Comfort in the Wings

1

"The world around you moves on, as if your life was never shattered, and all you want the world to do is say that your baby mattered." AJ ClArk-CoAtes

I haven’t spoken to anyone in four days—wait—maybe five? Slowly walking out to the mailbox to retrieve the pastel-colored envelopes filled with messages of thoughts and prayers, I try to remember who I spoke to last, or even about what. Returning to the house, I pause to watch white, fluffy clouds scatter across an almost blindingly blue sky. Dropping my gaze, my eyes need a moment to refocus. One envelope is inscribed with a computer generated address made to resemble handwriting, looking like a personal letter, tempting the recipient to open rather than recycle it. The lettering reads, “The Whitcomb Family.” Oh, I wish I could see their faces; asking, for perhaps the 159th time, why? Not even why me, just why? My throat tightens. Family. Just who is that, anyway?

Later in the evening, my phone vibrates distantly against the kitchen counter top, still strewn with unopened mail. Moving to answer it is an immense, unwelcome effort. The leather-covered photo album in my lap weighs me down. Expending the energy to turn pages, minutes pass as I sometimes stop to gently touch a face with a single finger, to smile, or occasionally wipe away a tear. Who would have thought, months ago, that so much time could be spent just sitting, staring off into the distance, barely moving? That Larissa Whitcomb, Executive Director of Sales and Marketing for You First Medical Equipment, would sit in a lounge chair, turning pages at a painfully slow pace. No one would picture this. Few people ever knew how important family is to me. Oh shit, do I say is or was? It’s bad enough to wrangle over every word I say to others, but I don’t even know the right words to talk to myself anymore. Few knew how every day I rushed through work and countless working-mother expecta tions just to get home to them, just to hear about their days and organize after-school activities. As the soft rumble of the phone brings me back to the present, I glance at the clock and wonder if it has been minutes or hours since I sat down in this chair. Was it yesterday? Does it even matter?

I rise, dreading both the summons to respond and the inevi table platitudes. On one hand, I appreciate people reaching out to connect with me; on the other, there is nothing anyone can say to change things or make them better. I receive texts several times a day referring to time as the great predictor of how to feel. “It will get better every day,” or “Sending hugs to comfort you in your hour of grief.” The worst: “Time heals all things”—as if waiting is the magic antidote. Some unnamed amount of time and this gaping wound in my heart will heal, with sutures composed of minutes and hours. I doubt it.

The phone identifies Shirley as the caller. Shirley, my administrative assistant, often as protective as a big sister, rings every day. I reluctantly reach to answer and am relieved when it stops urging me to pick up. Another possible encounter avoided. So many calls, yet so few messages. Most are probably as relieved as I am when the connection does not happen. Who would be searching for words most uncomfortably—the caller or me? Maybe I’ll try harder to grab it next time, maybe not. I absentmindedly scroll back in the voice mailbox to see the names of the brave ones who put a few words together to connect with me.

Scrolling past yesterday, last week, two weeks, and back even further, my heart races as I see a voice mail from Emma. This is startling, because she made it a point to never leave a voice mail— her premise was by the time the message is heard, it wouldn’t make sense anymore. My finger hovers over the line with her name and number. Bittersweet memories engulf me. Memories of choosing a name that spoke to my heart, with its meaning of “universal” or “blessings,” of her complaints about having an “old-fashioned” name, and how hard it was in second grade to figure out how to write two M’s in a row, in cursive. Waves of nausea surge, the dark spots start to take over my vision, and I breathe deeply, trying to get past what the doctor terms panic attacks.

I went to the doctor a few weeks ago, thinking some type of virus had set in. When I described the spots, dizziness, and queasy stomach, he stopped his usual all-business recitation of medical evidence and touched my hand lightly—something he’d never done before. “Larissa, you do not have a virus or any other illness you may be imagining. You’re in grief, you’re having panic attacks from anxiety, and you’re exhausted—you need more sleep. And medication: Xanax, for the panic attacks related to depres sion and Klonopin to help you sleep.”

