let’s Journey Together

It was late February. I barely made it through the workday. You see, my relationship ended a few days earlier, and although it had been ending for months, the finality of it was piercing. Now that it had finished for good, it felt like he had snatched my breath away. Knowing something is ending doesn’t necessarily lessen your pain. It wasn’t that the love was great, but I had invested so much, hoping it would become remarkable. I had even allowed myself to love- to love deeply. But here I was at the end of the road, and for my investment, there was no severance package, no reimbursement, nothing.

“Knowing something is ending doesn’t necessarily lessen your pain.”

So after barely making it through the day, here I was in my SUV, stuck between levels 6 and 7 of the parking garage at the hospital. Did I mention that I serve as a chaplain in a level one trauma center? I’m rehearsing the day. That day, I had to fight back the tears as a husband said goodbye to his wife of twenty-six years. He talked to me about how they met and how she "handled everything." He tried to find some meaning in the days they spent together before she became too ill to speak. He found joy in the stories he shared with me about her being able to “know what he wanted to say” before he could even form his thoughts. He smiled. I watched him and listened. I felt a deep appreciation for him, for them, and their love. As he talked, I could hear disappointment as his voice cracked. When we prayed, only because he asked, I listened to his acceptance and, in his prayer, was hope that a miracle could still occur. When I left the room, I remembered this quote:

“To love means to open ourselves to grief, sorrow, and disappointment as well as to joy, fulfillment, and thus an intensity of consciousness that before we did not know was possible.” — ROLLO MAY.

 I don’t recall any other people or stories from that day. I fought back the tears as I walked swiftly from the room. After I charted, I spent some time with a colleague to debrief. I remember sharing that our loves were different but that we were both in pain.

I remember that our “losses” were different. I don’t believe that we lose people in death, but that they move on from this world, so we don’t experience them in the same way as when they were physically present. No, we were not “losing” in the same way, but we were both experiencing a loss, and experiencing loss SUCKS! I know there are far better ways to say it, but it sucks.

Fast forward to the end of 2020, and to say that this has been a year of unprecedented loss would be an understatement. Whether death, a breakup, loss of a job, a sense of normalcy, it has been a hell of a lot of loss. With the losses we've had to navigate our way through this year, many of us have had to do it alone. That day in February was right before we began to practice physical distancing. It was right before hospitals overflowed with patients and were closed off to visitors. It was right before many churches moved congregational gatherings to a virtual setting. It was right before virtual funerals. My patient's husband had someone, albeit only for a few days, to sit with while he named his loss and feelings. He had someone normalize his sadness, grief, and anger. Someone was there to listen. My loss was different, but I had friends and colleagues. I could talk about my loss. For the record, my loss was one that needed to occur, and I still grieved. Just because it needed to end doesn't mean you won't grieve. Though not impossible, grief and loss are not easy to navigate alone. And no one should have to do it alone. And that’s why we are here. Thoughtful Transitions is here to journey with you as you navigate your way.

 You matter.

Your loss matters.

We listen.

We know grief isn't linear; it's raw and messy

and won't ask you to clean it up.

We don't have all the answers, and we are comfortable sitting with you in the tension and the tears.

Let’s Journey Together.