Have I ever told you about the therapist I saw just one time after my son died? No? Let me tell you now.
If I could sum it up in one word? Awful.
I was hesitant about seeing a therapist at all because it was something I had to do when I was younger when my dad died. I was in the second grade and I can remember a curly haired lady that I thought was older than my mom. For some reason, when I reflect, I see her in a dull blue sweater and faded blue jeans. No, it wasn’t the 80’s, but this lady sure lived through them. What was for sure blue was her hand puppet. It was a dinosaur with wings. I didn’t grow up with Puff The Magic Dragon, but I think the puppet looked like him. The puppet’s gender and name are escaping me. I have tried to dig that detail up in my brain a number of times but it stays tucked away wherever it was.
This therapist did not specialize in grief, not at all. She was a school counselor. She also saw one of my brothers at the same school for the same reason but never saw us together. I think I drew pictures or something and she talked awkwardly about feelings through her dragon hand puppet, just as you would imagine the most cliche school therapist to do.
I hadn’t every sought out therapy on my own because that was completely unhelpful. I struggled with my dad’s death- well I still do- for years on my own and I could do that. I do it. It wasn’t until the compiling grief from my dad, infertility and the death of my son (plus the loss of my mother-in-law shortly after which obviously limited my husband’s ability to support me) that I decided I should see someone.
I remember waiting in the waiting room. There was a teenage kid there with his mom. She was digging through he purse and he stared at the ground. I wondered if they were wondering what I was there for the way I was wondering about them. A frumpy woman, maybe in her late 30’s opened the door and called my name. She, too, had curly hair but the curls weren’t as tight as my dragon puppet loving friend. I was anxious but I drug myself forward and followed her to her little office.
There wasn’t a couch in the room like I had pictured. It was plain. There were several chairs and a desk. She sat next to the desk and I sat in a chair that seemed safely placed in a far corner. She asked me what brought me in. I explained to her exactly what I just told you. Plus, that the recent occurrence of mother’s day which drove me a bit nutty in itself. She yawned as I told her my story. She didn’t event attempt to hide it.
When I felt that I had completed what I needed to get off my chest, I looked to her expecting something—not sure exactly what I was expecting but I guess I was handing the ball to her.
“Maybe you’re upset because your husband isn’t affected the same way about this loss that you are?” She said to me confidently.
“um… no. I think we are pretty much on the same page with that.”
She looked down at her notebook. “Well maybe you’re upset because you aren’t a mom.”
This one threw me. I struggled enough with the validity of my own motherhood without the help of an unrelated mental health worker. “Uh, well, I actually I gave birth to him. I grew him for 40 weeks in my belly. Yeah, I’m his mom.”
I could tell that she began to grow impatient with my lack of accepting her “help”.
Finally, she asked “What were you going to name him?” I had a sense of euphoria for a second at the idea that she was asking my son’s name but then I realized that she assumed he didn’t have a name.
“His name is Jasper Sagan, that’s what his death certificate says…..” I had hoped to illicit a bit of shock from the last bit there but this lady seemed unaffected.
“Oh. How big was he?” She asked and I could tell she didn’t really care.
“He was 8 pounds and 7 ounces.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! He was normal size!”
At this point I was in full now WTF mode and had made the decision not to come back to her. “Yeah… I had to have a c-section.”
She then asked me if I had things from my pregnancy or things that he was supposed to have.
“Yeah, his whole room is still set up, his clean clothes folded or hanging where they should be, his empty car seat which sits in his crib because he obviously doesn’t need that now….”
This clearly weirded her out. She says to me “I want to see pictures. Can you show me pictures next time?”
I just nodded. I didn’t have the energy to do anything else.
“OK, next time bring me pictures and we can talk about starting to put some of this stuff away or get rid of it.”
The rest of my responses were all nonverbal.
It was as soon as I left her office that the idea came into my mind to be a therapist myself. I knew I could help people, my people, far better than someone like her. One can’t simply be trained in caring for the broken hearts of child loss. So, that’s what I did. I enrolled in graduate school and I help bereaved parents like me.
I guess you could say I made lemonade? In any case, that isn’t what this two parter is about. So, stay tuned for Part II of Therapeutic Endeavors.
They knew they wanted more children and have since suffered many early miscarriages during the process of multiple IVF and IUI cycles which have left them with broken hearts.Feeling defeated and alone, the bereaved parents moved to Connecticut in search of a much needed new start.
Amber was inspired to work towards becoming a therapist during her process of trying to find support after her loss. She is currently a freelance graphic designer, artist and marriage and family therapy graduate student. She takes comfort in the idea that their son was a driving force for her to help other people through a time that she and her husband felt so alone.
- On Being Too Sad To Support Me In Celebrating My Son. - April 9, 2018
- Therapeutic Endeavors III: The Letter - January 26, 2018
- Therapeutic Endeavors Part II - January 24, 2018