Submarine
I was listening to myself talk in my therapy appointment. I've done it so many times before it's almost funny. Observer looks down in self pity and shock at the fact this is its life, this is its conversation, this is its therapist, and this is its loss. A real loss. And it is really happening. Yes, you. It happened to you.
I tell her my stories. She listens. She asks questions. I answer. I circle around a theme. I try to answer again. We try to find insights to heal tender places.
Today my story is of a co-worker who told me about her struggle to cool her newborn baby down at night now that the summer temps are rising here in the tundra. To swaddle, or not to swaddle? is the question at hand. Instead of throwing up on her chicken burger as desired, I stab my fork through many Alfredo covered noodles as possible. Open mouth, insert. Repeat. Listen to story. Approach salad and stab fork again. Repeat.
Other co-worker appears - she attended the funeral. Swaddle Struggler says to co-worker, "Can you fix a pull in the afghan you made for the baby? It's just a little one by the satin border." Co-worker asks when Donna, pregnant woman at work, is due. August! I blurt out, beating the Swaddle Struggler to the punch. Co-worker now states she heard so and so had her baby yesterday. Everyone smiles. A few more conversational hand grenades are stumbled upon before the conversation ends.
Later, I find myself getting misty eyed at my desk for the bazillionth time, and I vow to once and for all end my lunch breaks with co-workers. To hell with keeping up my game socially at work.
I sometimes wonder if Will can see me -or- more likely, I am going crazy thinking he is, and I wonder if he feels sorry for me, and I also wonder if he does not, because feeling sorry for your parent is a role reversal and probably not a very healthy one.
I tell the therapist that I am doing so much better, but the current themes are:
- Integrating my new revelation of the selfishness of mankind into what was previously an unrealistic worldview of fairies and unicorns
-Remembering that I too make idiotic comments
-Finding ways to hold the sadness of deep things and the joy of silly things in hand and balance the two - at least sometimes
-Being okay with "containing" the pain when it is too much to hold and I need to put it down for a while - this is not because I am selfish but because it is too vulnerable sometimes to delve into and still maintain normal life. I will go back later when I can.
Trying to recover from loss is almost like being in a submarine. You have an entire world just below the surface that involves so many parts and gears working together in order to function and keep moving forward. I watch others float by from the inside, I watch them complain about wanting to come back to work after having their babies so that they could do more than just clean all day (apparently time spent with the baby did not factor in?) I watch as my little submarine glides through the water. From the surface, it looks strong and dependable. Underneath is an orchestra of struggle and effort, and grace, I think.
I tell her my stories. She listens. She asks questions. I answer. I circle around a theme. I try to answer again. We try to find insights to heal tender places.
Today my story is of a co-worker who told me about her struggle to cool her newborn baby down at night now that the summer temps are rising here in the tundra. To swaddle, or not to swaddle? is the question at hand. Instead of throwing up on her chicken burger as desired, I stab my fork through many Alfredo covered noodles as possible. Open mouth, insert. Repeat. Listen to story. Approach salad and stab fork again. Repeat.
Other co-worker appears - she attended the funeral. Swaddle Struggler says to co-worker, "Can you fix a pull in the afghan you made for the baby? It's just a little one by the satin border." Co-worker asks when Donna, pregnant woman at work, is due. August! I blurt out, beating the Swaddle Struggler to the punch. Co-worker now states she heard so and so had her baby yesterday. Everyone smiles. A few more conversational hand grenades are stumbled upon before the conversation ends.
Later, I find myself getting misty eyed at my desk for the bazillionth time, and I vow to once and for all end my lunch breaks with co-workers. To hell with keeping up my game socially at work.
I sometimes wonder if Will can see me -or- more likely, I am going crazy thinking he is, and I wonder if he feels sorry for me, and I also wonder if he does not, because feeling sorry for your parent is a role reversal and probably not a very healthy one.
I tell the therapist that I am doing so much better, but the current themes are:
- Integrating my new revelation of the selfishness of mankind into what was previously an unrealistic worldview of fairies and unicorns
-Remembering that I too make idiotic comments
-Finding ways to hold the sadness of deep things and the joy of silly things in hand and balance the two - at least sometimes
-Being okay with "containing" the pain when it is too much to hold and I need to put it down for a while - this is not because I am selfish but because it is too vulnerable sometimes to delve into and still maintain normal life. I will go back later when I can.
Trying to recover from loss is almost like being in a submarine. You have an entire world just below the surface that involves so many parts and gears working together in order to function and keep moving forward. I watch others float by from the inside, I watch them complain about wanting to come back to work after having their babies so that they could do more than just clean all day (apparently time spent with the baby did not factor in?) I watch as my little submarine glides through the water. From the surface, it looks strong and dependable. Underneath is an orchestra of struggle and effort, and grace, I think.
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