Angie
timidly entered the room, hesitated, then turned back toward the door
as if she intended to leave. Her hand rested on the doorknob as she
stood there frozen by an unseen, internal battle. The brief pause
allowed just enough time for a young woman already in the room to make
her way to Angie, extend her hand in greeting and introduce herself.
This unexpected demonstration of support caught Angie by surprise and
jarred her from her introspection.
The other young woman warmly
welcomed Angie to the first session of an open-ended grief therapy
group. After a few minutes of interchange, Angie and her new "friend"
made their way to the circle.
As the group dynamics guided the
pace and direction of the initial session, I observed Angie as other
group participants shared. She appeared uncomfortable. Often as group
members shared, I noticed that her lower lip quivered. Occasionally,
she would nod in agreement with a comment from a group member. Always,
she looked from one group member to another as they shared their
thoughts, feelings and beliefs. Near the end of the session, Angie
suddenly blurted out, "Do I have time to talk?"
All eyes turned
toward her and the unspoken invitation opened a door in her heart that
had been closed a long time. As the door opened and she began to speak,
an almost unbelievable transformation took place before our eyes.
Instead
of the sophisticated 24 year-old woman who walked in earlier, Angie
became her twelve year-old self. Her voice noticeably changed in pitch
and tone. Her vocabulary reverted to that of an adolescent. Her body
posture and language projected that of an insecure, self-conscious
pre-teen. I had never before witnessed anything quite like that in my
life. I was fascinated to hear her story.
Angie shared, in her
halting twelve year-old style, how her mother had been ill with cancer
since Angie was ten. She told the group that her mother spent many
months in the hospital and that only recently had she come home.
Equipped with IV drips, a hospital bed and constant nursing care, Angie
had her mother home.
At one point, Angie paused and drifted back
to a scene buried deep in her memory, then continued. She indicated
that she believed that her mother had come home to recover~that she
would soon be well again. No one bothered to tell her the truth that her
mother wanted to spend her final days in the familiarity and comfort of
her own family and surroundings.
It seems that on the night
Angie's mother died, Angie was sitting at her bedside, holding her hand
and talking with her. Without warning, Angie's mother began to
experience distress. The nurse quickly jumped in to action and began
barking orders and making calls. Angie stood and moved to the corner of
the room watching in confusion and terror. Then, as quickly as the
tranquil scene altered, Angie's mother was gone. As she died, she
reached out her hand toward Angie and whispered her name.
Although Angie did not want to believe it, she knew in her heart that her mother had died ~ and yet . . .
The
nurse came into the room and instructed Angie to place her hand under
her mother's chin and stay there until she returned. Being the compliant
child she was, she did as told. Angie stood there, dutifully holding
her hand under her mother's chin to keep her mouth closed until the
nurse could return. All the while, Angie spoke in soft whispers, "Don't
go, mommy. Please don't go. I love you mommy, please don't go."
Angie
shared that the nurse apparently forgot her instructions to Angie and
she stood there for almost an hour. Finally, her father came in, saw
what Angie was doing and scolded her for touching her mother. The next
few days and weeks were a blur for her, but the message was clear ~ at
least to her. She had somehow done something wrong; she was not to talk
about what had happened in that room; she was to pick herself up and go
on with life . . . period.
Members of the group that night
expressed words of comfort, reassurance and support and slowly Angie
returned to her 24 year-old self. I was afraid that Angie might not
return after such a traumatic re-visiting of the death scene; however,
she came the next week and then the week after that.
Slowly, the
group witnessed a transformation in Angie. Each week, she spent less and
less time in her 12 year-old self and more in her present day self. As
she talked openly each week about the effects her mother's death had
had on her through the years, she grew stronger, more self-confident and
in touch with herself and others.
When the group decided that it
was time to terminate groups sessions, Angie took a few minutes during
the final session to express her thanks to her fellow companions in the
group for their sincere love, respect and support. I watched, a tear
streaming down my cheek, as each group member hugged and promised to
stay in touch.
I don't know where Angie is now or how she is
doing, but I have to believe that as a result of the powerful work done
in that group, she has been able to construct a life of her own making.
One not dominated by false guilt and shame, but a life guided by a
secure self-awareness that healing comes through sharing.
Angie
touched my life and reminded me of the importance of being open, honest
and supportive to children of all ages when they face the death of a
loved one. Angie is one of my heroes. I am forever indebted to her for
her demonstration of courage and determination.
Angie was able to
meet herself at the point of her deepest pain and take the necessary
journey to healing through learning to mourn in healthy ways. May we all
learn from Angie.
