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  Having made the decision and feeling somewhat composed, I went back inside. I explained that I would like to keep the appointment after all. I would mail a check to the office immediately upon my return home; this office did not accept debit or credit cards. I was calmly assured that it was not a worry. Indeed, the receptionist would be looking for another fit for me, someone even closer to my home and who would take my insurance. True to her word, she did just that—even scheduling an appointment and putting me on a waiting list for an earlier appointment date if an opening were to become available. Everything was settled before the current session had begun. There was a reason I had arrived early.

  Suddenly, it was time for the appointment. Taking a very deep breath and tightly gripping the banister, I climbed the flight of stairs to a second-floor parlor. A petite woman with a warm smile and welcoming demeanor shook my hand while introducing herself to me. She offered me a seat in a wing chair adjacent to hers, in front of a cozy fireplace. This room was a noticeably more comfortable temperature than what I had experienced at the attorney’s, and I appreciated that. There was no fire, as the weather was still warm, but, given my trembling and shivering bunch of emotional nerves, I certainly could have absorbed the heat.

  Crisscrossing my feet beneath me, fighting back tears, and continuing to focus on the fireplace, I began to tell my story as accurately and objectively as possible while the doctor typed away on her iPad, taking down every word. When I reached the part where we were in the car on the way to the lake, there was total silence as her fingers stopped flying across the keyboard. Moments passed, and, for the first time, from an objective professional, I heard the words “This is not about you. People with abandonment issues are not good communicators.”

  I continued to tell my story, hearing it again from start to finish and realizing that it all sounded unimaginable. Trying to regain a bit of dignity and inject a touch of humor after taking up far longer than the time allowed for the session, I asked this wonderful human being who might play my role in this made-for-TV drama. Giving me another warm smile and embracing me in a hug, the therapist pulled back, looked me in the eye, and responded, “A woman with the utmost dignity.”

  Relief washed over me after I had shared my story, and she sent me on my way. Once again alone, I faced the long journey home. While her words echoed in my mind and lessened some of the guilt that had been massed upon me, I was still confused and emotional. I still felt helpless and lost. I returned to an empty house, an empty life, and no sense of direction.

  Fortunately, I did not remain in the abyss as long as I had anticipated. A cancellation occurred, and I could see the second therapist in a matter of days—and she was only fifteen minutes from my home. Feeling confident that long-term help had arrived, and that I would have the professional guidance and support I needed to begin to muddle through this nightmare, I made my way to her convenient but sterile office, anticipating rescue. Another deep breath, another retelling, another affirmation: “This is not about you, nor about dropping marbles into someone’s jar.” Then the words “You will find your way out of this with the right guidance from the right therapist.”

  “What? Why not you? You are right for me. I like you. I like how you listen. I need help. Now!” However, my insurance would not cover visits with this therapist. She worked with patients who experienced severe depression and saw them only to prescribe and administer drugs. I required none. Yet this was the second therapist who assured me that this was not my fault and that I was experiencing only situational depression. Did they not see that the depression encompassed every situation? How could I go home? How could I go on? I had never experienced such pain, nor felt so abandoned. I had so little strength. Collapsing, sobbing, with a dripping nose, I found myself once again wrapped in the arms of a professional and caring stranger who escorted me to my car. The therapist placed a paper with a name and number in my hand, and again I was told, “Get home safely.” She assured me there was help available and reiterated that none of this was my fault.

  Armed with yet another name, this time that of a man (which was not the ideal), and having little hope that the third time would be the charm, after regaining my composure, I made yet another appointment. When the day and the time arrived, the experience in the waiting room, which felt like the psychiatric ward portrayed in low-budget movies, told me this was not right. Overheard conversations centered on lifestyles of drug usage, abuse, and neglect. When I met the therapist, I assured him this was a waste of time for both of us and explained my reasons. He concurred, and I was headed home yet again, this time with no hug, no catharsis, and no name. I was back to square one.

  I compiled another list of possibilities, reviewing all of my previous notes and cross-referencing them yet again with insurance information online. I was battle worn but much more savvy. This time, I confirmed up front my circumstance and my need to talk at length and work through situational depression, and established that the therapist was in-network with both insurance carriers.

  I got lucky. I received pre-approval for 150 sessions—from both providers—so I could talk and talk and talk. I was in! Another bonus: the therapist was a woman. She answered her own calls. She could see me the following week. She was close, and because she had personally answered my call, I had spoken with her to arrange a visit, and I had explained my situation and previous appointments, I believed I had a connection with her.

  Having found a therapist after eight long weeks, I was more than ready to move forward in this journey of pain and nothingness, and it seemed I might be starting down the road to healing and recovery. I waited only moments in a quiet anteroom before the therapist herself escorted me into a homey nook of an office. I told my story yet again: the trip to the lake, the lack of communication, the accusations. I heard a new set of words that, once again, offered hope that this was not all my doing. “Just because he says it doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  While my children and friends had been assuring me of the same since the beginning of my nightmare, hearing the words from a professional who didn’t need or want to love and protect me catapulted me to a new level of determination and strength. When we scheduled a second appointment, for two weeks later, I was elated. Things couldn’t be as dire as I had thought if I could go two weeks between sessions. At last, I felt as if I was taking charge and at least copiloting my journey to a better place.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Night the Lights Went On in Carolina

  “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass.

