The Anniversary Clock

On this, the sixth anniversary of my husband’s death, I am reproducing an edited version of the article I wrote last year for the fifth anniversary. It follows:

At least twice every day, I drive by Lynn University just a few blocks from my home. Starting in September, that meant I drove by the countdown to the third presidential debate that took place at Lynn on October 22, 2012. 40. 39. 38. … 24. 23. 22. And so on. I hated having that glaring, twice-daily reminder. For me, October 22, 2012 meant something quite different. It was the fifth anniversary of my husband’s death. I had my own internal countdown. I didn’t need one staring me in the face day after day as a grim reminder of the reality I knew all too well. That year, October 22 even fell on a Monday, the same day of the week that George died. I worked that day, finding, as always, that listening to the struggles of my patients, helps remove me from the pain of my own life.  

When I came home I was more aware than usual that George wasn’t there to greet me. The door between the garage and the house wasn’t open. He wasn’t standing there with his sparkling blue eyes and welcoming smile. There was no George on that day, just as there hadn’t been for the previous 1827 days, including the two leap days. It actually had been longer since George was able to greet me at the door, his body debilitated by metastatic prostate cancer, heart disease, and chemotherapy for almost two years prior to his death. Then I’d go to him, sitting in his chair in the living room. His eyes weren’t quite as bright, but his face still lit up when he saw me, he’s arms open, proclaiming my homecoming the best time of his day.

Do I need an anniversary to remember all this? No, not at all. George is with me every day. I remember his courage, his strength, his fortitude, and his sometimes maddening stubbornness. I remember the man who loved me with every fiber of his being, who was always my champion, always in my corner. I remember walking hand in hand along the Seine, putting up tents in Botswana (the only time in my life I ever camped), and scuba diving in countries like Palau and Yap, places I had never even known existed. But mostly I remember sitting close to him on the couch or eating on our outdoor patio. I remember the depth of our love and, yes, the indescribable pain of his loss.

I faced the first anniversary of my husband’s death with dread. I knew I didn’t want to be alone nor go on with my life as usual nor be someplace I could envision George and I enjoying old haunts or exploring new adventures. In the end I spent time with two of George’s children and then, for the actual anniversary, I went with George’s daughter and two close friends to a spa in California, something I knew the man who took me scuba diving in Yap would never have been interested in doing.

On the second anniversary my grief was not as acute, not as all-encompassing. But rather than experiencing this as a relief, I felt as though George was slipping away from me. I felt emptier, lonelier. Sometime later a widow said to me, “Grief is my friend.” I knew exactly what she meant. Grief itself provides a connection to the deceased. Without the intensity of that grief we feel more alone, more isolated. By the third anniversary I thought that I could venture further afield and return to my warm writing community in Washington, DC. Once cocooned within the group I was comfortable enough, but the flight to Washington on the eve of George’s death was far more anxiety provoking than I could ever have imagined. Year four was less traumatic, spent with my husband’s grandson, reminiscing about George, the man we both loved.

And so I’m back to year five. After a fitful night, I awoke on October 22 immediately aware of what was missing, immediately overwhelmed by yearning for that which was and is no more. I held my dog, Hadley, a bit longer than usual. I got up and got ready for work. I saw my patients, burdened by an extra sadness, but relieved to be back in my role as therapist. Then I went home. And like much of the rest of America, I watched the presidential debate.

So now it is year six. I had anticipated it would be better – there was no anniversary clock staring me in the face and getting past year five felt as though it should have been a milestone. Yet, as soon as I turned the calendar to October 1, I felt the increasing burden of grief. I carry my own anniversary clock. October 22 will always be October 22. But, like all other days, it will only last 24 hours and I will continue on with my life – seeing patients, writing, spending time with friends. And carrying George in my heart, as always.

George

Today is my late husband’s birthday. In honor of that day I have decided to relate my experience of presenting my book, Love and Loss, to my professional organization a few weeks ago. Many in the audience were friends and colleagues. Many had known George.

In my presentation I discussed my motivation for writing the book – to memorialize George and our relationship - as well as to illustrate my now staunch belief that a therapist’s present life circumstance greatly affects her work and her patients. I discussed issues of confidentiality and, at length, the question of self-disclosure. I am far more revealing in my book – and in my blogs – than is usual for a therapist, and an audience of professionals would understandably be interested in this question.

During the break, several people – mostly friends who knew George well – came up to me and related how present I had made George feel, how much his aura permeated the room. One related his experience of their first meeting, his wit and sardonic humor; another spoke of his kindness and humanity; and still another about his satisfaction with his life and his inability to feel envy. I felt warmed. I had accomplished my goal. I carried George with me and was able to bring him to life for others.

