Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
Shelly
The weekend seems to have flown by with little to nothing to do, since I tend to putter at night when I’m home after work to get the chores done.
Sleeping in after finally getting home from the party at the Triple R, I found myself finishing up the laundry then heading into town to take care of the grocery shopping.
While I’m not a dedicated meal prepper per se, I usually do prepare some things to make it easy to pack a lunch for work or fix dinner depending on how late we have clients.
Granted, we still end up ordering takeout quite frequently since Abyss is all about having food around for us to eat but knowing I’m doing my part to have healthy options makes me feel better about accepting the fact that he won’t let either me or Uncle Mack pay for things.
So, with nothing to do, I head into the shop earlier than normal, driving in myself since Uncle Mack’s first appointment isn’t until about ten. I don’t have a client but can check the inventory and place an order if needed.
It was a bit challenging for me with all the kids around at the cookout this past weekend, so I’m a bit melancholy as I go through the motions of setting up the coffee pot, cleaning out the fridge of the leftovers from the week before, and making sure that we’re ready to go for the day.
Deciding to call Beth and make an appointment, I fix myself something to drink then go into my room, smiling when I cross the threshold and see some of my designs hanging on the walls.
While we all have binders in the front waiting area filled with examples of our work, as well as flash art we can do, these are some of my favorites that I’ve done over the years.
Settling in on the small loveseat that’s tucked in the corner of my room, I pull out my phone and hit the contact for Beth, which I put in after the barbecue. When she answers, I ask, “Beth? It’s Shelly. I was going to see if you had any available appointments coming up.”
“What’s going on?” she asks. “I’ve got time right now if you need to talk and can promise it’ll be just like you were sitting in front of me instead of being on the phone.”
I sigh, knowing this is needed but hating the reason for it and say, “I was seeing a therapist when I lived in Frisco. Her suggestion was to find one here once I got settled in, and she was supposed to give me some names, but she never did, so I’ve been…
floundering a bit. Hearing about Hope House and what you do, I realize that maybe the reason she didn’t give me any names is because I was meant to meet you. ”
“I appreciate you saying that, Shelly. Now, how can I help you today?” she questions.
“It’s… I don’t even know where to start,” I confess.
“Wherever you feel most comfortable, I’ll jot down some notes so if I need you to clarify anything, I can ask. How does that sound?”
“Perfect,” I whisper. “I spent three months in an in-patient psychiatric hospital almost six years ago.”
“Are you in a crisis now, Shelly?” she queries.
“No, I mean, not really. I was there because I had severe postpartum depression and when I was just trying to get some sleep since I wasn’t doing that, I took too much Benadryl.
I learned through my therapy there that the hormones that were going through me created a chemical imbalance of some kind and that, combined with my depression, had me acting irrationally.
Once I was prescribed medication, I was able to see clearly, and I was able to reassure my uncle that I didn’t intend to kill myself.
In fact, if I was ever going to do that, it would’ve probably happened right after the accident. ”
“There’s a lot to unpack there, so I’ll start with the obvious question, what accident?” Beth inquires.
I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes and let them spill over as my mind drifts backward.
“I was pregnant with a little girl, Amberlea, and my boyfriend and I were on the way home from the baby shower our friends and family threw for us. We were hit head-on by an impaired driver, and it caused our vehicle to flip multiple times. James was killed on impact and I was seriously injured. Unfortunately, the injuries I sustained meant that Amberlea was born sleeping,” I say.
“I was able to spend some time with Amberlea since they put her in a Cuddle Cot, but it wasn’t the way I had anticipated. ”
All the tiny outfits we’d bought or been given had been donated to a local women’s shelter.
Thank God for Marcella. While Uncle Mack was sitting sentry over me at the hospital, she packed everything up and gave it away, except for a few monogrammed items that she put in a memory box for me.
Pain thrums through me at those thoughts, but I push them aside so I can keep going.
“I’m so sorry for both of your losses,” Beth murmurs, her tone compassionate and understanding. “And I’m sure, with the abruptness of everything that happened, it threw your system into overdrive.”
