Chapter 6
“Okay, a few ground rules,” Marlo said as she circled the chair in front of her and sat down.
“This isn’t a twelve-step program with the word ‘anonymous’ in the name, but I think it goes without saying that what happens in Grief Group stays in Grief Group with respect to what others share. Everyone good with that?”
We all nodded, not looking at each other, all eyes on our leader.
“Having said that, this is a small campus, and you’ll probably run into each other here and there. I’m leaving it up to you how you choose to acknowledge those moments. But that should be done with mutual respect of each other’s privacy wishes.”
More small nods from us all.
“On a personal note, you have my thanks for agreeing to participate in this study. You will receive two science credits for attending our two-hour sessions on Wednesday nights and taking assessments—both oral and written—throughout the semester. We will be working together in a group therapy session, as well as one-on-one interviews at times. I wanted to do this as a group instead of individually, to see if going through this with your peers adds some value to your recovery. I believe strongly that it will. We have parameters via the college, but it’s being privately funded, so we have some leeway to change things up if the need arises.
“This study is a passion of mine, and I hope to find some honest data on how people in your age group navigate grief when also faced with the challenges of maturing from high school, to college, to the real world.” She air-quoted “real world,” and there were a couple small sighs of laughter/understanding.
To us, death had thrown us into the real world whether we liked it or not.
“Not only is this instrumental for my study, but I believe you will find benefit as well. Otherwise, it’s not worth it. I’m not putting you through reliving trauma and taking your temperature about it for my own purposes. I love the science of it, but I’m not cruel.”
This time the sighs felt more like relief. I was sure I wasn’t the only one who was nervous about having Band-Aids—nicely covering healing wounds—ripped off, taking my thickening scabs with them.
After meeting each of us with a compassionate look, Marlo continued, “Grief is a moving entity. You may think you have a handle on it, only for something to trigger some feelings you weren’t even aware you still had.
Or some completely new ones. So, hopefully in these sessions you gain some tools to help you beyond the semester’s end.
Beyond Bribury. Because, though it will be more manageable, the pain of your loss never truly goes away.
“This is how the study will work. We’ll do written assessments tonight before you leave.
Basic stuff. How’s your sleep? What signs of anxiety or depression are you experiencing?
What do you have in place for support? Those types of things.
In our weekly class, we’ll do things like sharing our stories, more of a traditional group therapy session.
But we’ll also do things to help you break out of patterns that are impeding your healing.
Things to try throughout the week—homework, if you will.
And then we’ll put it all together at the end of the semester to put you in the best possible place moving forward. Sound good?”
The nods were small, a couple combined with a shrug, but Marlo blasted on.
“Great. Now, let’s just do a brief intro for everyone. First names only at this point. Your year here and who you’ve lost. If you’d like to say when and how, that’s great, but not necessary if you’d rather not. Though it will eventually come up in some of our sessions.”
She put out a hand, palm up, to the girl seated next to her, like she was presenting her to the rest of us. “Would you like to start?”
“Oh, yeah. I guess. I’m Paige. I’m a senior. Political Science major. Oh, wait, you didn’t ask that, did you?”
She was nervous—we all were, I was sure—and Marlo gentled her voice when she said, “No, but it’s fine to tell us whatever you’d like. Poli-Sci, that’s interesting. Who did you lose, Paige?”
“Um. My sister,” Paige said. A couple of the kids, Logan included, shifted uncomfortably in their seats. I guessed there would be a lot of that. Getting comfortable with our own grief gave no guarantees that we’d be comfortable with the grief of others.
A lot of people I knew who had lost someone close themselves, had said some unbelievably stupid things to me in the past year, thinking they were being helpful.
Paige had white-blond hair that was cut into a chin-length bob, forgoing the long hair the majority of college girls were wearing now.
She wore no makeup and had glasses that were overlarge, with dark navy frames.
Her clothes were casual and unadorned. A simple white tee tucked into jeans.
Sneakers and no jewelry except for a large (men’s?) watch that dangled around her wrist when she moved her hand.
It wasn’t my look, but it was one I thought had its own simple style. Very Poli-Sci. Like she could walk out of here, pick up a placard, and get to protesting. Or like maybe law school was next and she’d be practicing environmental law in five years.
I liked her immediately.
“I’m sorry,” Marlo said to Paige. “A younger or older sister?”
For a second it seemed as though Paige was unsure of her answer, which was odd.
“Twin sister, actually,” she said, making me feel like an idiot. And also feeling a pang for Paige that I easily recognized. Loss. Deep loss. “Technically older. By seven minutes.”
Marlo nodded. “A unique pain, I would imagine.”
Paige gave a shrug and studied her fingernails.
“How did your sister die?” Marlo asked.
“She was sick. For a while,” Paige said.
I looked down, and from the corner of my eye I saw Logan’s feet shuffle.
He was wearing grey joggers, shower shoes (Oofos, by the look at my angle), and white sweat socks.
Typical jock-off-the-field (ice?) wear. His hands were in his lap and he ran the top of his index finger over the nail of his thumb.
Yeah, we were all nervous and uncomfortable.
“And when did she pass?” Marlo asked.
“Last December,” Paige said. “Between Christmas and New Year’s.”
Shit, that was rough. And then it hit me. Everyone here was going to tell a rough story. Mine would be as well. That was what we’d signed up for.
Maybe I could drop this and take some one-on-one counseling to keep my father happy. My own pain was about all I could handle.
“Oof,” Marlo said. It seemed out of place for an instructor, but maybe that was why she’d done it. She wanted this to be more than a class setting. “Twin. Lingering illness. Holidays. That’s like the perfect storm of grief,” she added.
Paige leaned back as a tiny half snort/half scoff escaped her. There were a few smothered snickers around the room. “Yeah. It really is,” she agreed.
“We’ll talk about navigating holidays and death anniversaries here, and in your case, when they converge. Thank you, Paige.”
Paige nodded. She stopped picking at her nails and rested her hands in her lap, more relaxed now that Marlo’s gaze had moved on to the girl to my left, who sat next to Paige. “And you?”
“I’m Bailey. I’m a junior, pre-med. My boyfriend died,” she said.
Her hair was jet black and long, with the bulk of it brought over her shoulders in a look that was ubiquitous.
Running her fingers through its length seemed to be her way of self-soothing, as she continued, “It was in June. An accident. Weird, freak accident.” Her look was much more similar to the majority of girls on campus.
Bribury Basics, they called them. Us, I guess.
Leggings and a tight tee with capped sleeves.
Her matching jacket was laid over the thick arm of the chair.
When she crossed her legs, I noticed she wore expensive running shoes that looked like they were never used for running.
We were all waiting to hear about the freak accident. Or at least I was. Marlo hesitated too, but when Bailey didn’t offer up any other details, she just said, “Sorry for your loss, Bailey. Thanks for sharing.”
And then she turned to me.