There are few practices that engage our hearts and spirits as successfully as listening to music. Perry’s work as a clinician and researcher at the Child Trauma Academy has led many governmental agencies to consult him. He provided psychiatric care to traumatized children following the Columbine school shootings (1999), the September 11 terror attacks (2001), Hurricane Katrina in 2005, and the Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings in 2012.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I waited for a sign, any sign that David’s soul had moved on. After Chopra’s visit, I read everything I could get my hands on about mindfulness and the afterlife. I thought the teachings might allow me to intercept any messages David might send.
It didn’t happen. David didn’t make as much as a cameo in my dreams. I didn’t feel his presence behind me when I was scrubbing the kitchen counters the wrong way. I never got the sense that he was looking after us or intervening to keep us from harm. Once, I purposely ran a yellow light to see if his spirit might stop me. The light flashed red as I barreled through the intersection, untouched by angels.
One night, as I tucked Sophie into bed, I asked her, “Do you ever feel Daddy’s presence, like he might be in your room?”
She looked at me, confused, her green eyes completely engaged in the question. “You mean, like a memory?”
“Yes, like that,” I lied, wishing she’d felt or witnessed something miraculous, something that might make me believe David’s spirit would be there to always watch over her.
“Sweetheart,” I said tenderly, “how would you feel about visiting the Dougy Center?” I’d told Sophie about the center soon after David’s death. It’s an extraordinary program for grieving children.
Sophie lowered her chin, defiantly. “Seems like you want to go there more than I do, Mom.”
She was right. Sophie was coping much better than I was. The grief counselor had told me to be prepared for this. Kids often don’t want to process their loss until years, sometimes decades, later. But bedtime was always hardest for Sophie, the time of day when her defenses dropped to their low point and fatigue gave way to emotion. I put her to bed the same way every night, lying down beside her, with my arm around her waist, talking about the day’s events.
“So what was the high point of your day?” I asked, trying to find space for myself on her new full-size bed. Colin had helped move out her old mattress and box set after she complained she needed a grown-up room. We painted the room a shade of red that Sophie loved and drove three hours to Seattle to buy an Ikea bed with a ladder. Her desk and files and computer fit below, along with a hangout space for her and friends. The only weird part was when I awkwardly climbed the ladder at night to tuck her in.
“I dunno,” she said softly, her shoulders turned away from me. She hugged Bear tightly, his ears ragged and worn, the fur on his belly missing entirely.
“Are you doing okay?” Her tone worried me. The nightlight in her room illuminated the side of her face. The ceiling glowed with a warm white light. We’d stuck what seemed like a thousand fluorescent stars up there when we first moved in, Sophie handing me the tiny plastic shapes one by one and pointing at the place “in her sky” they should go. It was the one thing in her “little kid room” she didn’t want to let go of, the comfort of those stars, and her Bear.
“It’s not the same,” she said, curling in tighter to herself.
“I know.”
I breathed steady and deep, ready to listen, conscious of the importance of hearing, not judging or trying to make it better. As my therapist had said, “It’s as much as you may get from her for now. Take what you can get.”
I lifted her T-shirt to scratch her back, something she’d loved since she was a toddler. “Get the chicken bones,” she’d usually say, “yeah, that’s good, right there!” But this time, instead of oohs and aahs, she whimpered, and the whimpers turned into a sob.
“I miss him,” she said. “I miss Daddy.”
“I know, baby, I know,” I whispered. “I’m sorry you are hurting.”
“He never even said goodbye!” she said louder, her sobs turning into wailing, a sound that echoed up to the fluorescent stars and back again, ringing in my ears. I tried to remember a time I cried like that as a child, and couldn’t. I had forced my sadness or isolation inside, sobbing silently into a pillow at night. Growing up, there was not much space for my emotion in a household as fragile as ours. I remembered developing the keen sense of gauging everyone else’s moods to avoid causing more trouble. It was a coping mechanism I had carried through to my marriage, getting out of the way instead of confronting problems head on. My contributions to our family’s failures were never far from my mind.
