The Spaces Between: Compassion & Checkboxes

(The Grieving Therapist)

At some point on May 20th, I left a message for my manager at the hospital telling her that Drew had “passed away” and that I would need a few days off.

She gently suggested I would need more than a few days off and made me an appointment to see a crisis therapist affiliated with the hospital’s insurance program.

A few weeks days later I sat in front of a young woman, maybe five years older than myself. The “MSW, RSW” after her name on the door told me we completed the same Masters of Social Work program. But her tight bun, business suit, and lack of eye contact during her rushed greeting felt more like a mortgage assessment than a therapeutic interaction.

The sharp white walls hovered over me as she sped through a checklist of questions summarizing my mental health history and reason for my visit.

She flipped the page, still not looking up. “In the past few weeks, how often have you felt yourself yearning for… What was his name?”

“Drew. My husband’s name is Drew.”

“How often have you felt yourself yearning for Drew? Almost never, rarely, or 2 to 6 times a week--”

“All the time.”

“So do you mean every day, or several times a day?”

“Several times.”

“Mmm hmm, ok. Has the yearning for Drew been disruptive or distressing to you?”

“Yes. Distressing and disruptive.”

She continued her checklist, pressing her pink-painted lips into a thin smile when she reached the end. “Ok, so your next step is to read a book called I Wasn’t Ready to Say Goodbye.”

The part of me that wanted to break open and sob that I didn’t even get to say goodbye sensed that this was not a place for feelings and tried to play the good patient.

“Thank you. Yes, it’s a great book. I use it with my clients as well. I started reading it again a few days ago but I can’t focus.”

“Ok great.” She referred back to the yellow notepad in her lap, tapping her pen as the oversized diamond on her wedding rings threw sunbeams at me. “Then your next step is it to write a letter to… Sorry, what was his name?”

“Drew.”

“Ah, yes. Ok. Write Drew a letter about your feelings and then burn it so that you can let go and move on-.”

My breath caught in my chest as my ears drummed with burning, blinding rage.

“Let go??!!” A voice in my head boomed as I watched myself float out of my chair and towards her. I watched myself rip the notepad from her hands and heard myself screaming, from so far away, that “the last fucking thing I want to do is let go and move on!”

I clenched and released my jaw squeezing my fists so my nails dug into my palms and watched myself float back down to where I was sitting, like a pin-pricked balloon. I pressed my feet into the floor to bring me back from my fantasy.

Part of me was proud of my self-control and another part desperately wanted to unravel, to scream and sob and stomp my feet that this wasn’t fair, that I wished I had died instead of him and didn’t want to go on living without him.

I swallowed my rage, pressed myself out of the chair, and stood up. “I have to go now.”

“We still have 20 minutes – '' she looked up, seemingly surprised.

I slammed the door behind me. The anger trapped back inside, writhing and twisting together with my sadness, wrapping themselves around my organs and collapsing my lungs.

I just needed someone to listen.