I shook my head, “Dr. Martinez, I don’t need prescriptions, I’m not afraid of anything—nothing to panic about. I don’t want to take pills to fall asleep. I want to be able to wake up if one of the kids calls or I need to catch a plane. And depressed? You’re freaking kidding me—depression doesn’t begin to touch how shitty I feel. This is not depression; it is pure hell.”

He explained that panic attacks don’t necessarily have to do with a specific or obvious fear, but rather, anxiety. “Anxiety and depression are closely related, especially after the types of experi ences, trauma, that have hit you recently.” He bravely looked me in the eye and questioned, “ ‘Kids?’ ”

I gasped, realizing my mistake. I shook my head to clear away the gathering dark spots, remembering that that is not going to happen. He gently reminded me I hadn’t yet returned to work, so I didn’t need to worry about being on time or catching a plane. “And I suspect the reason you don’t want to take a sleep aid is that you can’t stand being out of control.”

It sounded preachy to me, but I listened to him respectfully. I accepted the three pieces of paper, stopped to take care of my co-pay on the way out, then crumpled up the scripts and threw them in my bottomless purse. Why is the solution from doctors always more medication? Not for me, not after all of the medications prescribed over the years for Emma. Dr. Martinez doesn’t get it, doesn’t get me. No one gets me—they didn’t before, and they sure don’t now. Trying to explain myself—impossible! And really, who does like when things are out of control? “Out of control” doesn’t begin to describe this ordeal.

“Emma” remains lit on my phone. I reach to play her voice message, but before it even begins, I hit the “stop.” I want to hear her so badly that it hurts, but I just can’t. Maybe tomorrow? Scrolling back to the top of “recents,” I see that Shirley did leave a message. This one is longer than usual—one minute, forty-five seconds according to the screen. That’s odd—what’s up? Listening, she says a few caring words and then asks, actually 4 Jennifer Collins begs, me to call back. She wants me to think seriously about a project, just call her back and hear her out. One short trip is all it would take—maybe a way to start to do things again, stop star ing at my own four walls and photo albums. She always thinks she knows best, and she’s pretty darn persuasive. This proposal needs a little time to sink in. I resolve to let the idea of a work trip marinate. Then again, maybe I just need to meditate. Eat. Drink. Howl. Anything to push back against this ungodly emptiness.

2

"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and unspeakable love." Washington Irving

I decide to try yoga. It’s been a while, but maybe the activity will tire me out and clear my mind. Pondering what studio to go to from among my favorites, I choose one north of town, a place I’ve only been to once before. Going someplace more familiar risks running into someone likely to ask why it’s been so long since I’ve taken a class. I don’t want interaction; I want to blend into the mat, into the floor and the surroundings, to simply go through the motions. And if anyone like Shirley or Renee asks if I’ve “gotten out lately,” the answer will be yes, to yoga. Gotten out and around other people, alone on my mat, no need to explain anything to anyone.

Looking at the schedule online, I can catch a class in about forty minutes. Thankful that my mat and towel are already in my car, I don my most comfy yoga attire, grab a bottle of water, and go. I can always turn around if I change my mind. The last time, when the instructor started talking about gratitude, her examples made my skin crawl. “Gratitude does not always need to be for big, grandiose blessings. Sometimes it’s the very simple things for which we should be grateful.”

OK—so far. But she continued, “When my son actually picks his shoes up off the floor, I’m grateful he’s not leaving a trail of smelly shoes for me to follow.”

That anxious, dizzy feeling rolled over me, right then and there. My kids are gone, and you’re worried about scattered shoes? Tuning out the rest of her rambling was the only option in order to fight panic and the urge to just run out of there. But that instructor isn’t this instructor. I arrive and go inside, though I position myself as close to the door as possible, in case the need for a quick exit overpowers me. Quick exits are the key to survival. Always have an escape plan, a plan B, for when I can not stand to be with people who don’t understand.

I lie flat on my back for several minutes, and then curl into a child’s pose until the instructor comes to lead us through the class. I intentionally selected a slow-flow class; no need to jump around from pose to pose quickly. Yoga is the right choice: quiet time, but with the external prompts to focus on something other than lingering images and sad memories. With any luck, I will move and stretch for a solid seventy minutes without thoughts of the past.

