#Grieving
NPR’s Scott Simon on why we live-tweet our personal tragedies
By Bobbie Johnson
Illustration by Cam Floyd
Last weekend, prominent web designer Eric Meyer announced the death of his daughter, Rebecca. It was her sixth birthday.
For those who followed him online, the tragic news was, sadly, not unexpected: Her battle with cancer had been carefully documented on Twitter and on his blog over the past year.
It’s the same kind of public display that stirred controversy when journalist Emma Keller, and then her husband Bill, the former executive editor of The New York Times attacked people who talk about death online for being too noisy and accused them of creating a parade of “grim deathbed selfies.”
We talked to NPR host Scott Simon, who tweeted about the death of his mother last year, about the way public mourning works.
Matter: How did you feel when you read Eric Meyer’s story about his daughter?
Scott Simon: The loss of a daughter is deeper by miles than the loss of a parent—and even my mother (or in fact, my mother in particular) would say that. The death of a parent is in the natural order. The death of a child upsets and offends life.
Reading Eric’s memories of his wonderful daughter moved me deeply, and I was reminded all over again how terminal illnesses have something in common with wars: There are hours of tedium and monotony, spelled by moments of panic, loss, pure feeling, and hard, glorious spurts of love. The time that stretches can cause you to remember, ruminate, and appreciate the loved one who is slipping from your embrace into the soul of your memory.
M: When your mother was unwell you documented everything—or what seemed like everything—on Twitter. What motivated you?
SS: I certainly did not document everything. There was nothing in my tweets about her specific medical condition. I spoke approvingly of the nurses who cared for her, but I didn’t offer the accumulated gripes that we had with some of her doctors and the hospital (which were pursued with them later, but not in public). I did not spill old family secrets that my mother revealed during our time together (save, perhaps, that Leo Durocher had made a pass at her—twice).
When I flew to join my mother at her bedside in the ICU, I did not know it would be her deathbed. She was 84 and in Intensive Care; I hardly took her health for granted. But she had been declared “cancer free” just a few weeks before. I truly thought that I would see her through some bad days, perhaps get some bad news, and help her get resettled to face the months ahead. It did not become clear to me that she wouldn’t leave the hospital until the final two days or so of her life.
I had an active Twitter account even before my mother’s illness, where I make it a point to pass on whatever I encounter in a day (from guests, co-workers, or family) that strikes me as funny, interesting, or otherwise worth hearing. When my mother was so funny, flinty, and wise, it made sense to share that.
For example: at one point she said, “Let me tell you, all those great deathbed speeches? They must have been written in advance.” And in the middle of a long night, she told me, “You ought to spend more time listening to people in their eighties. They’ve look right across the street at death for a decade. They know what’s really important in life.” I thought everyone, more or less, should stand a chance to hear that.
M: Was there a moment you remember that made it feel necessary?
SS: Necessary? No. But I’m in the communications biz. My mother was once a show girl. My father was a comedian. I did monologues at my friends bar mitzvahs, and put out the class newspaper from the time I was in the 6th grade. Expressing ourselves has been a way of life in my family for some time. So maybe it is necessary, at least for us. I don’t begrudge anyone what they do to cope with loss.
M: And how does it feel now, given the passage of time?
SS: Good. I hear from people all the time who tell me that something my mother said—or even just the act of my sharing the love between a mother and child, where others could see it and feel it—meant something to them. My mother put on a great show, I shared it, and people loved it. People stop me in airports to shake my hand and say how much my mother taught them. I am glad to have had the chance for people to know her, at least a little, in this way.
M: What’s your response to people who question why people share so much?
SS: Bill Keller is a smart, nice man, and that column didn’t sound like him. A man who spent that much time reading something that he found objectionable reminds me of that kind of man who complains about the food then adds, “And such small portions!”
(I told you I’m the son of a comedian.)
People who are put off by what I did—or what Eric Meyer or anyone else wrote—don’t have to read it. Social media is wonderful that way. It takes two to share, and those who don’t want to can look away. They can Unfollow.
I don’t believe that I confuse Facebook “friends” or Twitter “followers” with lifelong friends. But I think that new technologies like Twitter expand the circle of experience we have that form our ideas, beliefs, attitudes, and feelings. The internet, television, radio, books, and, for that matter, papyrus scrolls have done that, too. People going through life-changing events learn things about life and are moved to share them, with friends, and with total strangers. They want the person they love to be remembered. It is an utterly human response, imperfect but invaluable.
