Walk along the Charles

Last week I had a psychiatric consultation in Downtown Crossing, Boston. I felt happy as I left. The consult had taken about 40 minutes. Although I had plenty of tasks to accomplish at home, I decided to walk to the Charles/MGH stop of the Red Line. As is my wont, my walking ambitions grew as I walked; on my way across the Common, I decided to walk along the Charles River and cross the Mass Ave Bridge, heading for MIT; there’s a Red Line stop there.

That morning, I would have said I didn’t have time to walk. But many years ago, Jim advised a stressed-out client to paint his office. Change of pace. Taking charge of a small thing (though painting an office sounds daunting). So, walking toward home through Boston and Cambridge was my painting job. I calculated that I would arrive home about 6:30 p.m.: a four-hour walk, roughly a half-marathon. It was getting dark by 4:30, at about the time I got to the bike path, so I headed towards Mass Ave on Lake St. in Arlington. When my phone battery was down to 6%, I emailed Jim and turned off Runkeeper, my GPS app. Jim called me (4% battery life) just as I passed the Blue Ribbon BBQ restaurant, nine and a half miles into my walk. He suggested we meet there. Perfect timing.

The walk reminded me of a bittersweet experience walking along the Charles River when David was inpatient at Mass General (MGH). It was a lovely spring day and again I was relieving stress by taking charge with a long walk. As I walked along the Charles, I looked across at a playground area that had adult exercise stations. A young man, shirtless in the cool spring weather, was working out. I was both happy for his health and sad for David’s physical deterioration. I savored the hug my Army guy gave me when I saw him at Christmas time before he got sick. We were at a Christmas concert of R’els in Manchester, Connecticut, and he surprised us: walking into the church when we weren’t expecting him. He had his fatigues and Army boots on and his crewcut was a prominent feature of his bare head. Those strong arms and chest and back. I didn't realize how soon they would be gone.

Worldwide Candle Lighting

Join me, if you can, for The Compassionate Friends' annual Worldwide Candle Lighting, this Sunday, December 9th, at 7 p.m. your local time. Imagine the candlelight crossing the country and world in a 24-hour commemoration of all those who died too soon and are sorely missed. Leave a comment if you do it.

Compassionate Friends

I went to Bereaved Parents of Middlesex County tonight. It’s a part of The Compassionate Friends, a support group for parents, grandparents, and siblings of a child, grandchild, or sibling who has died.

I hadn’t been for a long time: nearly a year and a half. But I had an experience last week at our church’s wreathmaking party: the first much-anticipated holiday event of the season. There’s a program (this year it was Benjamin Britten’s A Ceremony of Carols complete with a harpist), and the  optional making of wreaths. (Mine hangs on my kitchen porch.) The congregation sings a few Christmas carols. I love Christmas, especially the music. But as the first chords of the organ sounded, I started to weep, holding myself so I wouldn’t shake with sobs. Slamming into an unforeseen brick wall.

A few days later I was visiting a friend in the hospital and told him of my experience. “There’s no expiration date on grief,” he wisely said.

So, tonight I went to Compassionate Friends. I actually went last night, but found one other mother standing outside the darkened church building. We had a good, healing conversation. She asked, “Does it get better?” I wish I had words for it: better is not quite it. But, yes, I can now feel happiness and even joy and can hear a helicopter without being overcome with gut-wrenching emotion.

We later found out the meeting had been changed to Tuesday. I had received an email about the change, but when I received it I wasn’t planning to go, so I'd forgot about it.

Each story is different: the commonality is the heartbreak and heartache. I had forgotten the closing tradition. We stand together, holding hands around the table and speak our child’s name, “Good night, David.” That is very powerful and catches me off-guard every time. I can barely speak his name. I realize that I’m not able to truly wish David good night. I’m crying right now, as I write this. It’s a lonely, desolate feeling.

It’s a comfort to meet together, in “the club no one wants to join.”