“Sweetheart, you have been through so much,” I said.
She sat up in bed, suddenly struck by a thought that stopped the crying. The tears spotted her cheeks, and her nose needed to be wiped. I didn’t move to get a tissue. I wanted desperately to hear her out, to not interrupt this moment. I sat up with her.
“I can’t remember him, Mommy. I can’t remember for sure what he looked like. I know what he looked like in the pictures and everything, but I’m worried I will forget him.” The thought terrified her—her chest rose and fell quickly, and she squeezed Bear until I thought his worn head might pop from his body.
“Baby. You will always have Daddy in your heart. You will have the memories of him making you breakfast, and making you a fire, and reading to you. Remember how many books Daddy could read in a week?”
She nodded.
“Those memories are yours to keep forever. They won’t ever go away.”
She turned her chin down. “But what about Colin?”
I braced myself for something painful. “What about him?”
“I’m worried he will replace Daddy.” The gravity of her insight hit me like a fist. My body recoiled, a sudden shock moving through my spine and neck, until I had to force myself to stay sitting up.
I spoke slowly. “Sophie, Colin is a good man.”
She nodded.
“But, you have a daddy. David. You have his cheekbones, and his lips, and his long legs, and David will always be your dad, forever.” I held her hand, sweaty and soft, in mine. “I don’t want you to replace Daddy—ever. Colin wouldn’t want that either. But your heart is big enough to love again, honey. You’ll see. It’s like you’ll have a huge place for Daddy in your heart. And then, maybe you’ll grow more room for Colin. Or not. You always get to decide who you want to love and how much. Nobody decides that for you. But when you do fall in love, and you will, you’ll grow more room in your heart for your husband and your kids. It never stops—our capacity for love is limitless.”
“Like infinity?” Sophie said.
“Just like that.” I curled up next to her, lost in my thoughts. I had ignored the truth of David’s illness so that Sophie could live with her father. Now, he was gone. I felt the burden of my illogical thinking every time I held Sophie.
“Hold my back, Mama,” she whispered.
I spooned into her, breathing in her smell. Her hiccupping breathing pattern quieted after a while, into an even flow of air, in and out, in and out.
The most visible sign of David’s death was the toll it had taken on me. After months of watching his mental health decline—months when I operated under maximum stress, doing everything at hyperspeed—my body felt poisoned and sluggish. David’s death had started my own body’s deterioration: for the first time, the skin on my arms and legs was so dry it itched at night, I had dark rings under my eyes, and my hair was thinning.
I ignored my condition until one day at work, in the middle of chatting on the air with my cohost, I couldn’t find the word I needed. The topic was the stock market: “Negative territory, again,” I said. “The . . .” My mouth was open, the word “Dow” was on the tip of my tongue, and uh, uh, uh, nothing. It was gone, whoosh.
My cohost looked at me, horrified, and then quickly filled in the blanks. “The stock market has le
ft Sheila speechless,” he quipped, before breaking for a commercial.
“What happened?” he asked, pulling the headphones from his ears.
I shook my head, dumbfounded. My career had been built on having the right word at the right time. I knew I needed help.
C. S. Lewis wrote about his wife’s death from cancer in the book A Grief Observed: “Grief is like a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape.”
The acupuncturist squinted while she looked at my tongue, then mmmed and aahed while I described the mysterious symptom that had plagued me. She reached into a cupboard and pulled out more than two dozen sterilized needles. Expertly, with little more than a flick of her wrist, she placed needles in my wrists, near my elbows, in my earlobes, stomach, and legs, and all along the inside of my ankles. When she finished, she told me calmly, “Rest, relax. This is going to take a while.”
I don’t have a while, I thought, my mind racing like a tiger in a cage. I’ll be late for work.
