| If you have
lost a child, a time will come when you need help. Choose a
therapist who has weathered something big. Find an angel who has earned
his wings. Now is no time for unseasoned hatchling therapists.
The first phone call is the
hardest. You have already called out to God and not heard back. What
if you call the therapist and he does not call back? But, he does call
back. After all, he's also a business man. Once you get to the office,
you tell him what you think you need to talk about. Then you take a
psychological test. Do not check yes in any of the boxes that ask if
you hear voices. These questions do not refer to starting in the night
because you think you hear your dead child calling.
The test will come back and
the therapist will tell you that you are essentially normal but tense.
No schizophrenia. You experience a credibility let down. You know you
are worse than you appear, or you wouldn't be here. He will tell you
that you have masked depression, that you are anxious and that people
become anxious because they need to be in control. This rings true because
your child would not be dead if you were actually in control. He tells
you that he doesn't see any anger. Do not slug him at this point. You
have figured out that anger will not bring your child back. You'll have
plenty of time to educate him about this later.
As you leave, be sure to ask
for an appointment card. You know that you will absolutely not forget
your appointment, but you will learn to transfer clutching your child's
teddy bear at night to holding that card. The teddy bear has gotten
lost in the bed too many times and you do not have the energy to panic
anymore. You put the bear on a shelf next to your child's picture. The
card is a paper promise that someone who you just met will listen to
you again and again. Put the card on the bedside table propped up on
the lamp, to remind you that it is okay not to be okay right now.
The next session comes and
the therapist asks what you did after your child died. You ask him to
rephrase the question as if it was unusually complicated. You have drawn
a blank. While he lay waiting to be buried, you lay in bed wondering
why you couldn't sleep on the couch in the viewing room with him. After
his funeral you put the spectators out of your house by telling them
you were going camping. You came back at 2:00 AM to be more alone than
you have ever been. You lost 20 pounds because for a month you only
ate peanut butter graham crackers, Pepsi, and Cocoa Puffs, your child's
last and favorite meal. What you did after your child died was wake
up without him each and every time you woke up.
You have other children. You
have to lay down your grief and tend them, so you have come to the therapist
for help with that impossible task. He asks more questions, and eventually
your story unfolds.
What you don't tell the therapist is that this very morning when you
woke up, one more time you made a decision not to kill yourself. Not
killing yourself is the only control that you feel you have over your
life. You can't just sink in the chair and exclaim that you wish you
were dead, because then the therapist will ask you that trained question,
"Do you have a plan?" And you know that not only do you have
a plan, you have a backup plan, and also a Plan C. If you admit that,
you could get admitted and then you would lose your other children.
So to spare yourself any more loss, you don't say what you really want
to say. How bad it is.
Ask for another appointment.
The therapist will look at his calendar and say “What about next
Thursday?”
Nod yes. It doesn't mean the
date is good for you; it means you think you can make it until Thursday.
You should also go to a Compassionate
Friends meeting. The Compassionate Friends' creed will be read. The
speaker begins the meeting. "Let's
all introduce ourselves and say why we are here. If you aren't ready,
you can just pass." Everyone then introduces himself, going around
the table, one person at a time.
"My name is so and so
and my child died shortly after birth of a heart defect."
"We are the so and so's.
Our child was murdered."
"My child drowned in
the tub."
"My first child died
ten years ago in a car accident. My second died last year of leukemia."
You reach into your purse
and feel around for your paper promise, glance down and see that there
is no cell phone number. The next lady passes because she cannot find
the words that will include her in this company.
When it's your turn, you look down and your words won't come. You shake
your head, no.
You may do this for the first
three months. One day you will be able to say what happened. You tell
your therapist about this meeting. He reassures you that grieving for
your child is the hardest work you will ever do. When you leave, ask
again for the paper promise. He tells you that he is low on cards. Don't
panic. You have a card but you need to see him write the new date. You
sense he thinks that you are nibbling at his stash. Ask anyway.
At the next session, you tell
him that other parents have golf tournaments and scholarship funds in
honor of their children. The most you seem to be able to do is get a
Winnie the Pooh ornament for the Christmas tree on his grave. You
have started writing a memoir--you have reached into the depths of your
grief and written the first page. You know the story is so dark that
no one would want to read it. You set out to prove this point by reading
the first page to him. A long silence follows and you brace yourself.
He leans in and speaks tenderly. "It's beautiful. Your child is
gone but your love for him is not. Anything that you do in memory of
your child is your love letter to him."
One evening you will be a
guest speaker at Compassionate Friends. You will tell them about getting
help, and when you get to the part about being “essentially normal
but tense," irony will grip everyone and they will laugh until
they cry. Yes, there is laughter at these meetings. Then much to your
surprise the audience will stand up and walk from their chairs and give
you a group hug that will never leave you.
Another session comes. You
tell your therapist that the government has declared a National Children's
Memorial Day. The night before the local candle lighting service a mom
from Compassionate Friends calls you. "I can't make it to the service.
I'm having surgery in the morning. Please light a candle for Drew and
just do what a mom would do."
For once, you stop screaming
at God about how nothing is worth it. You lay down your anger and accept
the blessing of this mother choosing you.
You light the first candle and call out her child's name. Then you light
a candle for your child.
Your therapist tells you that
you have a lot of energy. You want to apologize for wanting to slug
him all those months ago. He got it all along. Anger is energy. Processing
your anger has not brought your child back, but it has brought you back.
The paper promise will be
your buddy at the oddest times. Church may seem the most unlikely place
to need the card, but it may be where you need the paper promise most.
Everyone who looks at you sees the mother who has lost a child. No one
but you wants to run to the altar and demand their child back. Because
you are not screaming at the altar, people tell you they are glad to
see you are doing so well. The pressure of appearing okay in church
is almost too much.
Every time you enter the sanctuary,
you sit on a different pew, Goldilocks looking for a comfortable place.
One day the hymnal on the pew rack will beckon you to pick it up. A
curiosity that you have never had before causes you to open the cover
and read the inscription. Your heart stills when you read, "Presented
for the glory of God in memory of Christopher Davis, from the Rubio
Family." You have found someone's love for your child and in that
love you have found him again. You clutch the hymnal to your heart and
head out the door. You need to be alone with your child.
Now that you know about the
hymnal, you know what could happen next. You could obsess about finding
the hymnal every time you come to church. You remind yourself that the
dogwood tree, a tree someone planted in memory of your child, died,
and you grieved all over again. You accept this visit from heaven and
won't ask for more.
You curl up on the steps outside
of the sanctuary and lean your forehead against the railing and listen
to the service. When worship ends, you put your child, who is in the
hymnal, back where he belongs, in God's house.
In loving memory of Christopher
Cameron Davis
In honor of the Rubio family
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