Doctor, Doctor

One thing I never knew before Cory's accident was how much grieving affected your physical health.  Dr. Z warned me of this weeks afterwards, while he was coercing me to please at least drink one milkshake a day.  I would not eat, and would barely drink for a long time.  It began with the feeling that I didn't deserve to eat or drink- not when she couldn't- and certainly not since I was responsible for her death.  From there, shock took over, and I was a walking zombie who was aware of nothing, and wanted nothing but the obvious, which was, of course, impossible.

Dr. Z looked at me from across his desk, his eyes kind, and his face the portrait of sorrow.  Even as he was trying to lead me through this dark and twisted forest, he was grieving his own loss.  He didn't have to tell me that Cory had been one of his favorite patients.  The joy on his face to see her when she was doing well- and the tender compassion he offered when she wasn't- told me (and Cory) everything we needed to know about his feelings for her.
  He had always called her "Miss" which made her feel extremely grown up.  Every time we left his office, she felt at least a little better, just to have seen him.  He had, over the two years he had treated her, became a sort of grandfather to her.  When she was plagued with the voices or suffering from delusions, he soothed her, and he gave her hope.  He also told her wonderful stories about how long ago, those who heard voices were revered for this abilitiy that what was considered by all to be a gift.  As he described people traveling days and days to counsel with these gifted souls, I felt my heart ache, and I began to love this man just a little more as I watched my daughter seeing herself through his eyes...not crazy, not a freak, but someone special- who had experiences other people may never have.  Somehow he communicated to her, that although these "visions" could sometimes be scary, she was also one of few who had another sense, and another lens with which to view the world.
Yes, he was also grieving for his "Miss", with whom he had discussed her home-based classes and their mutual love of literature as she began to recover from bouts of severe psychosis.  He had celebrated the small joys right along with us, and watched as she rejoined the world- regaining comfort in going places, being around others, doing things for herself, and having more good days than bad.
As Dr. Z counseled me that day, weeks after the accident, I hadn't slept more than 2 or 3 hours at a time, and I was surviving on a bite of food every couple days or so.  I was listening as I heard him tell me that grief breaks down the immune system.  He told me I should watch not only myself, but my elderly parents for signs of a decline in general health.  I heard him, but I couldn't begin to comprehend feeling any worse than I already did.  I wasn't eating, and I wasn't sleeping...really, how much worse could it get?
Each week when I saw Dr. Z, I told him a little more of the constant reel in my head.  The first time I was brought to his office to see him, I could only cry hysterically, shaking, and reeling on my feet.  The second time I saw him, I brought my journal.
 I did not want to be there.  Me...who believed in talk therapy like nobody's business.  I had stubbed up, angry that people even suggested I try to work through this.  Working through it would mean I was accepting what had happened, and buddy that just wasn't going to happen.  Between suicide and working through it to live my life without her, I knew exactly which scenario was more appealing.  I did not want to honor her memory; I did not want to plant a tree; I did not want to make her favorite meal every year on her birthday and eat it beside my surviving child with a candle and empty plate at Cory's space at the table.  No, thank you.  I would much rather just...stop.  Shut down the whole works right here and right now...and please, for God's sake, could you hurry it up?  Hurry, while I can still see her face the second I shut my eyes, and that image isn't fuzzy or cloudy,  it is crystal clear.  Hurry, while I can still run through every emotion, and see her exact expression in my mind.  Make it quick so I don't ever forget the sound of her voice or how she said my name.  Because if there was anything that could make my part in this any worse than what I'd already done, it would be to slowly, over time, lose my memories of her...have her face fade in my mind to the point I'd need a photograph in hand to help conjure her to my mind.  Go from full color to black and white to sepia toned.  To me, that would be worse than death.
I had decided, in my usual bullheaded way ( I am indecisive by nature, but God help you when I've acutally made my mind up about something), that going to talk to anyone or taking any kind of medication was ludricrous.  What good would it do?  What good could it possibly do?
Day after miserable day, I sank deeper and deeper into myself.  I stopped talking to people.  I stopped asking for help of any kind.  I stopped reaching out.  I wouldn't answer the phone.  I didn't want visitors.  I figured that with my current agenda, it would be easier to carry out my plans if I cut off all contact with loved ones, then I wouldn't have to take their future pain into account before pulling the plug. 
My unresponsiveness was driving my mother to the edge.  When my dad brought her to my house, she tried to convince me to get help, crying openly and nakedly as she held my hand, and suddenly I knew it must be bad.  To hear her using phrases like "deep depression" and "suicidal", asking me if thought going to the hospital might help me, reached me somewhere deep inside.  Mom had had the hardest time of all of us coming to terms with Cory's illness.  To see her then recognizing the severity of the situation, and being the one to try to get me to seek help broke me down at last.  Well, that, and I heard faint whisperings of involuntary commital...
I would go to see Dr. Z- only Dr. Z- and I would not say a word.  No one could make me.  That was what I offered.  Then, everyone was to just leave me alone.  Leave me to die.
I had been writing in a journal every day since it had happened.  I took it with me to the office.  He came in the room, settled himself in his usual seat, and gently asked me how I was.  I wouldn't answer.  He asked me if I wanted to talk to him.  I shook my head no.  He saw the white knuckled grasp I had on the hardcover journal in my lap, and asked if there was anything I'd like to show him.  I opened it to a single page.  At the top, it said "Give sorrow words"- William Shakespeare.  In the center was "July 5, 2012".  In every direction, crazed and scattered- much like my thoughts- were words:  anguish, anger, disbelief, hopeless, stupid, denial, dead, emptiness, selfish, hate, guilt, burning, regret, tortured, sorrow, desperation, numbness, shock, failure, lost, finished, drowning, lonely, and broken.
 He spent a few minutes looking at it, before closing it respectfully without turning to another page, handed it to me, and just sat with me for the next twenty minutes, the remainder of my appointment.  No words were spoken.  I think he held my hand.

---To Be Continued