On Thursday, my day started with a doctor appointment. Not an appointment which I initiated, but an order from my family doctor to come in for a chat since I had wiggled out of my appointments since Devastation Day.
Anyone who knows me knows I suffer from white coat anxiety. Amy’s death has only amplified this phobia. Years of therapy identified an anxiety which arises from lack of control and failure to trust. Okay so then there also was the time when I was a child that a dentist had a nervous breakdown while working on me and wanted to pull all of my teeth. A little traumatic for the average 8-year-old. Or as I mentioned to my doctor, could the anxiety have been my soul warning me of what was coming? Devastation Day.
My family doctor has an excellent bedside manner. As soon as she walked into the exam room, I burst into tears to which she responded “talk to me.” In hindsight, with the exception of my grief counselor/therapist, my designated dumping ground aside from this blog, no one ever asks me to talk to them. Her words reminded me how no one really wants to hear what losing my daughter has done to me, my family and my life. However, she earnestly did, and that genuine kindness made me weep even more.
By now, according to the world’s tolerance for grief, I should be moving forward with my life. Their sympathy has been exhausted; their patience has been tried; and their calendar confirms that it’s time. Their eyes don’t lie and neither do mine.
So when my compassionate doctor asked me to talk to her, I did. I told her my faith has been broken and my body feels as though I am 100 years old. I reminded her that while she may treat grievers and witness the saddest tragedies, that there is no way that she would be able to understand the emotional depth of the pain I live with now. No pill can fix me and the world is no longer my friend. As she seemed earnestly interested, I continued to explain how grief and depression are so different that there are days I wonder if I am losing my mind. How I find myself sobbing one minute and the next minute I am calmly preparing dinner. How the world keeps reminding me Amy is missing every where I turn yet has amnesia when it sees my response. When I was finished, she hugged me and cried with me. She heard me.
Then she asked me to trust her to help me to deal with what the stress was doing to my body. Trust??? Trust requires faith and hope. At this moment, I have neither. However, my doctor is smart, kind and compassionate. That is a fact, but trust?
My trust in God, prayer, the universe, myself and others has all been tested and the future is not looking bright. Willful jaded outlook? Nope. I am a product of my life experiences and environment. It is what it is.
Happy Birthday, Dad and happy Valentine’s Day, my sweet amazing Amy. I am always remembering you with so much love. 💕💕💕