Grievous - Part 2

Rich tones chimed from the cathedral down the street, attracting worshipers to the convenient seven o’clock midnight mass. I had developed a love of ceremony as a young graduate student, trailing my mentor from service to service. At first I had simply sought his praise for my enthusiasm. After I had secured his attention, I began to listen and understand his passion for the field. He watched patiently as I learned to sense the pain outside the words, releasing the language that bound me to my own truth. My vision blurred as I strained my ears and tried to find meaning in the foreign sounds. But then, in the silence of a moment, I found existence beyond the words, and I let go. We continued to duck into foreign services even after I had developed my abilities well enough to no longer be confounded by my own language. The sensual draw was a powerful distraction from my own reality.

I gathered my cloak and scarf around me and left the office, walking in the opposite direction of the echoing bells. When I reached the mission, I quietly slid onto a cold metal chair in the back of the windowless room. This was Blue Christmas, a service I supported each year on Christmas Eve. I remained silent as the anonymous shared their pain. The group leader nodded, acknowledging my presence. I was the anchor in the sea of smudged faces, a woman with a name and occupation. A few times I had been followed afterwards, and had spent the evening comforting the nameless. Most years I just watched as they shared and released. I wondered if they recognized each other. I could identify the regulars, but I imagined their pain served as a veil of perpetual anonymity.

My thoughts strayed to my final patient of the day. My senses had failed. I knew there was more to the story than the words he so calmly delivered. He spoke of devastation and despair, but his tone gave no hint of lingering trauma. There was no crescendo when he completed his tale, no sign of relief when he stood to leave. I must have missed something critical beyond the language. He never asked if his feelings were normal. Most first-time visits involved more validation. He seemed to already know everyone grieved differently, that the expression of grief in stages was actually a coarse simplification.

I noticed the stuffy room was starting to clear. A few lingered, embracing and wiping tears. Uncomfortable laughter sprouted as they moved closer to the door. None made eye contact with me, and I was relieved to not have to share my time tonight. I shook hands with the group leader and we arranged to meet for coffee in the New Year. The crowd outside disbursed and I walked the few blocks to my studio loft.

I lived in a converted storage warehouse made of red ballast brick with a view of the bay and the islands. There were a few artifacts from my travels, but the apartment was mostly bare, with simple furniture and no television. I started a pot of coffee to nurse my insomnia and sat in my favorite chair facing the solid brick wall. My grandmother’s wedding quilt hung from a cast iron bar, reflecting the light from the windows on clear days. The quilt had been left unfinished for generations, each bride incorporating pieces of her wedding gown and handing it down to her daughters.

When I turned forty and it was obvious I lacked both the talent to sew and the desire to marry, I brought my grandmother my graduation regalia and asked her to add it to the quilt. She did not speak to me for months. I finally visited her in the home where she had been born and lived her entire life. She presented me with the quilt. The yellowed scraps were framed in satiny black with velvet stripes forming a star in the center. I knew the quilt was now complete and my grandmother had accepted my choices, so contrary to her beliefs.

I took my coffee out onto the balcony and watched the slow parade of lighted boats making their way back for the night. I thought again of my patient and his familiar story. I reclaimed the session in my mind, and then opened my laptop to skim the notes again. As the horn blasted for the finally ferry run of the night, I realized my mistake. I had been trapped by language before he even entered the practice. The intake record showed he requested a grief counselor, so I had prepared to deal with grief. Though he had lost a wife and unborn child, this man did not exhibit signs of grief. By his own admission, he felt shrouded in guilt.