I’d been happy when she said she’d fit me in the schedule, even though I hadn’t been in for regular visits in more than a year. Calming woodwind music played in the background. The sheets were pure white and clean smelling. But something still felt wrong. For one thing, it was too hot. The acupuncturist had politely cracked the window when I mentioned it.
I’d always loved acupuncture before. I’d used it on several occasions when big stories prevented me from sleeping or eating well. It restored my sense of balance, made my skin glow again.
This time, though, my hands were clenched tight, and my head banged with a headache that intensified every time I breathed in the incense. My tongue clacked against dry tissue in my mouth. I couldn’t move to reach the water she’d set by the treatment bed for fear of breaking a needle.
That image of David standing at our kitchen sink, agitated and miserable, his tongue smacking dry, flooded over me. The smell of dental fillings overwhelmed me—it was the smell I associated with David whenever he took the antidepressants. Why hadn’t his doctors listened to me? He’d had hepatitis after traveling in Africa. His liver was damaged. The drugs poisoned him, amped him up beyond control.
My heart palpitations increased, and my chest heaved up and down. The needles were suddenly beyond uncomfortable, stinging and probing in places they shouldn’t have been. It felt like blood vessels were popping all over my body. I was in the middle of a full-blown panic attack.
Several of the needles came out as I flailed around, arms going this way and that. The stings felt like bee bites. I found the heavy bell the acupuncturist had told me to ring if I became uncomfortable. I swung it side to side so frantically I knocked over my glass of water.
The acupuncturist opened the door calmly, her voice still serenely balanced. “Yes?” she asked.
“You’ve got to get these out,” I said. “I can’t take it. I’m oversensitive, or something. Something’s wrong with me.”
She put her hands on the top of my head, like a blessing, warm, soft hands that made the thump in my head softer, more tolerable. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“About what?” My eyes closed to everything except the ticking time bomb in my chest. It was a heart attack, I knew. I was having a heart attack. I was dying on an acupuncturist’s table. Please, please take the needles out, I thought. I can’t take any more pain.
“About your fear,” she said, pressing her thumbs into the very spot on my forehead where the headache centered itself.
The slight crack in the window wasn’t bringing in enough cold air. I needed to get up, to go, to get dressed and get to a hospital. I could feel every prick on my body where the needles stood, every opening screaming with pain. I started to talk and didn’t recognize my own voice.
“I’m afraid I’m going to die,” I said, my voice breaking. “I’m going to die and Sophie will be completely alone.” The revelation cascaded through me, taking with it the sensation of a heart attack, the panic, and my intense need to flee. I started to sob, so loudly I worried the acupuncturist might call for help.
Instead, she smoothed my hair over and over again. “Yes, I know,” she said calmly. “I know.” She took a tissue out of the box and gently wiped my nose. “Breathe,” she said. “Remember to breathe.”
The spasms rippling through my chest reminded me of Sophie, who as a child could cry so hard she’d hiccup for half an hour after her tantrums. I would stroke her hair over and over until she fell fast asleep, but the erratic breathing would continue even into her dreams.
The smell of the room had changed. Now the scent enveloped and comforted me, the temperature had cooled just enough, and the needles no longer poked but instead felt anchored in just the right places. I imagined them reaching down to my central nervous system, to my circulatory system, to the organs themselves and stimulating all that had been broken and damaged.
My fingers unclenched. Blood flowed to my extremities.
Soon, I was in a state of complete relaxation, my body limp against the mattress, my eyes gazing at the ceiling tiles, my thoughts only on the magnificent gift I’d been given—breath, life, this moment.
The acupuncturist rose quietly and opened the door to let herself out. I didn’t know how much time had passed, but it was the first moment of peace I’d had since David died. He had been in pain, too, a much more burdensome mental torture. He wanted relief. He wanted to sleep again. I understood.
