There were times throughout my pregnancy when my weekly visit to the clinic was the only thing that kept me going through a severe depressive episode. I will be forever grateful for the support and understanding, care and advice she gave me. Since Max died, the focus of my visits has been less on 'treating' me as a patient and more on helping me draw upon, and build, the inner strengths I already have to cope with the tragedy of his death and the enormity of my grief.
Leslie often asks me what I do during this hour and I never have a good answer. I sometimes, but not always, ask for advice or reassurance. Oftentimes I cry and share with her my angry railings against the world. I talk about Max and my fears of him being forgotten. For the last couple of weeks we have spoken at length about my strong desire to try for another baby and all of the mixed emotions and practicalities that come along with those thoughts.
One thing she does, which is worth every bit of the $180 she charges for the privilege of her time and expertise, is tell me very powerful stories. She's a wonderful story teller and she's Jesus-like in the way she can pull a parable out of her hat that applies to just about any feeling or situation I throw at her. She's a repository of sage observations and thoughtful connections.
Today I told her how alone and isolated I felt in my grief. How much a part of me had believed that he might come back to me or be somehow reborn. How I wanted everyone to see and understand the complexity and depth of my feelings, and felt constantly disappointed when they said or did something that showed they never could truly 'get it'.
She told me the story of an Indian woman and her dead child, who also felt desperate and alone. The woman is sick with grief, carrying around her dead son pinned tight to her chest, frantically searching for a magic cure that will bring him back to life. She is sent to consult Buddha and she begs him to help her find a way. She tells Buddha that she will do anything, anything at all to bring him back. The Buddha agrees to help her.
'Go to the village and find me some mustard seeds and I will make your cure', he says.
The woman is so relieved that she almost falls at his feet.
'But there's one condition. The mustard seeds must come from a household which has not been touched by death'.
Immediately, the woman set out for the village, going from house to house, doorway to doorway, begging for the seeds that would save her son. The villagers had immense sympathy for her plight and wanted to help the desperate woman, but in all the houses she visited, she could not find a single family who had not lost a son or a daughter, a sister or brother, from illness or accident.
She returned to the Buddha and told him that she had searched high and low a household that was untouched by death and that she could not find one.
'Now can you see why I sent you on that journey?' the Buddha asked. 'You were never alone. You are not the only one who has lost a dear one. Everything that is born must eventually die.'
The woman finally understood. She buried the body of the dead son she had carried for miles and realised the important lesson the Buddha had taught her. As it is with the flames of a candle, so it also is with living beings in this world: some flare up, while others flicker out. There is only one certainty in anyone's life, and that is that death comes to all things, not just those that belong to you.
I took a lot from this story, though I have perhaps not retold it as beautifully as it was told to me. The first is that I am not alone in facing death. The second is that those who think they are immune to facing it in its most devastating aspects (as I did, before) are wrong. The third is that I have been given a powerful opportunity to embrace my new understanding of uncertainty as a way to live without fear. That in accepting death and its inevitability I will live a richer, more powerful life, living every moment with those I love as if it were my very last.
I miss Max more than I can say, and I would do anything to be able to turn back the hands of time and have him stay. But through his death I know I am finding a new; a better way to live, and that in a way, he will be reborn to me in every moment I choose to embrace the precious present.
