Well of Grief, Revisited

Two years ago

              I know it's very bad news when Faye, the office manager at Cox Clinic, calls to schedule an echocardiogram for David. The only reason they would need to know the health of his heart (which was damaged last March with the chemo drug, daunorubicin), would be if the latest treatment has failed. His low EJ (ejection fraction: a measurement of heart function) might disqualify him for a clinical trial. And you only go to a phase one clinical trial if the conventional treatments have failed.

              The bone marrow biopsy of October 6^th reveals that 16% of the white blood cells are leukemic. So, the maddening waiting of last week, when 'nothing' happened, is over. Jim, David, and I will meet with Dr. Fathi, the leukemia doctor on Wednesday, October 15.

Columbus Day Weekend 2016

              Saturday we hold a successful second annual blood drive in memory of David. Over fifty people come.

              I spend several hours on Friday, baking cupcakes and conference cookies for the donors. They are a big hit, especially among the bloodmobile staff. Out of the five dozen I baked, we return home with just two.

              Sunday morning I wake up with a headache and general achiness. Is it an illness? Is it a somatic reaction to grief, triggered by the blood drive? Does it matter?

              Am I grieving right? I know there’s no 'right' way, but I can’t even tell if I’m grieving. I guess by definition I am; I’m living through a loss, a loss that those who are experiencing it say you never get over.

              What does that mean, to get over? I’ll always be a mother who lost a son. The latest trigger, just this morning: Jim copies me on an email he sends to an old friend, who wasn’t able to make it to our August open house for Annie and Shawn and Sam and Savannah. He writes, “The open house went well. It came at the end of a week when all five children were with us…” The ‘all five’ stops me cold. I have resolved to continue to tell people I have six children (and then mix it up if they ask where they all are, so that it’s not obvious I’m only getting to five). Over the course of our August week together I am often reminded that five is the maximum number of children possibly present.

I revisit David Whyte’s poem, “The Well of Grief”:

Those who will not slip beneath

the still surface on the well of grief

turning downward through its black water

to the place we cannot breathe

will never know the source from which we drink,

the secret water, cold and clear,

not find in the darkness glimmering

the small round coins

thrown by those who wished for something else

              I was greatly touched by it when I first read it, exactly a year ago this month. When I search for it in my blog posts, I see that as I pondered it, I listened to Leonard Slatkin conducting Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings. Today I listen again, as I write, reaching for that sacred place where feelings are raw and real.

              I feel Whyte’s poem so much deeper than a year ago. Then, it spoke to my heart, without words, but I didn’t know how to turn downward through the water, more importantly, didn’t know if I wanted to deliberately swim down. Would I go so deep that I couldn’t get back up to the surface to breathe?

              And what are those coins he speaks of? I only guessed, a year ago. Now I feel like I understand better. I've come to the painful realization, over this past year, that I had never really understood people who were grieving. I'm pained by my lack of empathy. Now I've entered the club who throw small round coins down wells.

              This grief is a journey. And much like a drive on a rambling road through New England woods, I can only see a few yards beyond me. I can look at someone else’s map and imagine what lies ahead, but I can’t know until I am on the road, tomorrow, a month from now, five years from now.

              Jim and I watch a Doc Martin TV show. There’s a scene where Bert, usually flip and cocky, experiences great sorrow. He sits in his truck at the side of a country lane, weeping quietly. That’s how I feel.

              And now, YouTube has automatically started a a different, somber piece, Tomas Albinoni’s Adagio. Music opens the heart. When the Albinoni finishes, I search for Beethoven’s second movement of the Eroica Symphony, the Funeral March. And what about the Beethoven Mr. Holland plays to his music class while processing the deafness of his son? Second movement of Beethoven’s 7^th. The tears flow. I don’t need a map for today; I’m right here.