  It’s about learning to dance in the rain.”

  —UNKNOWN

  GRIEF IS NOT PRETTY. NOR IS THE DEPRESSION that hovers near the outside borders of the hole left in our heart at the loss of the one we love. The circumstances matter little. A broken heart can indeed be felt. Depression is a constant shadow and a sinister presence preying on the one who suffers—pushing, prodding, and presenting an undesirable yet appealing escape from the reality of the ache that does not cease. Living is a painful chore. Routine choices become impossible to make. Decisions are tabled; forward movement is paused. Each day feels like treading water in the deep end of a pool filled with quicksand. One is left attempting to survive minute by minute, looking forward to day’s end and the peace of sleep—if it comes. Death ceases to be frightening and becomes preferable to the daily struggle of survival while one endures such raw emotional pain. While not willing, or wanting, to end our own life, one hopes that some outside circumstance or event will end it, thereby putting a stop to the agony.

  Three months had dragged by, and he made his second trip back to the house to collect his belongings, including the furniture and other items I had gathered and deposited in the garage. He would be taking his vehicle as well, so there would be another person on hand. I still felt numb, but I was determined that, unlike with the first removal, I would remain present and perhaps even communicate with him. I would make myself be strong.

  As I awaited h
is arrival, I anxiously sipped my coffee on the screened porch. When the doorbell rang, I went to the garage to raise the door. There he stood. The man I had known and loved for years now seemed a perfect stranger. There was no hug. There were no words. He made no eye contact. It was as if he were made of stone. With him was a man younger than our children. Instinctively, I surmised that perhaps this was the son of the lover he maintained he had never taken. After no introduction and a minimal exchange, the two began loading both vehicles with what they could stuff inside. In and out between the garage and the house, I hoped for a word, an opening, an opportunity for an explanation about why this was happening at all. There was no change in his cold and distant demeanor. There was no attempt at conversation. There was only the reality of the emptying garage and the comment “The bike wouldn’t fit.” The garage door was lowered as they pulled away. As I had requested, he left behind his house keys. I would not see him again.

  Trembling and unable to fight the onslaught of tears, I stumbled back to the porch, texted Robbie, and opened the wine. It was already past noon, it was the weekend, and selfmedication had become the survival norm. The return call was immediate, as I had expected, and while I blubbered and drank, my friend offered support and condolences. She reminded me that all of this was undeserved. She told me that I was strong. She assured me that there would be judgment coming down for him, either in this life or in the next. I was being called back from the cliff and continued to drink through the call, which lasted most of the afternoon.

  Exhausted from the entire experience, I offered my final words to my friend when my sobbing ebbed at last: “I’m going to bed. I am not in danger of hurting myself or feeling at all suicidal, but if God were to take me, I would like to be gone, as I don’t have the strength to work through this.” I could sense her smile even through the telephone. Knowing me better than I sometimes knew myself, understanding my emotional fatigue after the day’s events, and confident in my personal resolve to continue to move forward, she replied, “Sleep well, my friend. I love you.”

  Hanging up, I rinsed and recycled the wine bottle, washed the wineglass, prepared coffee for the morning, and set the alarm for eight. As life always does, even under the most painful of circumstances, it was reminding me of the mundane tasks that required attending to—such as the servicing of my car, scheduled for the following morning. Having never changed out of my pajamas that morning, I brushed my teeth, blew my nose, and wiped away the lingering tears. Instantly asleep, I awoke feeling refreshed and alert, although a bit late, as the car had to be in by nine.

  I had never heard the alarm, and it was already past eight o’clock. I hurried into the kitchen to switch on the coffee and then to the shower. I held little hope of making the appointment on time. I dressed quickly and dried my hair. I grabbed my travel mug on the way out and pressed the button to raise the garage door. The first thing I noticed as I climbed into the car and backed out of the garage was that the rain had returned and the skies were quite dark. Indeed, I had an eerie, almost surreal feeling as I traveled the narrow and flooded plantation road heading toward the car dealership. My hands gripped the wheel, and my eyes remained focused straight ahead in an attempt to will the rain away and the windshield clear. The unnerving feeling remained as I approached the traffic light and could glance at the clock on the dash. I might make it on time after all—a modern-day miracle.

  Clearing the intersection, I noticed that traffic was unusually light and was once again grateful for my good fortune. As I covered the last few miles and approached the dealership, the eerie sensation returned as I noted, even from the highway, that something just didn’t seem right. When I turned onto the correct street, I saw that chains were blocking the entrance to the service department. That had never happened before. I drove past to the next entrance. That one was blocked as well. When I paused to make sense of what might be happening, the voices from the radio came into focus and I heard that it was 9:00 p.m.

