letting go or giving up...

At work, sitting with a group of my patients, I always start by having everyone introduce themselves.  I've learned that most everyone wants to tell their story and absolutely everyone needs to share their story.  It creates bonds with others who have experienced a similar fate, it validates our own personal struggles and it is crucial to starting the healing process, letting go.

My group on this particular day consisted of four patients, all working on improving their short term memory and a variety of other cognitive skills, however, each one's story started out a little different.  One patient suffered a head injury during a car accident, two patients suffered strokes and one patient is recovering from hydrocephalus resulting from a failed shunt.  Different paths, different journeys.

As we start out, my first patient tells us his name, where he's from and a little about his family.  He states "I have eight children here on earth and one in heaven."  I felt a lump appear in my throat.  As the soft spot light slowly worked it's way around the group to me, I heard myself start my usual spiel and then an interesting thing happened.. I became acutely aware of the low buzzing sound from the fluorescent fixtures above us, the dewy drops of sweat forming on my palms and the fact that I was disclosing information for which I felt I was not prepared.  I felt like I was telling someone else's secret.  "I have two wonderful little boys here, and one child in heaven too," I heard myself say. 

This was not earth shattering information.  My closest friends and family were aware of the miscarriage of my third and final pregnancy, but somehow sharing this with a group of strangers made it oh so real, made me feel a little lighter and a little stronger- and a little dizzy (if I'm going to be totally honest).  Different paths?  Different journeys?

Funny, how a moment can be experienced so differently by each person in it.  To my patients, the information I shared was sad, but was not altering to them in anyway.  Yet, to me, this moment changed everything!  I breathed a little more deeply after this, the view from behind the shadowy haze of loss became a little more clear and I began to to let go- just a smidge.

I wasn't even aware of how tightly I was holding on to these memories.  I was holding them so close to my chest with the strength of both arms, as if keeping them there meant I somehow would never truly lose my little one, no wonder I had been having trouble letting anything or anyone else in.  After this group session with my patients, I finally relaxed and unhinged my arms.  I started to wrap up these memories like little gifts.  I cereberally labeled each with it's associated emotions like gift tags and placed them in my figurative backpack.  See, I believe we all carry around a little backpack filled with our own unique compilation of "baggage."  My, backpack became heavier that day (a lot heavier!), but I freed up my arms; freed them up to be able to hug my boys more fully, freed them up to be able to help others carry their loads when needed and freed me up to be able to start collecting new memories- to start to live a little more.

These memories and moments are not gone, I've simply moved them.  I can and do take them out to look at them all the time.  The edges are softening a little at a time and I take great comfort in returning them to my "backpack" when I'm done.  These experiences, usually the more painful ones, are shaping me- they are me.  I don't have to give up a thing by letting go, and in fact, it allows me to get more out of my life- out of each beautiful moment.


“Getting over a painful experience is much like crossing monkey bars. You have to let go at some point in order to move forward.” -C.S. Lewis