Tuesday, January 4, 2011

The Insanity of Grief

I told David recently that I think there should be grief rehabilitation centers.

Some nice institution with quality, high-thread-count sheets and a staff of people in white coats who speak in whispers and don't try to make me eat anything but tea and toast.  There would be thick carpeting and cool tile and also pets would be allowed but someone else would feed them and bathe them and let them in and out and walk them if I didn't feel up to it.

There would be cushy white leather furniture and soft music playing and also salons where someone else could wash and blow dry my hair and make it smell good without me having to expel any energy.  In fact, I would be forced to get spa treatments even if I said I didn't want them.  My therapist would write me prescriptions for facials and mudwraps.  I wouldn't have to make any decisions about anything.  I would have a wardrobe of soft cashmere sweaters and stretchy pants and lots of pairs of those aloe-infused socks.  Friends and family could visit us during regular hours.  We'd have group therapy and individual therapy and couple's therapy and online retail therapy.  Also there would be art classes and yoga classes and jewelry making (all optional).  We would be forced to stay a minimum of twelve weeks, longer if necessary to get through holidays or other objectionable days of supposed celebration.

It would be like a swanky hotel and spa, but even nicer, and with grief therapists on staff.

I imagine an escape like that because I just feel so afraid of life sometimes.

I still feel most days that I want to be shut away from the real world and in a place where I will never have to go to Target or the grocery store.  A place where everyone will know that I am fragile and must be treated with care.  A facility where everyone will not only know that I am grieving, but will accept that as fine and normal and it will, in fact, be their job to take care of me.

It makes sense because someone who feels like I feel should be institutionalized.  Surely I cannot be expected to function in the everyday world.  I am far too broken.  I need therapy.  And high thread count sheets.  And tea and toast.

* * *

The truth is that I do worry about going crazy but more often, I worry about NOT going crazy.

What does it say about me if I'm able to recover from this?  Will it mean I didn't love Eliza enough?  Shouldn't my sanity be the price that I pay for losing her?

These are crazy questions, I realize.

As I said, I really ought to be institutionalized.


  1. You don't recover. Really. You just change. Your life changes as you adjust your daily life and your expectations to embrace Eliza into it. I mean, how could you ever "recover" from losing your daughter?

  2. Been there, and yes the grief rehab sounds fantastic! As Mirne said, you develop a new normal and learn to integrate the grief and loss of Eliza into your life somehow.
    My supervisor shared information with me about this place called Faiths Lodge, it is a grief rehab of sorts...here is a link to their website. I do know of another blogger who went with her husband and said it was an incredibly therapeutic experience for them.
    Take things day by day, moment by moment ((hugs))

  3. Not going crazy is an amazing accomplishment! (Although some people will tell you I was and still am "off my rocker" but for many other reasons!)

    Eliza is proud of you. She is proud you are her mom. She is proud that you are making it through each and every day.

    Someone gave me a book of short little blurbs of encouragement after we lost Carter. The one that I still think of often is this -
    There are some days when simply getting out of bed is an act of bravery. It is on those days that you are my hero!

    So, you are Eliza's hero for being a wonderful mommy. And you are my hero today for just getting out of bed!

  4. i hate that i don't cry every day any more. i hate that i don't remember my lost baby more often. i hate that sometimes i'm happy these days, and that i'm coming off the antidepressants, and that i can be excited about this new baby when i don't have my snowflake.

    but that how healing is for me. not for everyone, it's different for everyone, but it's how it is for me.

    so. yeah. i can relate, at least a bit.