The Bearer of Bad News

             I can’t be the bearer of bad news. I just can’t bring myself to do it. Even the thought of it just...destroys me.

            It’s the evening of August 11, 2014, and I’m sitting here at my computer, still trying to come to terms with the fact that Robin Williams has died. I was initially met with this news about five minutes ago, when I clicked onto Facebook and saw first one, then several posts from my friends, all confirming the actor’s death. And now, five minutes later, I still sit here, with virtually no intention of leaving.

            When I found out about Williams’s death--when I saw that first post, from my friend Will, at the top of my news feed--I was instantly hit by what felt like a wide range of emotions...everything from sadness, to disbelief, to pure shock. The last time I remember feeling a similar way was just over six months ago, when I learned, also from checking Facebook, that Philip Seymour Hoffman had been found dead. And I feel sure that the vast majority of people would have basically the same emotional reaction when faced with such unexpected, tragic news as the sudden death of a celebrity.

            But for me, there’s something else, an extra element that I’m intensely aware of almost immediately, along with all those other feelings. It’s as if it’s constantly there, at the back of my mind, just waiting for the right moment to spill forward into my consciousness. That’s how quickly this feeling surfaces each time, how quickly I realize that I simply cannot be the bearer of bad news.

            When I found out about Philip Seymour Hoffman, this knowledge came to mind within a few seconds. When I saw the posts about Robin Williams just now, it came almost instantaneously. At least...I think it did. It’s only been five minutes since I found out, and I’ve already forgotten exactly how it happened, what the sequence was. When I first saw Will’s post, and realized what it said, I can’t remember feeling much except shock and disbelief. So it must have been a few seconds later, once I had at least partially accepted the reality of the death, that I truly began to dread being the bearer of bad news. But that dread has become so strong--it’s virtually the only thing I can think about right now...so how could it not have come instantaneously?

 

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            So often, people state that they remember exactly where they were, what they were doing, when they heard the news that President Kennedy was shot, or that 9/11 happened, or that Michael Jackson died. It’s a claim that has been made by so many people, it’s almost turned into a cliché.

            But it’s true. It really happens. People remember.

            I remember that Philip Seymour Hoffman died on the second day of February--Groundhog Day. I remember that I was alone in my house, standing by the kitchen counter, checking Facebook on my phone, when I found out. And I even remember what movie I had just watched that morning: Wings of Desire. A movie about angels.

            I’m no psychologist, but I can only assume that when people experience sudden, intense emotions, they remember those emotions more vividly than most, and come to associate them with a particular setting. And in my case, I think those feelings are made stronger, and all the more unforgettable, by a thought that never fails to come crashing into my brain--the thought of being the bearer of bad news.

            When I found out about Philip Seymour Hoffman, when I saw a Facebook post about his death from my parents’ friend Marlynn, my mind turned almost instantly to the fact that I was alone at my house, and had just heard this tragic news. I was alone at my house--my parents were elsewhere, and almost certainly had not yet heard about it.

            There were two things I realized almost immediately. I was not comfortable with the fact that I knew about Hoffman’s death and they did not. It left a gap, an imbalance between us--and I wanted more than anything for them to find out, so that the gap would no longer be there. And yet, I knew that I did not want to be the one to tell them. I simply can’t bring myself to be the bearer of bad news.

            And so, all I could do was wait--wait for one of them to get home and find out, either by watching the news or by checking their e-mail and discovering the headline on AOL. It was sure to happen, one way or the other. But until it did, I would have no choice but to feel that imbalance, that insecurity. It would continue to haunt me--until I knew for sure that both of my parents knew that Philip Seymour Hoffman had died.

            Yet I almost reflexively began to remind myself, over and over again, that I would not, under any circumstances, tell either of my parents about his death. And even when my mom called to let me know she was on her way home, forcing me to speak to her for the first time since I found out, I stayed true to my arbitrary promise.

