Chapter Eleven #2
When Dr. Patel asks me whether I want to respond to what she’s just said, I shake my head.
What words are there to soothe the pain I’ve inflicted on her?
Turning to Emily, Patel asks whether there’s anything else she wants to say to me.
She nods, turns, and looks me in the eye.
Her words are more measured now, more sad than angry.
“People lose jobs all the time without falling apart and causing everything else to fall apart around them,” she says.
“Without causing the death of one of their children. I just can’t imagine how I’m ever going to be able to forgive you so that we can salvage what’s left.
And I’ll be honest with you, Corby. I’m not sure I want to. ”
We’re both crying now, and when I look over at Patel, I see that her eyes are wet, too. This comforts me somehow. For a minute or more, the three of us sit in silence with what’s just been said. Dr. Patel is the first to speak.
“When a child dies, no matter the circumstances, it puts a terrible strain on the parents’ relationship.
How could it not? But the fact that you are here together is, in my opinion, a hopeful sign.
Let’s visualize that hope as a flickering candle flame.
It may stabilize and keep burning or be snuffed out.
It depends on your willingness to do the hard work of sustaining your relationship under extremely difficult circumstances, or your decision to end it and move on.
“I also would like to point out that, although you have lost the same child, your relationship with him will have been different. Corby, perhaps you can keep in mind that Niko’s and his sister’s bodies grew inside of, and emerged from, Emily’s body.
Before you had your first glimpse of them in the delivery room, your son and daughter had an intimate nine-month bond with their mother. ”
When I reach over and cup Emily’s shoulder, she shifts her body away from me. Dr. Patel observes this without dropping a beat.
“And Emily, fathers and sons bond as well, but differently. More often than not, as the male child grows, he observes and begins to emulate his father’s way of being in the world.
So I would encourage you both to keep in mind that female grief and male grief in response to the death of a child manifest differently.
Because men are conditioned to be strong and stoic, their bereavement tends to be internalized and private.
Conversely, women are allowed and encouraged to express their feelings more openly.
The danger for you as a couple is that you might not understand that there are these differences.
A mother might incorrectly conclude that her child’s father cares less deeply about his death or rebounds more quickly and she resents him for it, whereas the father might wish that the child’s mother would rein in her emotions.
These are general patterns that don’t apply to all couples, of course.
The important thing is to keep talking to each other—to not get so mired in your own pain that you fail to understand the pain your partner is feeling. ”
“I know Corby’s in pain,” Emily tells her. “But Niko is dead because he chose to impair his judgment that morning.” She looks from Patel to me. “And it was a choice , Corby, so I’m sorry, but empathizing with your grief right now isn’t something I can do because my anger is in the way.”
I nod. Mumble that I understand. But do I? Would I be able to empathize with her if she had been the driver?
“And I want to apologize to you, Emily,” Dr. Patel says, “if I’ve seemed not to acknowledge that your anger is as legitimate as your grief. I assure you that I do acknowledge this, and if we continue working together, that is something we would surely wish to address.” Emily nods, but just barely.
Dr. Patel says our time for today is just about up.
“Should you both wish to continue with the work we began today, I would request that next time I see each of you separately. After that, we can reconvene for another joint session. But whether it’s with me or another therapist, I strongly recommend that you continue to undergo counseling.
“You should probably avoid sexual intimacy,” she says, “until you’re both ready. Holding each other and crying together might be a far more useful form of intimacy for now.”
If we could ever manage to do that, I think; we’re nowhere near being able to do that now.
“And you should consider joining a grief group with other parents who have lost a child. Perhaps most importantly, you should take comfort in knowing that suffering as acute as yours is today will lessen over time.
“And Emily, I encourage you to do what you can to replace the image of your son as he looked in death with memories of him during happy times. Look at photographs, footprints. Watch videos, share stories about him. This may make others feel uncomfortable. They might become tongue-tied trying to think of what to say. But their discomfort is not your problem. Your challenge is to survive this early stage of grief while your pain is so raw and intense. And by all means, talk about Niko with your daughter if you can.”
Emily nods compliantly.
Dr. Patel flips through her notes. “Ah, I knew I wanted to return to something before you go. Emily, when you were speaking before about the many emotions you’ve been feeling, you identified one of them as guilt. Can you say what it is that’s making you feel guilty?”
Emily looks over at me and seems to be deliberating about whether or not to say it.
She opens her mouth, closes it again, and then speaks.
“I wondered if Corby might have been drinking during the day. It was only a hunch, but maybe I should have asked him about it. Confronted him about it. Maybe if I had…”
I’m too stunned to say anything. Too confused to react.
