The Plunge

Plunge is such a great word. If I was a poet I’d find a way to rhyme plunge with sponge in a poem, but I’m not a poet. In fact, in one of the many drafts of my book I included a poem that I had written and my editor quietly said, “Janie, perhaps best stick to prose.” You learn humility when you subject your work to the eagle eye of an editor. 

I chose to title Chapter 16 of my book Radical Acts of Love: How we Find Hope at the End of Life, The Plunge, a story about four dying women running  into the Pacific Ocean on a freezing cold, rainy, January afternoon. They had met just two days before at our Callanish cancer retreat in Tofino. When Heather suggested they all go for a dip that stormy day, the other women perhaps thought, Why not? How many other chances will I get to throw caution to the wind.’ I snapped the photo above from the Lodge window before hurrying down the footpath to the beach with towels. I knew they wouldn’t survive long, immersed in that freezing cold ocean.

Last month, a short excerpt of this story was chosen from my audiobook by the Toronto International Festival of Authors, and made into an animation by an award-winning illustrator, animator and filmmaker Axel Kinnear (www.axelkinnear.com). I am deeply moved by Axel’s stunning artistry and the generosity of the festival.

Here is the link to the animation: http://www.janiebrown.com/#radical-acts-of-love

 All four of these women in the story have since died and I recently sent this video to some of their family members. In doing so, I was reminded of the power of art to connect us deeply to those we have loved and lost. When a memory is accompanied by a creative expression such as a story, a painting, a piece of music, a photograph or a video, the memory is empowered from being purely a thought, to a thought with emotion attached.

In grief, we want to remember the memories of our loved ones not just as thoughts, but as feelings of connection, even if we weep anew. In fact, most of us long to feel the ache of loss long after someone we love has died. The feelings invigorate the connection and keep the relationship alive, and call our beloved ones to be present even in their absence. Over time, though the memories may still be intact, the feelings often begin to dissolve, especially when the stories stop being told, and the photographs and videos are put away.

When I watched the animation of the moment in the story when Heather touches my cheek with her cold wet hand, I could actually feel the cold penetrate my skin and hear her voice clear as a bell asking me whether I was going in? I felt her mischievous presence like it was yesterday.

Even now, twenty years since that afternoon in Tofino, I can hear the slap of feet running on the wet sand and the squeals of the women as they immersed their sick bodies into the crashing waves. I can smell the Pacific sea air on the wind and I can feel the camaraderie between friends who understood what it meant to live with terminal cancer. Even now, I can feel the absolute thrill of witnessing a bold and wondrous merging of human to ocean, and of life with death. I am deeply grateful for artists, writers, filmmakers, photographers and musicians who can inspire us to feel our memories and remind us that these relationships live on within us, alive and wholly necessary.