltimore almost 30 years ago.

I wrote the presentation proposals that I presented this past week in deep grief. But there’s nothing that could convince me that grief (love) can’t propel you towards your wildest dreams and the infinite possibility that lies in the greatest mystery of all… the future, the unknown.

The Miracle in Memphis (and the Subsequent Duck Tattoo)

~ Katie Carlson ~ 9 Comments

I

At nearly 40 years old, I’ve recently gotten a couple of tattoos. I had wanted tattoos for years, but always told myself that I could get them once I lost a certain amount of weight and kept it off. Thank goodness my older, wiser self eventually said, “Whoa! Way harsh!” So inspired by the winter solstice, last year I decided that I wanted to get a star tattooed on my right arm.

The process of finding a tattoo artist was not easy. The people my friends would suggest all had notes like “not taking new clients” in their Instagram profiles. I’d cold email others and never hear back, or people would reply asking me to describe in detail what I wanted (“a star tattoo in a Swedish design pattern”) and THEN wouldn’t email me back.

Some friends suggested the Salty Siren in Greenwood, Indiana. I emailed a few people, and one emailed back… Anna.

She told me that she also has Swedish roots that she’d been really interested in exploring, and that she’d love to work on this design. So that was that. On March 31st, a few days before my 39th birthday, I went in to get my tattoo. I loved the outcome of the artwork, and didn’t think it hurt that much, so an overall success.

On a high from my first tattoo, I called my Mom to check in. My Dad was in the hospital, as he sometimes had been over the last 10 years or so. But this time Mom said, “I don’t think your Dad is going to come home from the hospital”. Thus began the week of his death. And, thankfully, he did get to come home, for four days of hospice care.

II

It had been less than two months since our family took a trip to Memphis to celebrate our Mom and Dad’s 40th Wedding Anniversary… less than two months since we – my Mom, my brother Johnny, and my sister-in-law Stephanie – witnessed a miracle.

My Mom surprised my Dad as we entered Memphis City Limits with the news that he was to be the Honorary Duck Master at the 5:00 pm marching of the ducks, from the fountain to the elevator in Memphis’ famed Peabody Hotel. Dad was elated, which was a small relief to us all, because he had been relying heavily on his favorite cane (a gift from his dear friend Jennie DeVoe) for mobility, and he’d expressed a little bit of nervousness about the trip.

As we arrived at the hotel, and checked in, we were met by Kenon Walker, the actual Peabody Hotel Duckmaster. Kenon began to give Dad the run-down for the duck march. Dad was dazzled by him – we all were – which was evident in the column he wrote about the experience.

We were seated at a special table in the Lobby. Dad received a Duckmaster cane, a rubber duckie, and an official Duckmaster certificate. When the time came and the children gathered along the red carpet, the Duckmaster introduced the Honorary Duckmaster, John Carlson. Then the ducks exited the fountain, and the two Duckmasters escorted them to the elevator, where my Mom was gleefully waiting to accompany them up to the Duck Palace on the top floor. 

It’s as if Dad floated down that red carpet with confidence and a boy-ish grin. With all eyes on him, there wasn’t the slightest trip or stumble. 

I captured a picture of this moment, of course, though I was scolded by a southern not-so-gentleman for blocking his view. I just looked at him, and said nothing. He probably didn’t realize that that was my Dad, and that that moment was Dad’s last big hurrah.

But Mom, Johnny, Steph and I were all overcome with joy.

We went out on Beale Street that night, and Dad took a pretty big fall. 

The next day, we were having family portraits taken. The portraits were an Anniversary gift from Johnny and I. Up to that point, we’d been more of an Olan Mills kind of family, and had never arranged a formal photo shoot. But thank God we had these photos taken. And with the loveliest photographer, too, Adonis. 

Dad had to ride in a wheelchair to get around the Memphis Botanic Gardens for the photo shoot. He had to ride in a wheelchair to get around the National Civil Rights Museum. We stuck around the Peabody for dinner that night (which was perfectly okay with me). The next morning, we ate breakfast and headed home.

