SUNDAY, MAY 9, 1999
“I’ve made an appointment for you with a counsellor I know.” Jim’s close friend gives me an address over the phone. “She’s a wonderful woman. Don’t feel any pressure to go, but she’s there if you want it.” I stare at my handwriting on the paper: time, date and place.
In the parking lot of the counsellor’s apartment complex, I sit in my car and breathe. When I stop crying, I open the door and tiptoe to the pavement, half expecting a tornado to rip my legs off. Looking over my shoulder several times, I shuffle to the address on the paper.
The counsellor asks to see the eight-by-ten photo I clutch to my heart. I hold it out to her as if it is a baby bird. Jim and I slow dancing at our wedding; his eyes are closed and his lips caressing my ear.
“This photo speaks volumes of Jim’s feelings for you.” She cradles the frame for a second and leads me by the elbow to a soft chair in her living room. Her townhome reminds me of being in my grandma’s apartment. Dark wood. Floral patterns. And it smells of talcum powder. A cozy cluster. She sits opposite me on the couch, elbows resting on her knees. The way she looks at me with her deep brown eyes seems to say, “It’s okay.” I talk about Jim and she listens. That’s what I want to do: talk about how wonderful he was.
“Would you like to tell me about Jim’s accident?” She leans forward, hands clasped together.
“Okay.” I fidget in my armchair and look past her at the painting on the wall. “They were in Alaska, climbing. And they went up this chute they thought had already slid.”
“Hmm, hmm.” She reaches out and lays her warm hand on my forehead. Her other hand hovers over my stomach. I gulp for air. My grief rushes to her hands as if they are portals. To be touched when I am in the abyss of pain, a leper to the normal world, is overwhelming. I feel human and just for a second believe that I am doing okay.
“Do you feel guilty?” She keeps her hands in place.
“I wonder whether Jim was meant to have children. It was my idea to have a baby. I wonder if he died because of that.” My face contorts and I hold the edge of my chair. It must have been my fault. Please tell me it wasn’t my fault.
“Survivor guilt,” the experts call it. But this is also my way of keeping my world together and always has been. I make myself responsible regardless of whether I am the cause so I can pretend to be able to “fix” mistakes in life and make sure they never happen again. Be in control. If I am responsible, then I can “fix” Jim being dead.
“In the scheme of life and destiny, you are a pretty small player.”
I nod and hold back sobs.
“It’s so soon after Jim’s death. Really, too soon for counselling. But one of the first stages of grief is denial, and I don’t think you are in denial. Trust yourself. Trust your feelings.”
I bite my lip and nod to let her know that I will try. I have so many doubts and fears. My biggest fear is that Jim is really dead.