“I was early, about six weeks or so, I think, and honestly, my physical injuries were bad enough that I pushed aside the rest as far as my milk coming in for a baby who would never drink it, my body healing from having Amberlea, and the hormone dump that I understand happens when there’s a traumatic birth.
It was about a month or so after I was home when the Benadryl incident happened,” I admit.
“Once again, my uncle was there and he’s stayed by my side through all of this, even after we lost Marcella.
That’s why we moved down here, it was just too much for both of us and we were pretty much just existing. ”
“Your life has been marked by quite a few losses, Shelly,” Beth states. “Have you ever heard of survivor’s guilt?”
“My former psychologist feels I have PTSD,” I reply, “but yeah, I think that’s what I have.”
“Survivor’s guilt is one of the symptoms,” she gently says.
“It’s a psychological condition that has an individual experiencing intense feelings of guilt and remorse after surviving something traumatic or catastrophic that someone else didn’t.
An individual might feel as though they don’t deserve to be alive, or they may even wonder why they made it when someone else died.
They might also feel guilty if something makes them happy, as though they don’t deserve to find happiness and peace. ”
Well, hell, she hit it on the head in one.
“That’s me,” I whisper, sniffling a little bit.
I grab the box of tissues and pull several out so I can mop up the tears that have been steadily flowing.
I’ve noticed that my emotions are more at the surface when I’m close to having my period, so I suspect that’s right around the corner.
“I don’t feel like I deserve to be happy again.
James was beyond ecstatic that we were going to have a little girl, his ‘princess’ as he called her since I was his queen, and knowing that he died the way he did breaks my heart. ”
“Everyone deserves to be happy and find peace and contentment, Shelly,” Beth states.
Her voice is no-nonsense but still, I can hear the empathy surrounding her words.
“Do you feel like James would want you to just plod along through life without any kind of joy? Because from the little bit you’ve shared, he doesn’t sound like he was that kind of man. ”
“James was wonderful to me,” I say. “We were young, up to our neck in college classes and working, but he still found time to rub my feet when they were swollen or go out in the middle of the night when a craving hit.”
“Did you bury them together?” she asks.
“Actually, they were both cremated,” I admit.
“His parents gave me some of his ashes and right now, I have two urns sitting side by side on a shelf, along with Marcella’s.
But I’ve been working out a design to have one urn created for him and my baby girl so that they can be together.
It… it’s helped me a lot to know that she’s not alone, you know? ”
“I think what you’re describing sounds beautiful,” Beth replies.
“I’m sure your former therapist has said this, but we’ll work on it as well, you do deserve to be happy again, Shelly.
You’ll never forget James or Amberlea, and I’m sure when there are milestones that hit, it comes rushing back as though it just happened, but time will ease that hurt somewhat.
It’ll never go away completely because you’ll instinctively know when certain things should’ve happened, like starting kindergarten, or graduating from high school, but where bitter tears have emerged in the past, eventually, it’ll change. ”
“But when?” I ask, my voice trembling as I bite back a sob. “This weekend, seeing all the kids running around was like a knife to the heart, Beth.”
“I’m sure it was and while I’ll never negate your feelings and you shouldn’t either, you and your uncle moved to a different city to rebuild your lives. Staying completely mired in the past doesn’t serve any purpose except to keep you stuck,” she replies.
I think about what she’s saying and realize she’s right. If I don’t change things or at least my way of thinking, then it’s as if I’m still in Frisco. “I don’t want to be stuck any longer, but I also don’t know how to change that,” I admit. “Can you help me?”
“I can, and in addition to individual counseling sessions, I’d like to give you information for a grief support group.
Some of the participants are parents who’ve lost their families for one reason or another, others may have lost a spouse or another loved one, but they’re all trying to navigate their grief journey.
There’s something about hearing others’ stories that builds our own coping mechanisms. It’s never about who went through something worse than someone else.
Instead, hearing how a couple who has dealt with miscarriage after miscarriage finally had their miracle baby shows that there’s healing after loss. ”
“Then I want that information please, and can we schedule an in-person appointment?” I ask. “Because it’s time for me to live again, even if I have to carry a box of tissues along with me while I do it.”