Script:
June 7th, Day 1 I just saw you five hours ago, Rob. You were tanned and handsome. I touched you. I hugged you. We talked. And now I'm standing in a small room in the hospital, waiting for the doctor to come in and talk with me. The nurses won't tell me where you are. They won't tell me what's happening, but I know it's bad. They wouldn't have put your dad and me into this private room if it wasn't bad. We were just getting ready for bed when we got the call. Dad answered it, and when he turned to look at me, his face was pale. He looked scared. Rob's been in an accident, was all he needed to say. We both headed to the car and to whatever was waiting for us. We were quiet as we drove. I turned to him once and said, He has to be okay, Chuck. He just has to. When we got to the hospital, your friends were waiting outside by the doors to the emergency room. They said you'd been in an accident. They were all talking at once. Their phrases were choppy and jumbled. All I heard as I rushed by them was accident, motorcycle, really bad. The doctor comes in. He takes my hand and sits me down. He tells me it's bad. He tells me that you probably aren't going to make it. He tells me to pray. It's about 1030 at night, and your accident happened at 22 minutes after 9. I tell him I want to see you. He tells me they're still trying to save your life, so all I can do is wait. The waiting room begins to fill as our neighbors, our friends, and your friends rush to be with us. I can barely breathe. I have just enough breath to pray for a miracle. June 8, day 2, shortly after midnight. Now this doctor's telling me you're dead. I see him. I hear him, but I don't understand his words. He holds my hand, and Dad puts his arm around me. There are tears in their eyes. I'm numb. Dead? What does dead mean? I can't comprehend it through my blurred mind. I'm watching my body take the necessary steps and make the necessary calls. My lips form the words, and my voice carries across the wires to your grandparents, sister, aunts, and uncles. Rob is dead. Rob has died, but what does it mean? The doctor finally lets us see you, your body. Your face is swollen, and you're pale. When I saw you for the last time, a few hours ago, you were tan and beautiful. Where did your tan go? Does death wipe out even a tan? I placed my hand on your chest. It was always so firm, but now it's not. All your major bones are broken. You feel soft. This body on the metal table doesn't feel like you, and it doesn't really look like you. I can't see your eyes, and you're not smiling. This is not the Rob I know, the guy whose eyes are a crystal, penetrating blue, and whose smile can light up the dreariest of days. Where's Rob, the young man with a sense of humor who loves to shoot water from a squirt gun into Rika's ear to see if it will come out the other side? Rob, the man whose compassion and caring for others stretches my own. That Rob's not here. There's only a dead body lying on this steel slab. I see you. I touch you. I talk to you, but I can't stay in this room. I want to stay forever, yet I don't want to stay a moment longer. My world is crashing down around my ears. My faith pulls strongly around me like a warm blanket. I know that your smile, your sense of humor, all that you were is either up in heaven or on its way. Are you up there, Rob, just slightly above us, watching us? I feel you. That's why this is all so surreal. Many of your friends are here at the hospital. They're all crying. When will you come, Rob? Where are you? I need a hug.
Script:
None of us asks for grief, yet every one of us will, at some time in our lives, feel its sharp fangs and suffer from the aftermath of its attack. When my son was killed in an accident at the age of twenty, my world as I knew it collapsed, and I was thrown into a black hole of grief that felt like it would devour me. Because writing is a passion and a refuge, I wrote, and the poetry in this book is a result of some of that writing. While the poems in this book are about the loss of a child, a son, grief is universal, in that its many twists, turns, and emotions are similar whether you've lost a child, a parent, a spouse, or a friend. To help you in your grief, personalize the verses I've written to reflect your loss and your pain, to express your agony or your confusion. Use these words in ways that work for you. When I was caught in the darkness of grief, I just wanted to know that someone understood, because it often felt as though no one seemed to grasp the life-changing, enduring pain that I was going through. I also wanted to be assured that I would survive the experience, because I was often convinced that I would not make it through the agony, and I wanted someone to hold on to me during those times that I wasn't sure I wanted to continue on. My hope is that the words in these poems will help you to know that I do understand, and that you will survive. You will change, and that process in itself is painful, but you will endure and eventually move on to fully live life again. Give yourself the time to do that. Love yourself through the process, and hold firmly to the love that you have for the one who has moved on from this earth. Let that love be a blanket of warmth during this winter of your life. Please know that my heart is with you even though we have never met, because those of us who have lost someone precious to us are bonded on a level beyond our understanding. It is at that level that I meet you, I understand your agony, and I support you in your journey. Terri Ann Leidick
Script:
Welcome to Dr. Bonnie's cocoon. Now, stretch out on my couch and I'll fluff your pillow. Many of my clients have the impression, and maybe you do too, that counselor's offices are sterile and clinical. Most are, but mine is not. You see, I understand this isn't the same sort of thing as going to a clinic with a 6-inch gaping flesh wound. Wounds like that require getting stitched in the most sterile environments. But sterile seldom works when what needs fixing is your heart, your soul. In fact, it's quite the opposite. As my client, you need a womb-like safe room, a welcoming and comfortable cocoon where you can begin to know yourself in a safe space, a place you feel completely supported. Come on and I'll describe for you the beautiful surroundings we'll be working in. When you enter my office, I want you to feel enveloped in warmth and safety. To help create a soft landing, I appeal to each of your five senses. Olfactory. Can you smell the freshly brewed coffee? Would you like a cup? Maybe some locally sourced tea, herbal or caffeinated. A cinnamon-apple-scented candle mingles with all the other welcoming aromas. Gustatory. Hungry? How about some fresh fruit, pastries, or muffins? We humans bond over food. Visual. My office is decorated with warm, luxurious furniture, Tiffany lamps, and beautiful flowers. Kinesthetic. We sink into luxurious chenille fabrics. We're warmed by a flickering fire. You grab a plump overstuffed pillow and slowly settle in. Allow this setting to give you a feeling of warmth and security. Auditory. Soothing music plays quietly, almost indistinguishably in the background. The sound of water running in the fountains gently calms ragged nerves. Come on over. My sculpted marble tea table is overflowing with delicious things to drink and sumptuous treats. I want all of this to deliver comfort to the place in you that needs nurturing. The place where I want you to be before we can begin our session. Safe. Comforted. Protected. This is your yummy come here, settle down, and tell me all about it shelter. Many clients come early just to relax in my waiting area to wind down and get centered before beginning their session. They find it rejuvenating. This sensory setting is my personal signature. Because I know you feel apprehensive, fearful, and in pain, my goal is to calm you and set the scene for our intimate visit. Here, I can honor you and cater to you in soothing comfort. I hope you'll feel protected, safe, and deeply heard as I begin to transfer the tools and solutions I've developed to you. I want to provide the fuel for you to master your most joyous life.
