How one small gesture made a world of difference

We often think that only grand acts make a difference in the world, but the truth is that a single simple gesture can change someone’s entire day.

Yesterday, our son and I made a quick trip to the store to replenish the home front after a week of traveling. As we exited the freeway, we passed a car that appeared disabled, and a woman was waving her arm out the driver’s window. Cars continued to whiz past, all of them ignoring her distress signal. Well, nothing on our list couldn’t wait. But to get to the woman, we had to get back on the freeway in the opposite direction, take the next exit, and then return to the freeway once again in our original direction. As we drove the two miles in the opposite direction, we now noticed a state patrol who was sitting in the median. He was less than a mile from the distressed driver, yet couldn’t see her. We alerted him, and he followed us to the disabled vehicle.

It turns out that the woman had run out of gas just a mile from the gas station. She and her young son, who was strapped in his car seat in the back, were stranded on a hot September day in a disabled vehicle on the side of the freeway. Out of gas. With no cell phone. We were the only people who stopped.

While aiding a stranger requires a bit of common sense, it didn’t take much effort on our part. Did we perform a grand act destined to improve the world? No. But on one hot September day, our small act of kindness made a world of difference for one mother. And that lifts my heart like nothing else.

#FindingHope

"Death doesn't sell," said the store clerk.

I'll never forget the words the event coordinator said when I inquired about a book signing at Barnes & Nobles. "Death doesn't sell," she flatly declared.

How do you argue such statement? I think of all the people in need of comfort. People like the teenage girl who lost her mother to a drunk driver. 

People like my friend who unexpectedly lost her husband while waiting for him to return home so they could enjoy their nightly glass of wine together. Her husband never made it home. He died in town from a heart attack.

"Death doesn't sell." 

Why does that statement bother me so much? Is it because of the calloused attitude lurking behind it? Is it because the clerk made me feel like profit trumps over compassion?

Her words are true. I know that much. No child ever says they want to grow up to work in the bereavement field, And nobody goes into the bereavement field to become rich. 

Death is a part of life. We can't argue that. But it remains a major catastrophe for most; a seismic event so large it alters our landscape, our future, forever.

So here is what I want to say to the store clerk:

"Death doesn't sell. But comfort does." 

Over the weekend I learned that one of our books was named a national finalist in the 10th Annual National Indie Excellence Awards. Grief Diaries: Surviving Loss by Suicide is an intimate collection of true stories about ordinary people surviving the terrible aftermath of losing a loved one to suicide. 

Last year, as we compiled all those sacred stories, I knew in my heart that the book would make a difference. But when I received our official congratulations notice from NIEA, I was shocked. I had become used to the little recognition society gives the aftermath of loss.

Until now.

To the writers who bravely shared their journeys in Grief Diaries: Surviving Loss by Suicide, I want to say this: your voices have been heard. Your stories will make a difference for the 40,000 Americans who lose a loved one to suicide every single year, and countless more around the world. Thank you for being the light of compassion. And hope.

And to the Barnes & Nobles desk clerk, I say this:

You're right. Death doesn't sell. 

But comfort does.

Can counseling really help a broken heart?

“Well, no, I don’t specialize in grief specifically but with my many years of experience I’m confident I can help you,” said the counselor on the other end of the phone. It had been eighteen months since we lost our teenage daughter in a car accident, and my husband and I were caught in the black abyss of sadness and hopelessness. We were finally ready to wave the white flag and seek help.

Many well-meaning family and friends urged us to get counselling immediately after the accident, but I adamantly refused. I bristled at the very idea that someone would tell me how to grieve the loss of my beloved child. Worse, there was no way I wanted to be trapped in a group of crying mothers stuck in their own horrible grief. No, I would rather do it myself, for I didn’t want to be part of that club in the first place.

But over the coming months as reality sank in and the nightmare became permanent, we found ourselves on autopilot, barely staying afloat on the outside and dead on the inside. By design, men and women are wired differently. So as husband and wife, we were each caught in our own despair. We had nothing left to give each other, little alone our marriage.

