Health by Heidi

  It was Tuesday, March 10, last week.  It was my 47th birthday.  It was the first birthday since Scott died.  It was the first birthday since my mom moved into memory care.  Shannon was in Oregon working.  The alarm went off that morning at 4:00 am.  I had to be out the door for dog walk by 4:45 to get to my first clients by 6:30.  At 4:30, I started getting ready.  Put on my walking clothes, layering appropriately.  Put on the glowing green dog collars.  Grabbed my flashlight so I could see where I was going in the heavy darkness that is 4:45 am.   The dogs and I headed across the pasture on the same route we've done nearly every day since Scott died, the same walk he had done nearly every day since we moved into our house.  We made our way along the creek, up the switchbacks, onto the bench behind the house.  As we walked, I was throwing myself a pity party.  Here I was, once again walking in the darkness...

  I met with my therapist yesterday.  It was the first session we'd had since Shannon's son, Clayton, died.  As it goes with grief, it felt like seven lifetimes had passed since the last time I sat down on the couch in my therapist's office.   I took a deep breath, exhaled, looked at her.  She smiled back at me.  "I don't know where to begin," I said as I closed my eyes and thought back on the last two and a half months.   She nodded.  "Start with whatever wants to come out first." I took another deep breath and felt tears spring to the corners of my eyes as my throat constricted.  I thought of Clayton, of Shannon, of my mom, my kitty Lily, and of course, I thought about Scott.  I opened my mouth and the words gushed forth like an avalanche.  Once I started talking, I couldn't stop. We started with Clayton and Shannon.  As I shared, I realized how much empathy, compassion, and patience I have gained over the last seve...

  I was standing in the back room of a strange house, and I was being held hostage.  My captor was a man, but I didn't know who he was.  He would occasionally yell at me down the hallway.  I knew I was in danger, and I knew I had to escape.  I glanced down and realized I was holding a long, thin, blue saw blade in my right hand.  It was too long to hide.  How could I conceal it to make a surprise attack on my captor?  I heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall.  He was coming.  I gripped the sawblade in my hand, readied myself for the oncoming fight.  And then the alarm went off.   I woke up, rolled over, and reached for my alarm clock to turn off the alarm.  Except the alarm wasn't going off.  I vividly heard it in my dream.  It woke me up.  In real life, no alarm.  I lay back on the pillow, thinking about my dream.  Did my brain really just set off an imaginary alarm to wake me up and spar...