I resumed my presentation. At the end, in the course of the discussion, I mentioned an experience I had with a young woman patient about three years after George’s death. She asked me three questions: Where was I from? Was I married? Did I have children? As she and I talked about why she was asking these specific questions, at this specific time, my own mind remained fixated on the question, Am I married? Assuming I answered her questions - and I have become more comfortable with answering patients’ questions as opposed to deflecting them – I realized there was no way I could answer that question in the negative. To say that I was not married felt to me like a denial of George and my relationship, a relationship that still very much existed for me. So, when I answered the question I said my truth, “I’m a widow.” The patient burst into tears, opening up a new avenue of exploration.

All this I told to my audience. A lively discussion ensued. One friend and colleague asked if rather than lying to my patient, I could have said that her questions were certainly legitimate and important, but rather than answering them, I would like to understand what they meant for her. I hastened to explain that I would never lie to a patient, that the issue for me was that to say I wasn’t married felt like a disavowal of George and our relationship and that I couldn’t possibly get the word “no” out of my mouth. Another colleague said that regardless of what we tell our patients, they will see us how they need to see us.

Then the man who had brought up my lying to my patient, raised his hand again. He said that he realized that he himself had just fallen victim to such a distortion: He saw me as married. I was married to George. And since I was married to George I honestly could not tell my patient I wasn’t married. I smiled. I loved it! My connection to George was so strong, I had succeeded so well in taking him with me in my mind, that others still experienced me as married as well.

And this man wasn’t the only one. Another friend assumed that when I brought up that experience with my patient, I was talking about a time before I had ever known George, before I was indeed married. And when I related the entire experience to yet another friend, he too was surprised, saying of course I was married, I was married to George.

And so my beloved husband lives on within me and within those who knew and loved him. I am extremely fortunate to have had this very special man in my life. And on this day, his birthday, I express my deep love and devotion.     

From Endings to Beginnings

“So I assume my father already vetted you,” Chelsea says, sarcasm dripping from her every word. I’m taken a back, put off both by her words and her appearance, tattoos covering her arms and upper chest, multiple piercings in her ears, lip and nose.

I also had lots of feelings about that phone call. I immediately experienced Chelsea’s father as domineering, take-charge, arrogant and self-important, a combination that immediately called forth memories my father, leading me to feel intimidated, defensive and angry all at once.   

I respond to Chelsea, hopefully revealing none of my discomfort. “He did call me. I answered some of his questions about my credentials, but I told him what would be important is how you felt about me, if we felt we could work together, and that wasn’t anything he could decide.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve been through this many times. That’s what they all say. But he’s a bully. And he pays the bills.”

“I get that you’re angry at your father.”

Chelsea snorts. “That doesn’t take a genius!”

“No, it doesn’t. I also get that you’re angry, period. Are you angry about being here? Do you want to be in therapy?”

Silence.

I’m too old for this, I think to myself. An angry resistant patient and an intrusive father that is going to push all my buttons. Maybe I don’t want to do this.

“You don’t have to be here, Chelsea. You don’t have to work with me.”

“Giving up on me already?” Chelsea says, contemptuously.

She caught me! I feel both embarrassed and impressed by her insightfulness.

I take a deep breath. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s start again. What brings you here, Chelsea?”

For a second, Chelsea’s eyes fill with tears. Like a child, she rubs them violently away with her knuckles.

My heart melts. She’s another one, a wounded bird who covers her pain with anger; whose demeanor screams, “Keep away,” when what she means is, “Please love me.” I’m always hooked by this combination of fragility covered by determination and grit. I think of Alyce, the disturbed young woman I worked with over thirty years ago whose treatment constantly intruded into my life. But I was much younger then. I was in a warm, loving marriage with an incredibly supportive husband. I don’t know if I’d be up to that kind drama at this point in my life. But I’m way ahead of myself. I still know nothing about Chelsea.

“I’m an orphan again,” Chelsea says.

I wait.

“My asshole father divorced another one. I kind of liked this one. She was nice to me. It gets tiring, one house after another, mothers that come and go, brothers and sisters that come and go.”

“What about your biological mother?” I ask.

“She’s dead. She died when I was three. I hardly remember her. In fact, I don’t think I do remember her, just sort of from pictures.”

“Wow! You’ve had a lot of pain in your life.”

“I guess,” she says, shrugging.

“Sadness isn’t easy for you. You’re more comfortable with anger,” I say.

Silence.

“So where are you living now? What’s going on in your life?” I realize I’m asking these questions for me. I need to know how stable or disturbed Chelsea is before I commit to working with her.

“I’m living with asshole. On the beach. Money sure as shit isn’t a problem, not even with all the alimony he’s always paying. And I’m going to school. I know you can’t tell by looking at me, but I’m smart. And I like school. I want to be a doctor. And I will be.”

