I had a better day yesterday. I mean, it was still well past ten before I managed to get up, shower and get dressed. But after that I was ok.
Grabbing a yogurt for lunch – which is all I’ve managed to eat for the last couple of weeks -I went for my therapy session.
“Call me when you are done,” Hugh said dropping me off. He has been so sweet and supportive. Whatever he himself is going through, he is still there for me and I am infinitely grateful to him.
Anyway, the therapist office is an old brick building, warm and cozy. When I went last week, I started out the session sitting on a chair, but ended lying down on the sofa. I found the talking painful.
“What was Andrew like?” she asked.
By then the pit of my stomach – which if you are up to speed with this kind of thing you’ll know, is the seat of your emotions – was hurting with all the if only this, and if only that, that were erupting from it.
“You know Esmeralda,” the therapist said in her warm soothing voice. “When someone commits suicide, everyone think that if they’d done this, or if they’d done that, it might not have happened. Even friends go through that. But the truth is that the decision to kill oneself is a personal one.”
I don’t know why, but hearing her saying that brought me relief. When the session was over I left her office a bit lighter.
Yesterday’s session was different, for a start I sat on the sofa and only gave a passing thought to lying down on it, and then I didn’t feel there was much left to be said. But she did put my mind at ease on one score. My younger son does not want to see a bereavement counsellor or a therapist, in fact he is not inclined to want to talk much about his brother’s death. He says that he finds it too painful and some friends have been insisting that he must see a therapist, that he should not even be given a choice. Well, this therapist is the third one to say that he should not be forced, that everyone grieves differently and after making sure that he does everything that he did before like; eating, sleeping, going to school, doing his homework, playing with his friends and so on, she said that the best and only thing we can do is to be there for him, and to make sure that he knows that. This was a big relief for me and later on in the day Robert and I had a good and open chat about it.
When the session ended the therapist gave me an appointment for next week and when my husband picked me up, I felt strong enough to want to go and browse at the local Mrs. Green’s.
By the time we got home, my friend Elizabeth picked me up to go and see Avatar.
All the time I was watching I was picking things out that if Andrew had been alive, I knew I would have talked about with him, like we did with Lord Of The Rings.
Elizabeth is one of my dearest friends and I enjoy her company, but it was Andrew that I wanted to watch that movie with, and the sadness of his loss keeps washing over me. But I stubbornly counter it with: He’s only gone from sight. He is not dead, he’s alive and he’s free and happy. What more could a mother ask? Rejoice for him.”
By the time Elizabeth dropped me home, it was time for dinner and for the first time in almost two weeks I was hungry again.
Let’s hope that today I do as well.