RGD was unable to calm herself and reported that Jonah (son, deceased) had found her at Mercy and she couldn’t leave because she didn’t know if Jonah knew the way back to their home.
RGD became increasingly agitated, started to thrash her arms, nearly pulling out her IV. I depressed the call button for the nurse, who entered within twenty seconds and immediately administered 4 mg lorazepam through IV.
Follow-up Scheduled: ___X____Yes____No if so, when: Monday, May 22, 2017__9:30 a.m.___
TWENTY-FIVE
MADDIE
Grief is my business.
Sometimes I feel ashamed that I profit from the tragedies of others. But most of the time, my guilt is tempered by the knowledge that I am helping people to heal.
I treat young and old, in various stages of grief and at various levels of grief. I once treated an elderly woman who lost her husband and her parakeet in the same month. She was fine with the loss of her husband—“He was a jackass”—but her parakeet’s death left her inconsolable. I treat children who’ve lost their parents and parents who’ve lost their children, spouses who’ve lost the loves of their lives and husbands and wives who don’t know why they’re grieving because they couldn’t stand their partners, siblings with survivors’ guilt, best friends unable to go on without their touchstones, people who’ve lost limbs or jobs or the ability to do the things they were able to do before.
There are those who don’t understand why I do what I do, who can’t comprehend why I would make the choice to surround myself with so much loss. But I remind them that every person on the planet is surrounded by loss. Life itself is a series of losses, is it not? In this world, happiness and fulfillment are products of successfully dealing with our losses.
Aside from the various race-and gender-related challenges I’ve faced over the course of my life, I have also suffered numerous tragedies, and those compelled me to do what I do today. When I started the psych program at university, my goal was to be a high school guidance counselor. I wanted to work with inner-city kids at that dubious stage when they can either embark on the path to success or careen toward mediocrity or failure.
Just before I got my degree, my parents were killed in an auto accident, and suddenly I was an orphan with no brothers or sisters and no family to speak of. At the time, I suppressed my grief, compartmentalized it, buried it where I thought it could do me no harm. I threw myself into my schooling, graduated with honors, and found comfort in the fact that my parents would have been proud.
Two years later, when I was midway through my doctoral program, my fiancé was one of the many victims of a shooting spree in a local restaurant that involved a disgruntled employee. My professors allowed me to take a sabbatical, and for six months I couldn’t leave my apartment, could barely get out of bed.
It was through the kindness and compassion and determination of one of my fellow doctoral candidates, my friend Jessa, that I was able to work through my grief and become a functioning human being again. She counseled me every day, in between forcing me to do my laundry and make my bed and eat my meals. She offered me tools to help me step outside into the sunshine and accompanied me when I finally dared to go to the restaurant where Paul had been killed, holding my hand tightly and monitoring my heart rate and reminding me to breathe when I forgot. She told me that happiness was not some elusive force that only showered down upon the deserving, but a choice we all make despite the fact that life is hard.
A year later, Jessa died from an undiagnosed brain tumor. Her death, but more importantly, what she did for me in life—giving me back mine—inspired me to do what I do. Helping others through their grief not only fulfills me and helps me deal with my own loss, it is a way for me to honor Jessa’s legacy.
I have been married for seven years and have a good, if somewhat unorthodox, marriage, not only because I’m black and my husband is French-English. My husband works three hours away and keeps an apartment near his firm where he sleeps Monday through Thursday. On Friday, he works a half day then takes the train home, and we spend the weekend together. Our friends often question this arrangement. Secretly I think they’re jealous. But it works well for us. I don’t know that our marriage would survive if we were to live together full-time. My days are long and emotionally charged, and because I must remain stoic for my patients, I require a lengthy decompression period at night, and it is impossible to decompress with an audience. Peter, my husband, FaceTimes me every night, but only after I text him that the coast is clear. Sometimes I talk to him about my day, after the intensity has faded, either through a hot bath or yoga or a run. And he is always an active and compassionate listener, asking questions when appropriate and occasionally offering insight. But most nights, I steer our conversations to lighter arenas and enjoy the sound of his voice as he tells me anecdotes from work.
Madelaine Meyers Grief Support and Counseling Services is thriving. I have a good reputation in my field, and I work hard to earn it. My practice occupies the ground floor of a brownstone, and I am proud of the comfortable, welcoming, and nonclinical space I have created. My sessions are longer than most therapists’, because I don’t believe that fifty-five minutes is enough time to get to the root of an issue, introduce a new tool, or analyze a particular memory or dream. These things take as long as they take, and I would never want to cut short a patient on the brink of a breakthrough. I don’t charge exorbitant fees—I am midlevel at best—and I take insurance. My patient roster is full, every day, every week, month, and year. Tragedy happens daily, and grief is ever present.
When Archie, one of my old professors from university who now works in family practice, called me with a referral, I told him I couldn’t take any more patients, especially not a family. We talked for a long while, and he related to me the story of the Davenports—the death of five-year-old Jonah and the failed overdose of his mother—and by the end of the conversation, I was going through my calendar to see if there was some way I could work them into my schedule.
“Ruth, the mother’s sister, is an old dear friend of mine,” Archie said. “She’s been through some difficult times, and now this. I care very deeply for her, Maddie. These are good people. If there’s any way . . .”
And because Archie helped me establish myself when I was first starting out, and because he’d never asked me for anything in return, I made a way.
TWENTY-SIX
SESSION ONE