Most people would tell me it was a terrible idea. I did it anyway. I would probably say the same thing to someone who was in the stage of grief that I’m in, that watching Steel Magnolias would not be considered a good idea. Not now. And maybe, not ever. I could hear both of my sisters saying, “Seriously, Laur? Do you really think that’s a good idea?” And I’d say yes, but in a voice so high-pitched that they’d know I wasn’t sure. I did it anyway.
It was released in theaters in 1989, when I had a three-year-old and a two-year-old, and going to the movies was out of the question, unless it was animated and less than an hour long and even that was iffy. When the movie eventually made its way to television, I had three children, more chaos, and no time to indulge in movie watching. The wedding preparations at the beginning of the movie were familiar, but nothing else. I’m guessing I started watching, but turned it off when one of my three children needed me and never returned to it. It’s probably not the only movie that I didn’t finish.
I didn’t go into this blindly. I knew the ending, but only learned about it recently. I met with a friend a few months after Emery died, and was trying to describe to him the huge swing of emotions I had been going through, from deep sadness to raging anger, never knowing which one would hit and when. He told me there was no way he could possibly understand, as he hadn’t experienced what I had, then asked me if I had seen the movie Steel Magnolias. I told him I wasn’t sure, but that I guessed someone died in it. He confirmed my guess, then got out his phone and started scrolling. He told me he was sending me a video but didn’t want me to watch it until I got home. I don’t always follow instructions when it involves waiting, but I did as it didn’t seem like something I should be watching at a stoplight.
Once home, I sat on my couch and pulled up the video. It was Sally Field’s deeply emotional scene with her girlfriends in the cemetery. Although I hadn’t seen Steel Magnolias in its entirety, I knew what I was watching was the crux of the movie and likely the scene that most viewers remembered. It not only showed the raw grief of a mother dealing with the death of her daughter, but also the beautiful bond she had with her friends as they gathered around her to offer support with love and unexpected humor. The scene brought me to my knees. The anguish and heartbreaking grief on display were so familiar, and that familiarity gave me comfort. I watched it again. I sobbed again. I didn’t feel so alone in my emotions.
A few years ago, after discovering the book Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole, by Susan Cain, I was relieved to know that my tendency to seek comfort and relief in what some might call the “dark side” was a recognizable trait that was neither crazy nor due to depression. The book validated my love of rainy days, gloomy music, and sad movies, not because of a depressed mood, but rather, because that is where I can connect deeply to my soul. It makes sense that I wanted to watch Steel Magnolias in its entirety after seeing the brief clip. I needed the connection.
I have friends who have lost children, but I don’t know anyone who has lost a child who had children. Sally Field’s character, M’Lynn, had a daughter who died, and her daughter had a son. I knew she was playing a role and it was not real life, but as I watched through my tears, I found a relatable connection, and in that moment, it was no longer fictitious. It was as real as the tears that flowed down my cheeks, and I found solace in our shared experience.
Her words were my words.
“We turned off the machines…I just sat there. I just held Shelby’s hand. No noise. No tremble. Just peace. Oh God, I realized, as a woman, how lucky I am. I was there when that wonderful creature drifted into my life, and I was there when she drifted away. It was the most precious moment in my life….I’m so mad, I don’t know what to do. I want to know why. I want to why Shelby’s life is over. I want to know how that baby will ever know how wonderful his mother was. I want to know why. I wish I could understand. No. No. It’s not supposed to happen this way. I’m supposed to go first. I was always ready to go first. I don’t think I can take this.” (Sally Field’s monologue in the cemetery scene from Steel Magnolias.)
I couldn’t help but wonder how many others in the thirty-five-some years since the movie came out had sat through that scene with the same reaction of deep anguish, laced with a sense of comfort in the shared pain that I had? The constellation of my life forever changed in 2 1/2 days. Trying to make sense of that and my existence without Emery has become the tapestry that all of my life is now woven into.
I recognized Sally Field’s words, even when she checked her hair in a compact mirror and acknowledged that her daughter was right and her hair looked like a brown football helmet. I understood and I laughed because Emery had once made the same comparison with my hair and she was right.
Grief is a homing device that finds its way to other grief because that’s where the comfort lies. I don’t seek out the sad movies that mimic what I’m going through, but sometimes they find me, if only for a five-minute monologue. I’ve returned to that clip countless times, not because I want to sob uncontrollably, but because it feels like company to me. And when you’re going through the hardest thing you’ve ever been through in your life, company with someone doing the same thing is what you want.