The yoga teacher defies all of the stereotypes. Most are female, in the twenty-five- to thirty-five-year-old age range, slender and incredibly fit-looking, with hair braided to mid back. Stomachs so flat they are almost concave! This woman is definitely older, probably thirty pounds heavier, with short, gray hair that curls softly around her face. She radiates strength and a pleasantly engaging smile. Her music choice is also different—neither the instrumentals that evoke images of India, nor the remixed, popular songs about breathing. Hers are familiar, personal, bringing images of sun and air and clouds, setting the exact tone that I need. This is a wise decision for today. I will pay close attention when she shares her name so I can get to her classes more often, that is, if the rest of the class is as pleasing as these first few minutes.

She starts the class with a very simple hello and her name, Melanie. She thanks us for coming and giving ourselves the gift of this time. Her demeanor is humble and caring as she says, “I am here to be your guide today. Guide does not mean you are obligated to move as I suggest; you can also be your own guide. I am here to recommend. Do with it what you feel, no more, no less.” Yup, this is the right place today. As is often the case, she suggests that we may feel more focused and mindful if we set an intention. Thankfully, she does not continue to talk or provide prompts for these intentions, but rather is silent for several sec onds so our minds can find their own way. While I have serious doubts of ever being able to find peace for an extended period of time (especially since I’m not sure what that would even feel like), I do hope for peace as the intention for today.

Melanie retains the very gentle tone of voice as she “suggests” various poses to move us through sustained stretches, warming muscles and bringing our minds to the present time. The prompts eventually lead through twists and balance poses. Nothing she suggests is tremendously different than sequences I’ve experienced before, but the tone and pace are definitely helping me to be in touch with how the moves feel within. At one point, I even visualize my individual muscle fibers slowly lengthening, as if they are not even covered by skin, but rather are exposed for all to see. Being this conscious—of my muscles, the bones, the tissues that keep me going every day—calms me.

Melanie says, “Reclined bound angle pose or reclined Baddha Konasana.” I lie back with my hips wide and feet together; my muscles lengthen again, my gut flutters, my throat tightens, and I cry. Not like a dam bursting, but rather like water seeping slowly through any tiny opening between the sticks and branches of a dam. Quiet, heavy tears. With each one, I emit a stuttering, heavy exhale. I don’t wipe the tears; I want them to flow.

I have no idea how long this unhurried, uninterrupted weep ing continues. At some point, I hear Melanie suggest a child’s pose again. The pose suits me perfectly. After a few more tears in this pose, I stop. I am ready to be in Savasana, the flat-on-one’s back pose, and it is just a few seconds before she cues that for the rest of the group. Infinitely relieved she doesn’t ruin the whole vibe by translating Savasana to “dead-man’s pose.” In Sanskrit, it sounds like a lullaby; in English, like a rude slap!

As the class comes to a close, I am wrung out like a dishrag. I sit for longer than usual on the mat, continuing to breathe deeply. Wobbly at first, I stand slowly, so as not to sit right back down. I am the last one to put my bolster and blocks back in the storage cubbies. As I do, Melanie walks over. I don’t feel much like talking but look up as she says, “Sometimes emotions come out during yoga. It’s really OK.” Unable to speak, I nod my head and smile.

Walking to the car, I mull over what happened. Not by any means an unpleasant experience, yet confusing. In three or four years of yoga, I never burst out crying before, nor do I ever remember anyone telling me it might happen. Is there something weird about me? Melanie’s comment suggested she was not surprised or alarmed, but I sure didn’t expect it. Will this happen every time?

Before I know it, I’m pulling in my driveway, determined to f ind out more about emotions coming out during yoga. I don’t bother with my usual post-yoga routine, showering and grabbing a snack. Instead, I search online for “emotional release during yoga.” I read about negative energy and tension being stored in our bodies (yes, instructors said that almost every class), but what fascinates me is learning the hips often store feelings of loss, abandonment, or resentment. Hip-opening poses are associated with releasing these emotions. Wow—that is right on point. The tears rolled in the hip-opening position. Thinking and scrolling, it registers that while I had not openly cried like this before in yoga, whenever given the chance to assume a favorite pose, I will consistently choose ones like Happy Baby, Child’s, or the one that started the tears today. Did some previously repressed instinct know that I needed hip openers?