Undone: The Death of a Marriage

One of the fiercest arguments I ever had with my late mother-in-law was while watching the funeral procession of Princess Diana. She thought the royal family was not displaying an appropriate measure of grief. I told her I thought their grief was their own business, and that the need to see it demonstrated was peculiarly American. All our arguments, in fact, could be summed up as her complaint that someone wasn't doing something the American way, and my rebuttal that the American way was not the only way. In retrospect, I think she may have been having quite a bit of fun with me. She was a lovely lady and I would have happily risen to the bait for another twenty or thirty years, but her own funeral was a year later.

I still think public people should be allowed to grieve in private. Commenting on the death of a celebrity is not something I would normally do. And yet, the passing last week of actress Natasha Richardson has touched me, and I feel the need to say something about it.

There's the obvious coincidence, which has prompted a few people to email me privately. The day we skied with the boys last month, we were on the Nansen run, the same beginner's slope on which Ms. Richardson fell while skiing with her two sons. So many times this past week, I've replayed that afternoon: every turn, every fall. The kids wore helmets, but neither Patrick nor I did. I thought helmets were in case you were going fast enough to hit a tree, not in case you fell over.

Mostly, I remember how happy we were as we came off that slope. As happy as we have ever been as a family. Exuberantly, utterly, alive.

And then I think, why are we given eggshells to hold all this life?

It makes me crazy.

The people who've gotten in touch do so shyly, almost sheepishly. None of understand why we should be so moved by the loss of someone we've never met—really, what have we lost? And yet. We feel.

I know part of it for me is the solidarity of motherhood. I fear leaving my children before they are through needing me. My hearts instinctively flies out to the children left behind.

But I think, mostly, I'm sad for the end of a marriage.

When a friend passed away a few years ago, in her mid-thirties, leaving behind three young children and a husband, I remember thinking how tragic it was, over and above everything else, to end a marriage like that, in mid-stream, with so much left to be worked out.

Because no matter how much you love each other, how deep the connection, how intense the passion, there's a hell of lot to be worked out during and after the raising of kids. Fifteen years together is just the crest of a hill from which the road behind and ahead can be seen. It's barely enough time to understand how much you have to forgive and be forgiven. There are fights to be had, boredom to be overcome, temptations to be worked through, shitty things to be said, apologies to be made, doors to be slammed, tears to be kissed away.

How unfair to be robbed of that while you're still in the middle, before you're done.