Have you ever experienced a heckler at a book event? Yep, me neither… until it was mine.

Two weeks ago, I boarded a plane on a blustery Virginia Monday, bound for the Eagle/Vail airport. The Rockies’ turbulence whipsawed our 27-minute connection flight, but we landed safe in the beauty that only Colorado delivers.

I puttered the day away until it was time for my first Do Loss event. In my rented white Jeep Wrangler, I chilled in the parking lot, breathing deep and shuffling through my clipboard notes one last time. Then I stepped out into the chill early spring evening and strode to The Bookworm.

Event manager Alix had the room set. People trickled in quietly, finding their seats. I began my talk:

Thank you all so much for coming. And a double thank you for showing up for a talk on LOSS. I promise no jump scares, and no group shares. I’m going to tell you why I wrote this book, and share my story, so I might get a little teary-eyed. But I promise to take care of you, and I’m confident you’ll take care of me.

Just as I was getting into the groove talking about the characteristics of loss we wish weren’t true, I heard the door around the corner open, and someone raspily demanding where the book talk was happening. Then the tiniest little old lady — LOL, as I’d come to think of her — shuffled into view. She grasped the arm of her daughter while glacially moving toward an open seat.

I halted. I’m used to giving talks from my corporate days but in those big conference rooms, no one dared to enter late.

The room fell silent. LOL took no time filling that void.

LOL: You’ll have to speak loudly, I don’t wear hearing aids. They always fall out and I hate them.

Well.

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I took a breath, dragging up the memory of where I’d left off, and re-found my flow. Five more minutes in, she speared her tiny hand into the air.

Me: Ma’am, we are going to wait and do questions at the end.

LOL: But what I have to say is relevant right now.

Me: Yes, I understand, but we are going to wait.

She harumphed.

I started again. Five minutes passed. Then her tiny hand shot up again.

ME: We’re taking questions at the end, ma’am.

LOL: But I have something important to add right now! I became a widow at 54 so I know a thing or two about this!

Me: Ma’am, I’m so sorry for your loss. But if you’d just allow me finish we’ll have plenty of time for discussion at the end and we can talk about your experience one-on-one.

She let me continue talking… but she didn’t lower her hand.

I pressed on, trying to find my rhythm again, except now I was tracking her in my peripheral vision. Her wrinkly, pale hand had started wavering slightly in open space. I kept my eyes locked on the rest of the room, drawing them in, trying to rebuild the intimacy we’d had before the interruptions.

I began sharing what I call my ‘search for clues’ as I navigated the loss of Mike, and how veterans I’d worked with in my last corporate job had taught me valuable lessons about community and resilience, always showing up for me.

Then from left field, came this:

LOL: But I’d like to say something about our military!

The room went quiet. Everyone felt it now — this wasn’t a confused elderly woman asking a clarifying question. This was someone who’d decided the rules didn’t apply to her.

I took a breath. I tried to stay calm while tiny prickles of anger ran up and down my spine.

Me: Ma’am, I promise we’ll get to you, but I want to share my story and some important parts of the book. Then we’ll leave lots of time for questions for everyone.

She didn’t interrupt me again. But she still didn’t lower her hand either. It flickered at the edge of the audience, like a warning light on a dashboard. Meanwhile her daughter had gone completely still.

My regular power play — an icy force of will that allowed me to hold my own in corporate conflict, the one that had worked in hundreds of settings — was dying to break the surface. It was practically chanting Shut This Down Hard. It wanted me to make it clear who’s in charge. One withering look would do it. Gauging my next move, I took a furtive glance at Little Old Lady, hoping she wouldn’t take it as an invitation, and really looked at her this time. Then I saw it. Not defiance. Desperation. She was a widow too. She’d said so. It’s relevant! I’m relevant!

Icy wouldn’t work here. Not because I couldn’t do it — I absolutely could. But because it would ruin the thing I actually came here to build: a space where loss could breathe.

I leaned back in my seat, a small surrender.

For Q&A, I started on the far side of the room — the quiet side — and took my time addressing each question, her hand still bobbing and weaving in my peripheral vision. When I finally got to her, she didn’t mince words.

LOL: You’ve been ignoring me the whole time!

Me: Ma’am, I was giving the rest of the room a chance to speak. Please go ahead now. What’s your question?

LOL: It’s not a question. I just want everyone to know about a documentary about Elie Wiesel.

She told us about the PBS special, about how the Holocaust survivor’s story helped her understand her own loss.

Me: Ma’am, that is so helpful, thank you for sharing that. I think we can also share with the others how impactful Viktor Frankl and Edith Eva Eger’s work is based on their Holocaust experiences too. I really appreciate you bringing this up.

In the book signing afterward, LOL’s daughter made her wait until last. I signed books, listened to stories, made recommendations from the Loss Canon. I was grateful for the space; humbled by the connection.

Then LOL sat down next to me, her daughter plopping six copies of Do Loss on the table.

LOL: You’re going to dedicate these books to one Sheila, two Judys, and one Juan. I’m keeping two for myself. Write in the inside cover: “Tools for your toolkit.”

And reader, I did exactly that.

The room was clearing. Alix helped LOL and her daughter gather their six books to head out. LOL turned to me before she shuffled away.

LOL: Are you going to write another book?

Me: Why yes, my next book is about a pilgrimage I took in Scandinavia.

LOL: But what does that have to do with me?

Me: Well, I did originally think the pilgrimage was about grief… Turned out it wasn’t.

She considered this for a moment, then nodded, satisfied.

LOL: I’ll come to your book talk on that.

Once the door did us all a favor and closed behind her, I laughed out loud. At the absurdity of being heckled at my first book event, sure. But even more so at her audacity. And her honesty.

See, she dared to ask the question I think every reader is silently, maybe subconsciously, asking every time they open an email from The Luminist. Every time someone sees a flyer for my book event and decides whether or not to go. Every time a stranger picks up Do Loss in a bookstore. Every time someone watches a Loss Canon video.

What does this have to do with me?

Or all those related questions, like: Will it meet my sadness and confusion when nothing else has been able to? Will I feel less alone? Will it help me figure me out, even just a little, so I can suffer less?

They just don’t often ask it out loud, on repeat, waving their tiny wrinkled hand in the air.

The thing is, I can't give you answers to your losses because I don't have answers to mine. But every conversation we have — on the page, over coffee, at a book talk — brings us closer to learning to live a full and happy life alongside those losses.

And maybe LOL, in her own stubborn way, wanted to contribute her wisdom to that cause too.

To not having the answers,

Sue

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P.S. I’ve made another video for the Loss Canon: The Books that Got Me Through. If you’re into books and/or videos, you can watch it right here.

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