Patel says, “Well, you and I will want to explore that during our one-to-one session if you choose to continue the work we began today. I do have one last question I’d like each of you to answer.
If we move forward with this process, what would you hope to gain from it? ”
I go first. “I want to save our marriage.”
“And you, Emily?”
“I’m looking for clarity.” When Patel asks her whether she can be more specific, she says she doesn’t know whether she can stay married to me. Turning to me, she says, “I guess it depends on whether or not I can ever forgive you.”
At her office door, Dr. Patel takes each of us by the hand.
“You both did some important work today and I would very much like to keep working with you. If that is to be, I suggest we focus first on Niko’s death as a traumatic experience.
Trauma is different than grief. So perhaps the grieving process can be put on hold while we look at ways to deal with the trauma.
Then we can explore grieving in a constructive way that will give clarity to you, Emily, and make it more likely, Corby, that your relationship can be saved and maybe even strengthened.
Talk it over and give me a call if you think that would be worthwhile. Then we can set up some appointments.”
I ask her whether, in the meantime, there are any websites she’d recommend we look at.
Dr. Patel advises that we should not put too much stock in information on the internet.
Not everything on there is reliable. “But off the top of my head, there’s the Butterfly Project, which might be helpful.
It’s a British website for health givers on how to help the parents of twins or multiples cope when one has died—how to cherish and meet the needs of the living child or children while grieving, in their terminology, the ‘butterfly baby.’ You might find something useful on that website.
Or not. The most valuable work, in my opinion, can be done right here. ”
In the car on the way back to my mother’s place, neither of us speaks for the first couple of miles. “Well, what did you think?” I finally ask.
“I think you were trying hard to win the popularity contest.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you were trying to come off as the reasonable husband who has a difficult wife. I bet she saw right through that.”
“I was just trying to take in what she was saying, Em. Stay open-minded.”
“The ‘butterfly baby’?” she says, shaking her head. “Are we supposed to pretend he didn’t die? That he just hatched and migrated to Mexico? That’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but how do you feel about the session other than that?”
“I thought the tea party at the beginning was a little weird.”
“I guess she was just trying to put us at ease,” I say. “How do you feel about continuing with her?”
She shrugs. Says she has to think about it. “But not if you’re going to keep sucking up to her.” I manage to hold my tongue. “And what about how much this is going to cost? I assume her services come with a price tag.”
“Yeah, but if it helps…” I reach out to touch her, then stop. Decide not to risk it. “You want to go get coffee or something and talk?”
She shakes her head. Says she needs to get back for Maisie. Glancing out the driver’s-side window, she says, “They’re really developing this area out here. Price Chopper, Lowe’s, Starbucks. When did all this happen?”
In other words, let’s change the subject. But aren’t we supposed to talk about it? Acknowledge each other’s feelings? “I think it was good that you vented back there, Em. The more you deal with your anger—”
She looks over at me, frowning. “Don’t fucking patronize me.”
“What do you mean? How am I patronizing you?”
“By sounding like you’re the therapist. ‘It’s good you vented, Emily. You need to deal with your anger.’ You’re not the shrink, Corby. You’re the problem .”
“I know I am. Believe me. If I could exchange my life for his, I’d do it in a second.” She offers no reaction other than hitting the gas a little harder.
Another couple of miles and two red-light stops pass by in silence before I say that I’d like to continue with Dr. Patel.
“At least for the time before my sentencing hearing. And if I get lucky and don’t have to go to prison, maybe after that, too.
She seems to know what she’s doing. And those one-to-one sessions are a good idea. Can’t hurt, right?”
Her only response is an impatient sigh.
“I was surprised, though, when you said you suspected I might be day-drinking. I thought I’d been so good at keeping it from you.”
“Shut up, Corby. That hour was hard enough without having to listen to your fucking analysis of it.” She was driving about ten miles over the speed limit, but now it’s more like fifteen or sixteen.
“Yeah, okay. But you don’t need to feel guilty about not saying anything. If you had, I would have just denied it.”
“Please just stop !” she says. She’s white-knuckling the steering wheel.
“You might want to slow down a little,” I tell her. “I’ve seen cops in unmarked cars along this stretch.”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Her hand flies at me, bats me on the side of my head. With her hand off the wheel, her car veers into the lane of oncoming traffic.
“Jesus! Watch where you’re going!” I shout. She corrects her course and drives on for a couple of minutes. Then she pulls onto the shoulder, stops the car, puts her head against the steering wheel, and sobs. Again, I resist the impulse to touch her.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Nothing happened. It’s okay.”
She mumbles an apology and drives back onto the road.
“We’re going to get through this, Emily. I love you.”
She just keeps driving.