Facing Demons, Part 1

I thought I had nothing more to write, but I was wrong. For a while, it seemed I kept writing the same two stories over and over again. I’m okay. I’m not okay.There is more, though.

This past Tuesday, I contacted a social worker who worked with Chris at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. I had been thinking about her over the past couple of years and I even bumped into her in Whole Foods one day. She recognized me, strangely, even though I looked like utter hell the entire time I knew her. I say that because the last time I had seen her I was in a total state of shock and functioning on about four hours of sleep and a cat nap here and there during the four-day period before I was informed that there was nothing more that could be done for Chris.

I sent her an e-mail, re-introducing myself and asking if she had a few moments to meet with me and help me understand what Chris may have gone though, physically and emotionally throughout the duration of his illness. She replied to my e-mail right away, stating that she no longer worked for Dana Farber but inviting me to continue an e-mail conversation with her. She gave me the name of another social worker, Diane, she thought might be able to assist me.

I met with Diane Wednesday morning at 8:00am at Dana Farber. I hadn’t walked through the doors of that place since Chris’ last couple of weeks of life.

I got off the train at the Longwood stop and as I made my way up the street, crossing the Riverway and Brooklinle Avenue, I focused on trying to see my surroundings as Chris saw them on his many trips back and forth from his infusions. I saw the beauty in the trees lining the train stop, impatiently waited on the corner for the “walk” sign to light.

When I reached Brookline Avenue, the Longwood Shopping Mall in the distance on the far left corner, my anxiety began. My breath became short as I neared the corner and grew as I neared Binney Street. The words, “Binney Street”, are loaded for me. They mean so much more to me than a street label. They mean fear, terror, pain, impending doom and death. They mean lonliness and helplessness. They conjure up images of doctors that were unable to help, shots Chris didn’t want to get, hours and hours of time he had to spend in a hospital bed having poison pumped into his body and his voice. I remember his beaten, tired voice on the other end of the line calling me after each infusion.

I rounded the corner where I could see the DF banners blowing in the breeze and my pace slowed. I wanted to go in, even though I didn’t want to go in. I walked through the doors and checked in with security. Diane was there waiting for me, right in the very spot where a choir was singing Christmas Carols the year before Chris died. I remember thinking how odd music seemed filling up the air in such a dark and forboding place.

Diane asked me what it was like to be back and the floodgates opened. I couldn’t get to our private room fast enough.

We sat and talked for an hour about the period from Chris’ diagnosis up until the present time and I used up every single one of the tissues in the room. I told her about the medical stuff, dealing with it for the first time since experiencing Chris’ nightmare.

I confessed to Diane that I didn’t really know why I had come, that I had acted on an impulse. I thought I was going to be talking with Rhaea, Chris’ former social worker. Rheaa knew Chris. She has seen him alive. Diane apologized for not knowing him.

She set me up with a bereavement group that meets every other week at Dana Farber. I think it will be helpful and the timing feels right.