When Your Pain Is Saying Goodbye to a Loved One
Seventy-one-year-old Joe sat in the hot tub with his wife Susan of “three hundred years.” They had it all, he figured, good health, plenty of money, three independent, high-functioning adult children, and a brood of grandkids. He’ll never forget raising his wine glass to Sue in a grateful toast to a life that appeared successful from anybody’s vantage point.
Two weeks later, Joseph Jr. fell off a mountain. Big Joe was brought to his knees in desperation. He lived and relived his hot tub toast to Susan as a defining moment in his life, as if he had placed a fairy-tale curse upon his family by toasting his and their good fortune, and by so doing had infuriated the powers that ruled his universe.
“Joey” junior was dead at age thirty-eight, and now suddenly none of the other successes mattered, not even one bit. More than a year after Joey died, Big Joe sought my help. A highly educated man, he was also very practical in his thinking and curt in his verbal expression. “With no disrespect to you, Dr. Cortman, I doubt you or anyone can help me. The way I see it, unless you can bring back Joey, we are probably wasting our time and Medicare’s money.” Not one given to wasting our government’s resources, I accepted Joe’s challenge to join forces with him to see if our combined efforts could make a difference.
Once again, it was less about forgiving someone and more about saying goodbye to Joey. If there’s one thing that all human parents seem to agree upon, it’s that they should be buried by their children, and never, ever, vice versa. Losing a child at any age, according to Joe, is “unnatural, unfair, tragic, and has a way of making all other aspects of life appear trivial by comparison.”
Maybe because Joe and I had such a powerful connection and maybe because he was out of options, he chose to trust me. Trusting me meant that we would need to say goodbye to Joey and to commemorate him by finding meaning for his life and premature death that made sense to his father. No platitudes would do the trick: the idea that “God needed Joey more than you did” was not going to provide peace for Joe.
Guided Imagery
After two months of treatment, I told Joe that I often used a technique—guided imagery—where he would have an opportunity to visit with his son one more time and tell Joey whatever he needed to say. Of course, it would also allow for Joe to hear from Joey, as well.
Tricking your nervous system is the key to guided imagery. Once again, if the mind’s eye sees something, real or imagined, it is processed as real by the nervous system. This is why dreams are so powerful. A dream is merely a movie that you write, direct, and star in. Awaken from a dream and you may exclaim, “Oh, my God, that was so real!” You feel frightened, embarrassed, amused, aroused, defeated, or whatever, depending upon the content of the dream. People may ask others if something really happened or whether they only dreamed it.
The goal for Joe was simple: Have Big Joe meet Joey, tell him the words a male parent doesn’t easily bestow upon a male child: “I love and miss you. I think about you every day. I am devastated by your loss.” etc. Give Joey that same opportunity, and then add the all-important challenges from son to father to recognize the following:
“I am well where I am, but I’m not permitted to share any details about the future except that I am happy, and you will be here one day soon. So, we will reconnect one day. Dad, my life on Earth is over, but yours isn’t. There is more for you to do and more lives that you must touch. My kids—your grandkids—need you now more than ever. You are never to use me as a reason to give up on life or to be depressed. I will always be close by you, Dad, until that day when we can reunite. You’re still in God’s hands, and He has purposes for you until the day you join me here. Please know that my death was an accident, but God remakes all human accidents as purposeful according to his will. Oh, and one more thing, I loved you and mom with all my being, and my wife and kids as well, as much as a man can love. My physical separation from you all doesn’t change that one bit. Do you think you could tell them how much I loved them, every once in a while, for me?”
I could tell you how that experience was for Joe and how transformational that one session was for him, but perhaps it’s better to have him tell you himself.
“I started working with Dr. Cortman in an effort to help me deal with the grief associated with the tragic loss of the life of my thirty-eight-year-old son, who fell to his death in a mountain climbing accident. During our visits, I exhibited the classic symptoms of grief, especially denial, anger, and lack of acceptance. After many visits, Dr. Cortman suggested a technique, Guided Imagery, that might help me. During the Guided Imagery process, I felt like I was able to communicate with my son; I felt that he was present with me, and I was able to have a connection with him. The Guided Imagery process acted as a “switch” and helped me to let him go, to say “goodbye” to him. In essence, the use of Guided Imagery brought me peace and helped me to accept my loss.”
All of Joe’s problems did not magically disappear, of course, with his encounter with Joey. There was still a lot of work to do related to finding meaning in his son’s life and death, coping with anxiety related to his own approaching demise, and even forgiving himself for his own imperfections. But there was a peace regarding Joey’s death that provided hope that Big Joe’s life was worth doing—even without his precious son.
Marc’s Story
Like Joey, Marc’s thirty-year-old son died accidentally. He had lost his seven-year battle with opiates, and his parents Marc and Nancy were referred to me for grief therapy. I saw them together—once—but never again, until Marc showed up alone, two years later.
“It’s the guilt,” he told me, “I can’t seem to get over… Every day I feel so guilty that my son is dead.”
“What did you attempt to do?” I asked.