            Of course, she did find out, soon after she got home. I saw her walk toward her study, presumably to check her e-mail--and I sat still in the living room, suddenly conscious of my actions, waiting for some sort of confirmation that she had seen the headline. Soon, I heard, “Oh, no!”

            And before she could explain further, I confirmed that I knew about it by calling down the hall, “Yeah...I saw.”

            “Sad,” she stated in response. If she was at all taken aback that I had known about his death but had not told her about it, she did not express that.

            Despite the excessive sadness that she had just referred to, and the shock she had obviously felt when she saw the headline, I felt myself breathing a sigh of relief as a result of our brief, six-word exchange--an exchange that would have been utterly meaningless without context. She now knew that Philip Seymour Hoffman had died, and I knew that she knew--and I hadn’t had to tell her in order for her to find out. As it happened, she didn’t actually have to tell me, either.

            But for as long as I have paid attention to celebrities, especially musicians and actors, I have reacted this way to their deaths. The first time I remember it was when Teddy Pendergrass died. I was watching and listening to one of the Music Choice channels on our digital cable, and I noticed a memorial square--“Music Choice remembers Teddy Pendergrass”--that showed up on the TV screen intermittently as the display scrolled. When I found out, I actually wasn’t very familiar with his music, and I had no idea whether my parents were--but I knew his name, and I certainly hadn’t expected his death any more than I had expected Michael Jackson’s. And if there was one thing I was sure of, it was that I did not want to personally walk up to my parents and say the words, “Teddy Pendergrass died.”

            So I began to visualize different situations that might lead to my parents finding out. Perhaps my mom would walk into the room while the TV was on Music Choice, and see the memorial square. Or maybe Pendergrass’s name would come up in conversation--preferably at some unspecified point in the future. In that case, I felt I would be able to respond with, “He just died a few months ago,” or however long it had been.

            For now, though, I dreaded his name coming up. I realized this whenever I was in the car with one or both of my parents, and we had the radio on. Part of me hoped that a DJ might mention Pendergrass’s death; that way I could be sure that my parents knew, and I would not have to tell them. But at the same time, I constantly hoped that the next song we heard would not be by Pendergrass--for if that happened, I would know something that they might not. And if I were to resolve the imbalance that constantly bothered me as a result, I would have to tell them that Pendergrass had died--but I could not be the bearer of bad news.

            It happened from time to time over the years. Whenever a celebrity died, I would vow not to say anything about it to either of my parents. Instead, I would simply look ahead fervently to the moment when they would find out on the news, or by checking their e-mail.

            Gradually, I became that much better at telling them. I told my dad that Phil Everly died; I told my mom that Peter O’Toole died; I told both of them that Andy Williams died. But in some cases--sudden, extreme cases such as Philip Seymour Hoffman--I have once again found myself unable to do it. I still can’t be the bearer of shocking news.

            I’m always going to remember that Robin Williams died today, August 11. I’ll always remember how I found out, sitting here at my computer, checking Facebook. And I’ll even remember what movie I watched earlier today: Leaving Las Vegas. A movie about a man who drinks himself to death.

            Almost fifteen minutes have now passed since I first found out about Robin Williams...and I have still not moved from my computer, due largely to the fact that I do not know for sure what room my mom is in. She is quite possibly in her study, checking her e-mail--but it’s quite possible that she is still in the kitchen, where I last saw her. And I constantly tell myself, as I have many times before, that whatever happens, I will not be the one to tell her. I can’t let the imbalance that I feel, now more intensely than ever, overcome my fear of being the bearer of this terrible news.

 

*                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            As puzzling as this fear can sometimes be, I know exactly why I have it: it has to do with the way people react. Being the introvert that I am, I’m generally able to contain my emotions and avoid a loud, openly shocked reaction, even when faced with sudden news. Not everyone can do that.

            When my mom learned of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s death, most of the imbalance I had been feeling seemed to vanish...but one aspect of the situation remained unresolved, and slowly floated to the front of my mind. I wanted her, not me, to tell my dad.