  How could that possibly be? I must have slept only briefly and had arrived at my appointment twelve hours in advance. That would explain the surreal quality of the drive. Mustering what limited strength and resolve I had after the day’s earlier emotion, I gave myself a quick shake, opened the lid of the travel mug for coffee to sustain me, and headed back home as the rain began again in earnest.

  Fortunately, because of the weather and the hour, there were few vehicles on the single-lane country road. The night was quite dark, and I reduced my speed to avoid contact with the wild boar and deer that lived along this stretch of asphalt. Again, focusing on the road ahead, I became aware of a truck coming my way on the opposite side, as well as a truck following close behind me. Simultaneously, I felt my right rear tire slip ever so slightly off the pavement and into standing water. There was no shoulder and little margin for error. Instantly, I muttered a dual offering to the heavens: “Please don’t let me overcorrect! I don’t want to die!” Gripping the wheel more tightly than ever and focusing on the headlights to my front and to my rear, I was incredulous when my prayer was answered. The car corrected, and I remained in control.

  At that moment, I knew that, despite my tremendous hurt, my lack of resolve, and the pain I was facing—and would continue to face—I really did want to live. Divine and earthly intervention, support, and assistance would enable me to continue my forward struggle.

  Upon my safe arrival home after that harrowing experience, I finished my mug of coffee. With a weak smile upon my face, I texted my daughter and my friend. I related the details of my experience and shared the total absurdity of having arrived for an appointment twelve hours ahead of schedule. They were concerned for my well-being, and both offered to drive to me immediately. I thanked each of them but declined. I crawled back into the bed for a much-needed and very restful night of sleep. When I returned to the dealership the following morning, I passed my neighbor’s vacant car on the side of that very same road. While it was immediately obvious that it had collided with a deer, only later did I learn that the neighbor’s infant son had required hospitalization for a concussion. Their experience saddened me and, once again, reminded me of my own good fortune.

  After the car had been serviced, I headed to the therapist to share my amazing story and renewed determination to move ahead. However, once more, I was reduced to sobbing and felt at a loss for how to do more than just try to keep from drowning in my circumstances. I stood face-to-face with this woman as she looked deeply into my eyes and said to me, “You must find something that is mindless but meaningful to lift you above all this muck.” She suggested I volunteer at a charity—find something of importance that would put me in the company of others but require only minimal interaction. Something that required no thought and would involve no emotional energy.

  That is how I found myself sorting cans at a food bank each week, mindlessly focusing on preparing boxes of food that would certainly mean a great deal to the families who received them. Week after week, I spent Monday afternoons sorting. I chatted with a variety of other volunteers about their lives, and how they had been drawn to this specific philanthropic experience. We debated the most efficient way to sort the items that were always reappearing in front of us. I learned that if I continually supplied questions, they would be so busy providing answers that they would lose interest in questioning me. I discovered common friends with some and the common thread among us all: gratitude that we were not on the receiving end of the boxes we carefully packed. Sometimes I even brought a friend with me to help sort and pack. Each week, as I scrubbed off the dirt of the work and returned to my home, I was filled with a deep appreciation for all that I did have in my world. And finally, after much support, guidance, and time, the next chapter of my life presented itself.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rescued

  “If you want to lift yourself up, lift up someone else.”

  —BOOKER T. WASHINGTON

  WHAT WAS I THINKING? WILL I EVER KNOW? AS I struggled to climb the
interminable ladder out of grief, I certainly didn’t need or want a puppy. I was barely able to care for myself. How could I possibly care for a dog? Yet, fourteen months after my world was torn apart, an unexpected rescue occurred while I was visiting my daughter.

  A young puppy had been taken from her mother at only five weeks old and turned in to the animal shelter. My daughter, certain that her mother would benefit from a dog in her life, had asked them to be on the hunt for what she called a “miniLab” for me. When this puppy appeared, the shelter director immediately phoned my daughter, and she happily offered to foster the pup, with a plan in mind. I was adamant that I did not want a pet and certainly was in no mental or emotional condition to take on a responsibility of that magnitude. I was only beginning to keep one foot in front of the other and get through each day. The last time I had brought home a puppy had been during my first divorce. At that time, after years of hearing from my younger daughter how desperately she wanted a dog, I surprised her with it when a friend’s dog had a litter. Now, as then, I knew little about the requirements and responsibilities of raising a dog, and this time there would be no daughters to help share the burden of responsibility. However, during my weekend visit, the campaign to wear me down was on. My daughter made suggestions about how much company a pet would provide: “You won’t be alone anymore.” She placed the puppy in my lap continuously: “See, she already likes you.” She put forth ideas regarding the fun we would surely have together: “You can take her to the beach.” I thought my resolve was strong, but as we played with the puppy and brainstormed names, I realized that this young animal, only six weeks of age, would somehow be making the trip home with me when I left.