“That’s just it. I tried everything. I talked to him several times every week. I put him in rehab twice and paid for everything. I tried tough love. Geez, I don’t know what else a father could have done to save his child. But after everything I did, Matthew is dead.”
“So why the guilt, if you did everything a father could do, Marc?”
“Because he still f***ing died! No matter what I tried, he’s still dead. I failed to save my own son!”
The tears were buried beneath rage, self-contempt, and as advertised, guilt. But I wasn’t having it.
“With all due respect, guilt is not your problem.” I knew he would respect me for presenting him with the truth.
“It’s not?”
“No, not really. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure you feel horribly bad about Matthew’s death. It’s easy to see how much you loved him. But guilt is just a cover for the big issue.”
“Which is?”
“Grief. You lost your son, Marc, and the sadness is almost immeasurable. The guilt is just a protest—a cover, if you will—for the deep sadness. Let me explain: as long as you continue to feel guilty, you are saying that Matthew’s death, somehow, is your fault. You don’t have to say goodbye to Matthew. It’s as if you are saying that his death is still under protest. It shouldn’t have happened. And therefore, you can’t release him, because it was all one big mistake.”
“Okay, so what do we have to do so I can stop feeling so guilty?”
“You have to say goodbye to Matthew. It’s the toughest thing I can ask you to do, but it is the reason you are wallowing in terrible guilt.”
Again, I resorted to guided imagery, and again, I trusted myself to speak on behalf of Matthew. I related to Marc that, “You didn’t fail me, Dad. In fact, you were the only one that I knew would still talk to me, even when I went back to using after being in rehab. You always tried to help me because you never stopped caring. I could see that, even after I screwed up. No matter what I did, you never stopped loving me, Dad. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. But Dad, there is a simple answer to the question of what went wrong. I di
dn’t want to stop using the drugs. I liked how they helped me feel better. It’s really that simple. You didn’t fail, Dad, I did. I let us both down. I’m sorry, Dad. I really am. I know I don’t have the right to ask you for a favor, but do you think you could ever forgive me for what I did?”
Marc was in tears at this point, eyes closed, seated in my big, black, La-Z-Boy. He told me that he silently responded to Matthew and that of course, he forgave him. That was the easy part. The hard part was accepting the fact that he would never again see Matthew. That was the heartbreaking realization. The men continued to process this conversation silently in the quiet of Marc’s imagination. They decided that Matthew would be in charge of their two late dogs, Duke, the German Shepherd, and Connie, the Retriever, the other two great losses that had devastated both men. Marc imagined that Matthew would be waiting at the entry of a place called the “Rainbow Bridge” (I had never heard of the poem at the time), where animals go to wait for their loved ones when their time on Earth is over.
Marc was delighted to think that he would be reunited with Duke, Connie, and especially Matthew once again, upon his passing. In fact, he was able to put Matthew in a place in his mind where he would finally experience some peace. The way he conceived of it, Matthew was no longer suffering, he was reconnected to the dogs, and Marc would be reunited with all three of them at some future point. He, like Joe in the previous story, was still beset with a host of other issues to contend with, including marital and financial challenges, but Matthew was settled. He described our imagery experience as “that thing we did,” and to this day will still say, “When we did that thing, I put Matthew on the Rainbow Bridge with Duke and Connie. I’m okay with that. I’ll see them all again someday… And I’ve never felt an ounce of guilt since that thing we did.”
Sacred Hearts
I like telling Marc’s story whenever it appears to be relevant. One such opportunity was at a meeting of a group called “Sacred Hearts” in a nearby town. The only way to gain entry to such a meeting is to have suffered the death of a child at any point in life, from a miscarriage all the way to the death of a sixty-three-year-old son from a massive heart attack. The meetings begin with every member telling the story of their child’s death until the room is thick with enough sadness to suffocate all the hope in the room…followed by a silence. When it is my turn, I realize that the speaker is supposed to offer the audience some semblance of peace after their tragedies. Never before had I felt such an intimidating responsibility. Parts of me wanted to feign sickness and bolt for the exit.
Of course, I didn’t run. Instead, I chose to explain that their sadness was commensurate with their losses—the greater the love, the greater the sadness. And that holding onto the sadness was a way to hold onto the loved one. I also told them that the goal as I understood it was to hold onto the beautiful memories, stories, etc. provided by the loved one while accepting that they were gone now and would not be returning to Planet Earth. And then I told them about Marc’s story and his imaginary meeting with Matthew and the dogs. I reminded them that Marc’s guilt was his way to keep Matthew around. and that when Marc released them to the Rainbow Bridge, his guilt was no longer necessary.
And then two beautiful and affirming things happened to me: First, I received a standing ovation for the first and only time in a career chock full of speaking engagements and flattering responses. Secondly, I received the following in the mail, several days later:
Dear Dr. Cortman:
Please accept my sincere thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule to speak at our Sacred Hearts meeting. I want you to know that I found great comfort and wisdom in your words. I lost my son, Derek, in September 2008 to an accidental drug overdose. He had just turned eighteen, and he died in his own bed in my home on my watch. I have been suffocating in guilt. I am nowhere near ready to let myself off the hook for this, but after hearing you speak, I think I better understand why I need that guilt.