            It happened shortly after he arrived home, as he stood outside the study and I listened again from the living room. “By the way...” she began, when there was a pause in their conversation, “terrible news.” And, after pausing to let him acknowledge that he was listening, she told him: “Philip Seymour Hoffman was found dead.” And I braced myself for his inevitable reaction.

            It came in two stages. First, “WHAT?”--as he experienced the same mix of shock and disbelief as I had. Then a slow, excruciating “Oh, my God...” as the reality of the death began to sink in.

            There was one time, almost two years ago, when I found out something that stunned me, and realized that I would need to be the one to break it my parents. It wasn’t the death of a celebrity. It was when I discovered that Scot Haney, our local weatherman, and his partner, Paul, had split up after nineteen years together.

            The article I discovered referred to Scot and Paul as one of Connecticut’s “most well-known power couples.” My parents and I were loyal fans of Scot, a hilarious, openly gay meteorologist who would engage in entertaining antics on the air virtually every morning. Paul worked at Hartford Stage, and it was because of him that Scot was able to hold an annual Christmas concert there as a fundraiser--an event my parents and I had gone to for the last four years. We already knew that the concert would not be taking place this year, but we had assumed this was for financial reasons.

            I remember that I found out about their breakup on October 31--Halloween. I remember that I was alone in the house, browsing the Internet on my computer. I didn’t watch any movies that day, but I did download Nine Inch Nails’ album The Downward Spiral--a concept album about a man who destroys himself and ultimately commits suicide. However, I don’t remember whether I had already bought the album when I found the article about Scot and Paul, or whether I did so afterwards, in an attempt to improve my day--which seemed to be going into its own downward spiral--by buying an album that I had wanted for a while.

            What I do remember is that, shortly after I read the article, I listened to Coldplay’s album Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends. Before listening to it, I attempted to remind myself that it was an excellent album--a beautiful musical cycle with lyrical themes about living life to the fullest. But the album hardly improved my mood.

            Because, unlike the deaths of all those celebrities, I knew that I would need to tell my parents about Scot and Paul. I knew this because I had found out about their breakup a full six months after it had happened. It was unimaginable that my parents would find out by chance if I did not let them know. And I had to let them know. I couldn’t just allow them to keep believing that Scot and Paul were together.

            And so, wanting to get it over with, I told my mom almost as soon as she walked through the door, right after we exchanged the normal pleasantries. Even as I told her, I wracked my brain for ways to break it to her gently--ways to phrase it, things I could add that might lessen the shock, if only slightly.

            I started by setting up the premise. “By the way...” I began, trying to sound somewhat grim so she would be prepared, “I think I may have found out why Scot Haney isn’t doing his show this year.”

            “Oh? Why is that?” she asked, clearly curious.

            Now I had no choice but to tell her--and I jumped into doing so, trying not to hesitate, as I knew that would only make me feel worse. “Well...apparently, a few months ago, he and Paul...amicably”--I found myself adding that word, in one final attempt to lessen the blow--“split up.”

            I knew I did not want to see the reaction on her face when she realized what I had said. But somehow I failed to divert my gaze in time--and I saw her eyes widen abruptly, and her mouth fall open. I don’t remember what words or syllables she uttered at the moment the news hit her. Then her voice began to return to its normal state, but she still struggled with the reality of what I had just told her. “That’s really sad,” she was saying. “I always thought they were a strong couple.”

            At times when I instantly regret something I’ve said, I often find myself somewhat arbitrarily saying the next thing that comes to mind. It’s not necessarily an attempt to change the subject; it’s just to keep the conversation going, to move past any awkwardness caused by what I said. In this case, I stated that I was surprised that Scot hadn’t mentioned his breakup on the air. In any other situation, it would have been quite obvious to me that Scot would not have wanted to mention such a personal matter to the entire state of Connecticut. But at this moment, it was the only thing I could think of to say...and I had to say something that would provoke a conversational response. As long as she continued making remarks about how stunned she was to hear about their breakup, I would be trapped in the aftershock of having told her.

