Earlier this Spring, a professional colleague reached out to me to ask: “How did you do it? Like, can you talk to me and tell me how you got to the other side? You know, after your mom passed.” Because her mother had passed months before, and she wanted to know.
A couple months ago, another friend needed to hire caregivers and transition her mother into hospice. She called to ask for my perspective and later asked, “How did you do this? And for so long?”
I can’t remember how I responded to these inquiries, but I do remember my friend’s follow-up statement: “You didn’t really talk about how hard this was for you.”
I replied, “Well what was there to say?” We both laughed a little.
I’m a professor. People ask me questions all the time. But these questions were asking for a kind of wisdom that experience gave me. A kind of wisdom that could light someone else’s way.
I have been binging the “Call to Midwife” on Netflix for the last couple of months. Yes, months – because there are 12 seasons and I was late to the party. It’s a great show with a ton of memorable moments, but one scene in particular jumped out to me recently. Nurse Lucille was experiencing a significant depression after a miscarriage. She finally shares about her challenges with community physician Dr. Turner. Referring to his experience of PTSD after serving in the military, being hospitalized and later feeling whole and healthy, Dr. Turner leans towards Nurse Lucille and says: “I know the way through these woods.”
This sentence jumped out to me!
I know the way through these woods.
In this episode, Dr. Turner gets Lucille on a treatment plan that includes medication. The viewer can only image that he also shared with her about some of his experiences.
But is there “a way” through depression? Is there “a way” through grief? Is there “a way” through heartbreak?
My colleague and friend seem to think there might be, and if so, I know it. But I can’t honestly echo these words: I know the way through these woods.
I don’t know the secret to surviving hard things. In the best of circumstances, each of us finds a way. Sometimes with a flashlight to see where the next step should be placed; other times with a machete to clear a path.
I can say that my way through the woods was not traversed alone. I had co-journeyers: friends, cousins, partners, colleagues. They brought food, clothing, money, texts, care, grace, silence, presence … all the things. In their own ways, they made sure I wasn’t left in the woods by myself.
I’m not sure I’m on the other side of the woods. I’m not sure there is an “out” of the woods. Big hard things seem to live within me, change me and return to remind me that grief is the price we pay for love. Life might be all woods. Sometimes dark and scary; other times moonlit; other times trees framing a gorgeous sunrise.
I want to have those wise words. I want to tell my colleague and my friend “the way through these woods.” Instead, I sat and listened about their moms. I showed up when it seemed it would help. I grabbed their favorite foods from TJs. This is my way through the woods.
How do you make it through your woods? (it’s a real question: hit reply – I’d love to know)
Dr. Monica