By the time we realized we needed help processing our grief, we had fallen so deep into the black abyss that the simple task of finding a counselor, any counselor, felt utterly overwhelming. So I dug deep to muster what energy I could to google local counselors, and called the first number I saw.

And thus began an eighteen-month relationship with a counselor who knew absolutely nothing about grief. She was a lovely woman, and in looking back I’m sure she learned a great deal from us as her clients. But much to our dismay, we gained nothing from our appointments. At least we hadn’t gone backwards, I told myself, but the idea of trying to find a better counselor was simply too overwhelming. So we stayed where we were week after week for eighteen months.

And then tragedy struck once again.

Three years after losing our daughter, my forty-six year-old husband suffered a major stroke. He went from being a highly intelligent, well respected, vibrant man who managed multi-million dollar projects to an invalid wearing a hospital gown in the intensive care unit. He couldn’t walk, talk, read, or write. My beloved soul mate, my dear sweet husband, suffered a major embolic stroke in the left frontal lobe. Paralyzing the entire right side of his body, the damage also destroyed the Broca's region of his brain, the center of communication. He understood those around him, but he couldn’t speak at all. Nor could he read, write, or comprehend letters and numbers. Strangely enough, Brocas is his legal middle name.

We found ourselves facing a fresh, new black abyss, and we hadn’t even found our way out of the first one.

And then help arrived in the form of a neuropsychologist who made daily hospital rounds to the stroke unit. His specialty was supporting patients facing significant disabilities and helping them adapt to a new way of life. Now that my husband was trapped in a hospital bed, he could no longer bury his grief in eighty-hour work weeks. The neuropsychologist found himself doubly tasked with not only helping us adjust to our new life left in the wake of my husband's stroke, but assisting us in processing the profound, unresolved grief left in the wake of our daughter's death.

Dr. Ford was in his early fifties, about the same age as our prior counselor. He was tall and fit, and his short hair yielded to a stubborn childhood cowlick he never outgrew. His face was kind, his voice calm yet intelligent. My husband and I liked him immediately. And, to our collective surprise, Dr. Ford's specialty of helping stroke patients face a new life with severe disabilities wasn’t all that different from helping the bereaved face a new life without their loved one. And thus began a professional relationship in which we finally found the help needed to process our double sorrow.

It has now been over three years since my husband’s life-changing stroke, and six years since our daughter’s passing. Because of the plasticity of the human brain and its ability to rewire around dead tissue, my husband continues to improve beyond medical expectation. Through intense inpatient and then dedicated outpatient rehabilitation, he learned to walk again and use his right hand though he still can’t feel anything on his right side. His speech remains challenged, and he fatigues quite easily, preventing him from returning to gainful employment, and our family from returning to our former life.

We continue to see the neuropsychologist though the frequency changes depending upon our needs. As far as I see it, the life-changing stroke was actually a lifeline in disguise, for it brought a compassionate, intuitive, and highly skilled practitioner through the door of my husband’s hospital room and into our lives. And although Dr. Ford came because of the devastating stroke, his counseling proved to be the help we desperately needed to navigate our daughter's death.

I am not angry we spent eighteen months with a counselor who was unable to meet our needs. Actually, I admire her for taking us on in the first place. She didn’t harm us, and she did try her best to help us, and I am forever thankful. But I wish I had acknowledged sooner just how critically important it is to find the right care in our darkest hours.

When one suffers a heart attack, they call in a cardiologist. When one has a broken leg, they call in an orthopedist. So when one faces profound loss, a highly skilled and qualified practitioner to help navigate the way through, and eventually out of, the deep abyss of overwhelming grief is just as crucial.

With over 168,000 counselors available in the U.S. alone, there is no shortage from which to choose. If your counselor is unable to help you navigate a life-changing loss or challenge, don't be afraid to find another. Just as grief isn't one size fits all, neither is support.

Can a heart attack patient survive without a cardiologist? Yes, but the chances of surviving are much greater when under the care of a proper practitioner. And this is never more true than with the most critical of all wounds….that of a broken heart.