We do things because at some level there’s a payoff. At this stage, beating myself up with guilt is preferable, thank you very much, compared to accepting the loss. And maybe that simple understanding will someday lead me to a better place than I am right now.
I truly believe you are a gifted healer and I thank you so much for sharing that with our group.
Sincerely,
Nan
Reframing and releasing have a complicated, intertwined relationship. At some times, releasing the pain in the past is sufficient for healing, while at other times, it may feel like there is a barrier to releasing. Reframing your thoughts, beliefs, feelings, and behaviors may need to occur before releasing. Thought and beliefs like, “I should have or could have” often are a barrier to releasing and accepting, as they breed feelings of guilt. The next chapter on reframing will explain why these feelings and beliefs need to be reframed.
Chapter Seven
Reframe: Reclaim Your Life
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“They say time will heal the pain, but it just goes on forever.”
—38 Special
Reframe
Okay, I get it. Things have been very heavy for you thus far, reading about molestation, rape, dying children, and gross-you-out combat scenes. But what if the worst thing in your life is a broken heart and a crumbled romance? What if your pain in the past is about the one that got away? Trauma is trauma. Everything I’ve written up to this point applies to your emotional hurt, whether it was a ten or a one on the trauma scale. Obviously, the more horrific the event, the more impact it’s likely to have. Nonetheless, even more common, less catastrophic traumas can have a huge impact on your life, as the following example illustrates.
Nate is that guy who never had much “game” with women. Ladies described him as a truly great guy, and they loved him to pieces, but only as a friend. As a result, he lived his adult years “perpetually trapped in the friend zone.”
But there is one woman, Angela, he likes to talk about, even now, fourteen years after she ended their “fling”—it was never anything more than a friendship and a drunken kiss one evening that took her by surprise. For Nate, this was the woman of his dreams, the one he should have married. Something went wrong, he believes, and he blew his best opportunity to be happy.
It’s remarkable how sad he becomes when thinking about Angela and the children they never had together. Given that they had no more than three dates and no sexual relationship, nor any committed partnership, how does this sadness persist so powerfully in Nate’s mind?
All behavior is purposeful and goal-oriented, and you do nothing without a purpose or a goal. Stated another way, everything you do meets a need, and everything you keep meets some perceived need, or you wouldn’t keep it. Take a minute to go look in your closet and see if you can donate five articles of clothing to charity. Can you do seven? Ten? What are you basing your decision upon? Probably one very important criterion: you will keep all the clothes you believe you will wear again and discard the ones you think you won’t. It’s that simple. But it’s true about your emotions as well. You hold on to things you need emotionally to help to define your life as you have.46
Nate, for instance, had the most joyous, rapturous couple of weeks in his entire life while sharing those few dates with Angela. He has experienced nothing before or since then that approximates the feelings he felt for her.
As I’ve emphasized, everything you do is about trying to improve, control, or manipulate your feelings. Nate is holding on to Angela in a desperate effort to maintain hope of again experiencing those feelings as in the time of life when he was happiest. Ironically, holding onto the memory of Angela—they are not in touch—does not afford him those rapturous feelings and hasn’t since the breakup. Instead, thoughts of Angela now provide nothing but sadness and self-deprecation.
Mr. Avoidance, At It Again.
So why keep those feelings? It’s simple, actually. To let go of those feeli
ngs is to let go of Angela, and to let go of Angela is to give up the possibility of feeling those rapturous, happy feelings again. Remember Mr. Avoidance? Nate is avoiding releasing Angela because keeping her on a lofty pedestal is superior to feeling lonely, defeated, and rejected. Maintaining the Angela fantasy prevents Nate from feeling his worst feelings. Nate is not going to say goodbye to Angela until he meets someone else who “makes [him] feel that way” again.
Mr. Avoidance can have especially deleterious effects on the ability or opportunity to reframe your thinking. Without possessing the opportunity to adjust your thinking in some way, these beliefs solidify over time. Because Nate had not spoken about his relationship with Angela (or lack thereof) with someone, he didn’t give himself the chance for someone in his life to help him come to the awareness that he and Angela did not, in fact, have a romantic relationship (as you’ll remember in the Express chapter, expression of feelings ideally should be shared with someone else). The consequence: he had placed Angela on a pedestal, and she wasn’t going to be removed from the pedestal until he remembered, felt, and finally expressed his feelings to another person before releasing them.
Imagine seeing a concrete truck with its ever-rolling cylinder of concrete. The cylinder must continue to rotate at all times to prevent the concrete in the truck from solidifying and hardening. Mr. Avoidance stops the cylinder from rotating, and because of this, whatever it is that you are telling yourself about the pain in the past becomes solidified and is believed by you, the sufferer. And it becomes your reality. If you believe something to be true, it is true to your nervous system. Try to convince a Flat Earth Society member that the Earth is round, or try to convince a staunch Republican or Democrat to switch political parties. Regardless of the validity or strength of your arguments, if another person believes, your efforts are likely to be futile. Mr. Avoidance prevents the other person from having the opportunity of altering that belief.
Keep Pain in the Past Page 10
