Ibuprofen

 

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 seven months.  I know now that some days, simply waking up and getting out of bed is a victory.  I know how it feels like lie awake all night, exhausted but unable to stop the relentless swirl of thoughts, or how a simple trip to the grocery store may as well be a summit of Mount Everest.  I know how it feels to swing from happy to sad, from energetic to exhausted, from peaceful to angry, and back again, without warning, over and over.  I wish I didn't know all these things, and I wish Shannon didn't know all these things, but we both do, and we help each other navigate through all the heavy.  We both truly, deeply, fully understand.

The topic turned to Scott.  I told her that the anger I was feeling for so long has finally dissipated.  Everything is softer.  The sadness is softer.  

"I would compare it to menstrual cramps," I said.  She laughed as I continued.  "At first, the cramps are sharp and stabbing.  Debilitating.  Doubled over in pain, thinking I might die, all-consuming, awful.  So I take an ibuprofen, and I slowly feel my cramps start to ease.  The pain doesn't go away, but it gets softer.  It becomes manageable.  That's how the sadness feels now.  It's not gone, but it's softer.  I can handle it.  It's manageable."

She nodded.  "Yes," she agreed.  "The sadness softens with time.  Time is the ibuprofen of grief." 

Time is the ibuprofen of grief.

I nodded.

Time is the ibuprofen of grief.

I remember after Scott died, countless people told me things would get easier with time.  "It just takes time."  "Time will help."  "You will always miss him, but over time, it will be easier."  I knew they were right, and I also wanted to tell all of them to shut up.  The sadness, anger, anxiety, exhaustion, were so big and consuming that I couldn't see how I could ever feel any different.  Without knowing, time slipped me an ibuprofen.  Slowly, over the course of many months that feel like many lifetimes, the ibuprofen has softly and steadily softened the edges of all the big emotions.  The sadness is not gone, and I doubt it ever will be, but it has become quieter.  It's manageable.  

Time really is the ibuprofen of grief.