“I can tell you’re smart, Chelsea,” I say smiling. “And good at sizing people up. That should make you a good doctor.”

She brightens, surprised. “You think so?” she asks, suddenly more childlike.

“Yes, I think so,” I reply honestly.

“Thanks.” She pauses. I can see her struggling. “I think you’re okay,” she says. Then she immediately draws back, as if she’s revealed too much of herself, as if she’s taken too much of a risk. “I mean, I guess you’d be okay to work with.”

“It would be my pleasure to work with you, Chelsea,” I say honestly. I know this won’t be an easy treatment. I know her father will be a constant intrusion into both our work and my psyche. But this is a young woman who has known more than her share of pain and I think I can help her. I see her potential and I’m hoping to foster it.

For better or for worse, there’s always a new Chelsea. I’m fortunate that my life’s work brings fulfillment to me and, hopefully, growth for my patients.      

The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter

The pick for my book club last month was Carson McCullers’ The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. I had never read the book before. I am only thankful to have read it now.

This was Carson McCullers’ first novel. She was 23 years old

when she wrote it. Set in rural Georgia in the late 1930s, it brilliantly captures the conditions that existed in a poor mill town where ruin was just around the corner and everyone struggled to survive, whites marginally better off than “Negroes” who were forced to deal with constant humiliation and degradation.

The novel’s sociological portrayal is superb. But, as a psychologist, I prefer to focus on the five major characters and their interaction.

The pivotal character of the book is John Singer, a deaf mute, who all the other characters depend on to listen to them, hear them, and understand them, while projecting onto him all their needs and wishes. For me, John Singer is the book’s analyst. The reader knows Mister Singer to be an isolated, lonely person, whose only friend, Antonapoulos, is sent away to a mental hospital and even when he is present, Singer creates this friend to fill his needs, just as the other characters do to Mister Singer himself. Although it is never clear what Singer does understand, he is portrayed as a caring, generous human being.

Biff Brannon is the owner of the town’s café, a café he keeps open all-night to diminish his own loneliness and those of his possible patrons.  He is in a loveless marriage, but still grieves for his wife when she dies: “… when there is love, the widowed must stay, for the resurrection of the beloved – so that the one who has gone is not really dead, but grows and is created for a second time in the soul of the living …” There is no one who is a regular reader of these blogs or, even more so, of my book, Love and Loss, who would wonder why I vibrate to those words.

Jake Blount, an angry, misshapen drunk, who talks constantly of his Communist principles, is consumed by loneliness. His incessant talking and drinking is an attempt to escape his isolation; his anger a way to distance himself from his despair and sadness. Both Singer and Biff are invariably kind to Jake, giving of themselves both personally and financially.

Doctor Copeland is the town’s “Negro” doctor, another disappointed, angry, embittered man who is both difficult to like, and impossible not to sympathize with. Educated and scholarly, he has put all his hope in his four children and the capacity of the Negro people to raise themselves above their lowly status. He is bitterly disappointed in both. His behavior towards his children was often hard to read, at least for me, who knew first-hand the rage and expectations of an angry father. And, yet, who could not feel for this man who had spent his life trying to better himself, his offspring, and his people, only to be faced with repeated contempt and horror.

I have left Mick Kelly for last, because she my most favorite character, a 13 year old tomboy at the beginning of the book who has tremendous spunk and an obvious artistic and musical talent. She dreams of something more than the overcrowded rooming-house in which she lives. She has her inside room - the room of her own thoughts and her capacity to recall and hear music in her head – and the outside room where she exists in her squalid, everyday world. Only Mister Singer exists in both worlds, again an example of my understanding of him as the book’s therapist. Life works against Mick and by the end of the novel she is a sale’s girl at Woolworth’s. At least to this reader, escape doesn’t seem very likely.

The night of our book club, seven bright, articulate women were present. Most of us loved the book and marveled at McCullers’ artistry capacity to create such a rich novel at so early an age. But the difficulty arose for some of the women who found the book too dismal, too lacking in hope. Those women felt that the message of the book was only that you lived, struggled, despaired, and then died, with nothing positive ever resulting.    

I awoke in the middle of the night after our meeting and thought that we had missed something important in talking about the hope in the novel. First, there is much love, generosity, and compassion that is evident throughout the book in many of the characters, an important aspect of hope when we look at the human condition. Secondly, the book epitomizes the indomitable human spirit: To fight, despite insurmountable difficulties; to struggle, even when the outcome is bleak. To me, that is hope, providing for the eventual possibility of something better, and demonstrating humankind’s capacity for courage, strength and determination that perseveres despite all adversity.