Excerpt from Raggedy Angel
By Jill Davis

      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
          With special dedication to the Rubio family