            We were still in the kitchen when my dad got home. I felt I would have to tell him as well; I couldn’t guarantee that my mom would tell him, certainly not immediately. But I knew what this meant: I would need to go through the same unpleasant experience again.

            And so, almost as soon as he had walked in--at the first sign of a lull in the conversation--I brought it up. This time I made more of an effort to avoid looking at his face as I told him--but his reaction was still painful to hear. “I didn’t know that!” he exclaimed abruptly. “Scot and Paul?”

            The experience haunted me for hours. What an atrocious day, I remember thinking to myself when I woke up in the middle of the night.

 

*                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            My reluctance to submit myself to my parents’ reaction rises to the front of my mind whenever I am faced with the death of a celebrity. In the case of sudden, unexpected deaths such as Hoffman’s, I know my parents will be just as shocked as they were about Scot and Paul--and it is in these cases that this knowledge paralyzes me.

            Yet sometimes I have been able to overcome this fear, if only briefly, and tell them about a particular death--or rather ask if they heard about it. And some of those times, their reactions have been almost bearable. When I told my mom that Peter O’Toole had died, I didn’t even take the time to phrase it in a question; I just told her directly, almost without a second thought, as soon as I remembered that he had died...and she responded with a simple, slightly mournful “Oh. That’s too bad.”

            And, indeed, when I told my dad about the death of Scott McKenzie, a singer who had only one hit in the ‘60s, he hardly seemed surprised. When I asked if he had heard that singer Andy Williams had died, it clearly came as a slightly larger shock, if only because he was fond of Williams’s music; he replied with a slightly abrupt “No!” before asking me how old the singer had been. Yet, from my point of view, the exchange had gone surprisingly well; his immediate reaction had been quick, and nowhere near as painful as I had feared. When I asked if he knew that Phil Everly had died, it was not quite as bearable; his “No!” was louder and longer, and his overall reaction more prolonged.

            But the hardest “No!” for me to endure involved a dog. Chili was getting old and having various health issues, so I was not entirely surprised when I saw a Facebook post from his owner, my dad’s friend and colleague Frank, saying that he had passed away. For a while I assumed that my dad too would see Frank’s post, but after letting a few days go by, I wanted to make sure; by this time, it was unlikely that he would come across the post if he hadn’t already seen it. And he evidently had not. I asked him, “Did you see that Chili the dog died?”--and he let out a slightly hushed, but sustained and chilling, “No!”

            And perhaps the most unusual instance involved the death of Welcome Back, Kotter actor Ron Palillo--whom I had never heard of, but my dad had known personally. As I talked to my mom on the phone while riding in my dad’s car, she said that she wanted me to tell him two things. She first had me pass along a phone message, and then she continued, “And the other thing I want you to tell him...is that Ron Palillo died.”

            I quickly realized that she wanted me to pass along news that would likely shock him, something I never wanted to do. But the circumstances were such that I had no choice--so without even hesitating, I told him. He responded with a drawn-out “Oh, no!”--and, at almost a complete loss for what to say next, I found myself arbitrarily repeating his exclamation to my mom: “He says, ‘Oh, no!’”

            All of these exchanges have stuck in my mind, and influence my decision whether or not to tell them about each celebrity death I hear about. When I found out that Davy Jones of The Monkees had died, I quickly decided not to tell my dad. The Monkees were one of his favorite bands from the ‘60s, and he was sure to be greatly saddened at this loss...so I decided to spare myself of causing him that shock, or having to endure it myself. I merely waited for him to find out, which he did by watching the news. When he came into the room to tell me, saying something about sad news involving ‘60s rock and roll, I immediately mentioned Davy Jones...and he simply confirmed it. Again, even if he realized that I had known and avoided telling him, he did not allude to that.

            Whenever I think about my reluctance to relay bad news to my parents, I have to wonder how much of it applies specifically to my parents. I always feel like there is something about the way I view them, the way I perceive them in relation to me, that makes me wary of telling them anything that will induce strong emotional reactions.