Dad would go back to the hospital not long after that trip. I saw him one more time at home before hospice. In one sitting, Mom, Dad and I watched the entire miniseries “Bad Vegan” in which the main subject had a tattoo of a duck on her arm. I probably wouldn’t have noticed it so much had I not been sitting next to the Duckmaster himself.

III

I cried on my way to Muncie on April 1st. I cried because my birthday was in a couple of days. I cried because I felt stupid for caring about my birthday at all. I cried because I’d been signed up to take classes with a visiting teacher at Cityoga – one class on the 1st and one class on the 3rd (my birthday). I’d really been looking forward to it, so when I called to give up my spot and hope I wouldn’t lose my money, the sweet person on the phone held space for me as I cried that my Dad was dying. And there was a waiting list so I didn’t lose my money. I cried because when I called to cancel the 1st, she canceled the 3rd, too. It was the right thing to do, but I hadn’t realized I was giving up on it yet.

Dad came home to begin hospice on my birthday. We’d made the decision not to mention it to him. We didn’t want him to feel helpless. But at one point he looked up on the board in his hospital room, noticed the date, April 3rd, looked at me and mumbled “Happy Birthday, Kate”. Around 10:30 that night, Mom, the nurses and I ate some cake that had been picked up earlier that day from Concannon’s Bakery.

The next several days were excruciating. There was nothing to do but watch him slowly die. And greet the line of his dearest friends coming to say their final goodbyes. 

He died the evening of April 7th. The next day, as I headed back to Indy for a couple of nights, my brother gave me Dad’s Duckmaster cane to take home.

In the days following his death, my Dad was remembered in so many ways. He was remembered as a local favorite newspaper writer, and as a pilot and aviation nut, nicknamed “Ace”. He was remembered for loving clouds and his long-standing membership to the Cloud Appreciation Society. He was remembered as a loyal friend and beloved bar patron. He was remembered as an amazing husband, father, brother, uncle and cousin. Among these many remembrances, there were none who called him “Ducky” or mentioned an avid collection of ducks. He loved all birds – certainly ducks among them – but they weren’t one of his trademarks.

Even before Dad’s death, I met Johnny and Steph downstairs at the hospital, and showed them my new star tattoo. In the same conversation, I told them that I already wanted to get another one, of a Swedish-styled duck. I didn’t have to explain to them why. The day after Thanksgiving, Mom and I were on a hike at Mounds State Park when she pointed and said “look, there are some ducks” on the opposite side of the White River.

The association with ducks may not have been life-long, but they would be forever connected to his spirit.

IV

Back to waiting until I was almost 40 to start getting tattoos… This time I had told myself that if I trained for and finished a half marathon, I could get another tattoo (man… old thought patterns die hard). Thankfully, this exercise-based mission was less about weight, and more about processing grief and directing excess energy.

After completing the half marathon, another appointment was made with Anna, and she brought my vision of a duck in a Swedish design to life. The duck tattoo was placed on the back of my arm which was significantly more painful, but I remain in awe of her work, and the one-of-a-kind works of art that now grace my body.

Still, I know some people wonder why I would get such obvious tattoos at a later age. Well, first of all, because it’s my body, and I can do what I want. Second, I don’t know when my Dad got his first tattoo, but it was well into his 50s. But mostly it’s because my tattoos tell a story. One tells a story about my proud Swede of a Dad, and the miracle we witnessed at the Peabody Hotel. The other side tells a story to me.

It can be a little awkward, but people sometimes ask me to explain what the tattoos mean. To say “oh the duck is for my Dad” is simple. The star is a bit more complex. 

The star is about finding light in darkness. It’s about allowing yourself to take up as much space as you need. It means that you don’t have to shrink your body down to a certain size to be whole and be loved. It means that you don’t have to make yourself small or dim down your light to get approval from anyone else. It means you deserve to be where you are. And that your stories deserve to be heard.

And that’s good, because I’m a storyteller (and proud Swede), like my Dad. The star is there to remind me of that.