D) All of the above
Words and I have been tight for decades now. First, it was talking about my feelings (thanks Mom), and more recently I turned to writing. But these last couple of weeks I’ve been struggling to find the right words to explain my feelings, or more specifically, my emotional responses to events.
Friday, we dedicated the newly renovated PICU family lounge (and attached bathroom with a brand-spanking new shower), at RUSH Hospital in Chicago, in Adelaide’s honor. It was the first time we had been back in the hospital since August 2020 when the project had kicked off. Before that, our last inpatient stay with Adelaide was in July 2019, with our last appointment a month later, the week before she entered hospice. I didn’t know these were our ‘lasts’ at the time – thank goodness.
This time, though, leaving the hospital after the dedication, I was aware that this would most likely be our last visit. The hospital had been our home away from home for the better part of Adelaide’s life. I was surprised I didn’t feel sadder about saying goodbye to the hospital than I did. I thought it would be like saying goodbye to your old home on moving day. But it wasn’t like that. I struggled to name what I was feeling.
In the car on the way there, my emotional anxiety had been creeping toward a 7 or 8, just on the verge of being debilitating. I’m proud to say that I rarely take benzos anymore, this day would be a streak-breaking exception.
“Are you ok, Mommy?” Anessa asked when she saw me swallow the pill.
“Yeah, I’m just feeling sad and anxious about going back to the hospital where Adelaide was taken care of,” I told her.
“That makes sense.” She said while holding my hand.
Every familiar landmark, from the valet parking office to the lobby, to the maze-like walk to the children’s hospital wing, and certainly the PICU floor, felt as comfortable and familiar as they had in 2019. Back when I used to beg for Adelaide to be cared for on the general peds floor where every room had its own bathroom, versus the PICU where I had to leave the unit to pee or shower.
I was grateful to feel like I still belonged there. And that none of the changes were so drastic that they were disorienting. Yet, time’s deterioration of my emotional connection to the building itself was undeniable. Or maybe that was the benzo doing its job.
There were still certainly plenty of tears as Adelaide’s absence was felt acutely. It’s bizarre to return to a place without the person you so closely affiliate with it. I also felt a sense of relief that after four years this project was finished, that everyone’s donations had been well spent, and that the room was now available to those who needed it.
It was all at once emotional, but also not as emotional as I had anticipated. Or maybe not emotional in the ways I thought it would be? It was a happy event, a celebration, but it came at the expense of Adelaide’s illness and struggles. It was grief and joy so intermingled that it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended. It was everything and nothing at all. It just was. And then it was over.
Grief is often described as hitting in waves. And that has certainly been true for me. At times so unrelenting that you can barely grasp a breath before being driven back under. Other times it is more of a soft wash over the shore. Always present, and in some ways that presence is calming.
This experience, and many of my more prescient run-ins with grief of late, have been more ambiguous. Like watercolors on a porous page. I can’t name them or define them because all the connected experiences and emotions have blended together. What do you call grief and joy and anxiety and peace and trauma and relief all experienced in one moment?
Complicated? Emotional? Ambivalence?
If emotional awareness were a multiple-choice test, I would have to go with, D) All of the above. Maybe this is a sign that I’ve reached some heightened level of understanding of my grief. Or maybe it was the benzo.
ID: Adelaide, age 3, lying in a hospital bed with Kelly, they are touching foreheads. Adelaide is wearing a hospital gown with tigers on it and her hair is in a ponytail. Her eyes are closed and her tongue is barely sticking out of her mouth. Kelly is wearing a blue shirt and grey cardigan, her hair is also in a ponytail. She is looking at Adelaide. You can see a green and white RUSH Hospital visitor badge attached to her sweater.