            And, indeed, I once told two of my friends, Maya and Alafair, about Philip Seymour Hoffman’s death. We were having a conversation about the Hunger Games series, and Alafair mentioned one of the characters who eventually dies, prompting Maya to wonder whether she was referring to the character or the actor who played her in the movie. It was then that I jumped in with, “You know...the actor who played Plutarch Heavensbee just died.” And when one of them responded with a simple, “He did?” I confirmed, “Yeah. Philip Seymour Hoffman.”

            It was evident from their reactions that Maya and Alafair did not know that Philip Seymour Hoffman was a famous, Oscar-winning actor. To them, he was mainly just the actor who played Plutarch Heavensbee in The Hunger Games. Indeed, they were probably no more familiar with Hoffman’s name than I had been with Ron Palillo’s. And I did not mention the fact that Hoffman had been only 46, or that he had died suddenly from a heroin overdose; I simply told them that he died. All of these things made Maya and Alafair significantly less upset about his death than my parents had been. But I don’t imagine that I had any of those things in mind when I decided to tell them. More likely I just saw it as an opportunity to contribute to the conversation--much like I had with my mom, when I told her about Peter O’Toole.

            Does that mean that I am able to relate any bad news, however shocking or unexpected, to my friends--but not necessarily my parents? I often wonder. But then I realize that even my friends sometimes get quite upset over the deaths of their favorite celebrities--and I begin to doubt whether telling them would, in fact, be any easier. Maybe my unwillingness to be the bearer of bad news simply comes from not wanting to upset people. I don’t particularly want to cause anyone the kind of shock that my parents had when they found out about Hoffman, or Scot and Paul.

            But would it still be easier for me to tell my friends? Would I still rather cause them an emotional shock than my parents? I’m not sure. And, quite honestly, I don’t feel any particular urge to find out.

 

*                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            At least half an hour, probably more, has gone by since I learned about Robin Williams...and still, I have not left my computer. Every few seconds I check Facebook, and look at the status that Marlynn posted about his death, knowing that my mom will comment on it as soon as she sees it. But she does not seem to be on Facebook at the moment...and I remind myself that she may not even be at her computer; for all I know, she could still be in the kitchen, and still have yet to find out.

            I finally force myself to leave the room, if only to find out where she is. I walk down the hall and slowly peek into the kitchen...which is empty. A glance down the hall reveals that the light is on in her study. She can only be there.

            And so, after deliberating for a few minutes, I walk past the study and into my bedroom, as if I were merely passing by--not necessarily wanting to speak to her, just wanting to get some idea of whether she knows yet. As I walk back from my bedroom, she notices me. She appears to be writing an e-mail, and we talk briefly about the message my dad just sent us from England. No words are spoken about Robin Williams. But I assure myself that she is on her computer--and so, even if she does not know already, she will surely find out soon, one way or the other.

            Indeed, shortly after I get back to my computer, she leaves a comment on Marlynn’s status...and once again, a sense of relief washes over me. The imbalance vanishes. She knows that Robin Williams died; I know that she knows, and I did not have to be the one to tell her. Then she comments on a status that I had posted when I first found out--and I realize that, in this case, there is no need for either of us to tell the other directly. I know that she knows, and now she knows that I know. And even if she’d had a reason to want to tell me, it probably would have been an exchange much like the one we had six months ago about Philip Seymour Hoffman--

            “Terrible news.”

            “Yeah...I saw.”

            “Sad.”

            That would be all. An unspoken, unnamed truth--yet a truth so large, so glaring, that we could communicate it to each other through the most abstract of exchanges.

            One of these days, I think to myself, I will need to get over this irrational fear. I will need to learn to tell my parents about celebrity deaths myself, just as willingly as they seem to tell each other. But for now, I can simply allow myself to relax for the first time in half an hour, glad that, once again, I did not have to be the bearer of bad news...