My thoughts turned to Costa Rica, which we visited when Sophie was six years old. David and I had argued over whether it was safe to take Sophie into a cave we’d heard about from the rafting guides. They’d promised us a spectacular sight, the womb, they called it, with the clearest water and a rock face that sparkled like diamonds. I didn’t want David to take Sophie; he’d argued that he could keep her safe by wading in with her on his back.
I followed reluctantly, pissed off that he always seemed to win those kinds of fights. I waded for several anxious minutes before finally rounding a corner to see him holding Sophie on her back, floating in the water, looking up at the rock wall the guides had promised us—the womb, glittering like a million stars at night. She was mesmerized.
I mouthed the word “Wow” to David, and he said apologetically, “I know.”
The memory was so vivid I could see the blue of David’s eyes, his big hands under Sophie’s back, steady and strong.
BABY BOOMERS AND SUICIDE
Suicide rates among middle-aged Americans rose sharply from 2001 to 2010, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. More people now die of suicide than in car accidents, according to the CDC’s Morbidity and Mortality Report. In 2010, there were 33,687 deaths from motor vehicle crashes and 38,364 suicides. The surge in the suicide rate among middle-aged Americans is most troubling. From 1999 to 2010, the suicide rate among Americans ages thirty-five to sixty-four rose by about 30 percent. The most pronounced increases were seen among men in their fifties, a group in which suicide rates jumped by 50 percent. Historically, suicide rates rise during times of financial stress and economic setbacks. The increase coincides with the recession of 2008 and a decrease in financial standing for a lot of families. The CDC also cites widespread availability of opioid drugs like OxyContin (oxycodone), which can be deadly in large doses. From 2001 to 2010, there was a marked increase in intentional overdoses from prescription drugs, and of hangings.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jeff Brands knocked on my door in early February. His hands were stuck way down in his pockets, and every time he breathed, steam formed around his mouth.
“Come in, come in,” I said. “Thank you for coming.” He walked through my door and looked around the living room. His hair was mussed, and he ran his fingers through it before settling his gaze on the windows. I could spot lovers of modern architecture the minute they walked in. Their eyes always wandered up to the high ceilings that were finished in old growth wood to feel like the forest was above, below, and around you. The home’s
spare design was muted by the architect’s soft spot for nature. The granite countertops were the same color as the forest outside. The lighting came from soft angles, above, to the side. The room was divided by furniture, not walls.
My sister, who had returned to help with the settling of David’s affairs, sat at the kitchen table. She stood when she saw John. She came over and looked him directly in the eye. “Hello, I’m Diane. We spoke on the telephone.”
The three of us sat at the table together, surrounded by some of the envelopes that Diane considered “pressing legal issues.” John was a forensic accountant and had been referred to us by David’s attorney.
“I’m the guy who can make sense of all the numbers,” he said confidently. “I can tell you whether there’s any money left in David’s business and exactly how much he, or you, owes.”
“I’m not confident the people who owe David money will pay.” I showed him the yellow sheet David had scribbled for me in the hospital. “I called Dr. Tendale, the dentist. David claims Tendale owes him a hundred grand,” I said. “Tendale claims David didn’t finish the work on time, or up to spec, and he refuses to pay the bill.” Another client, the owners of a local nightclub, made the same claim. They said that toward the end of David’s illness, he made mistakes or got confused on the job, and his behavior and choices voided the contract.
John pursed his lips. Diane looked at him. “The bottom line is their creditor is dead,” she said. “Who could testify against them in court?”
John’s cheeks were still flushed from the cold. “Well, they may say that now, but if, when we take a look at David’s books, we can determine he was owed money, they won’t have a choice. The probate court will make them pay.”
“I can’t pay you for your time,” I said, embarrassed. “I can barely make the mortgage on this house and keep Sophie in school.”
John interrupted. “You won’t have to pay. I’ll do this on contingency. Your job is to take care of Sophie.”
All the Things We Never Knew Page 24