Earth School

 

Nobody signs up for earth school, but it’s inevitable that we all matriculate. Nobody is exempt from the tutorials that are individually tailored to their unique curriculums, but some of us have our tasks delivered to us earlier than others, and some have the same lessons again and again because we never seem to learn.

I am a stellar student. I’ve always endeavored for excellence: never handed in assignments late, excelled in my expository and creative writing, found the most compelling ways to explain simple concepts, persevered, and strove to do well in subjects that eluded me.

In systematic subjects that required a more scientific grasp of the world, pride would sometimes get in the way and I’d wonder, “Why does everybody else understand this when I don’t?” And I wouldn’t speak up or get help. How foolish I now know that is. As a long-time teacher, I so love and appreciate those students who come to me for assistance, who don’t have chips on their shoulders, or pretend to know things when they don’t. These are the students who often end up excelling - because they ask for the help that they need, even when they're not even sure what to ask for.

I have been a most avid student of recovering from the excruciating loss of my daughter by suicide. From the first day, I asked my friend Rachel, who is a counselor, to give me eye movement desensitization and reprocessing therapy (EMDR), an approach that can help heal traumatic memories. She told me I wasn’t yet ready, and I resented that. I wanted to heal the first day. I didn’t want to suffer.

Within the first week, I was listening all night long to YouTube meditations and hypnosis sessions on reducing trauma, facing loss; I regressed myself to my inner child to find healing there; I found a brilliant therapist and made weekly appointments to go through all the hard stuff, even though I hated it. I would have done daily appointments if I could have.

I should be getting an A plus on this most challenging of graduate level courses. I don’t like to think of myself as a Type A person, but it appears I am. Give me a challenge, and I want to take it on. In this case, my challenge has been getting rid of the grief so I can access peace and acceptance and forgive my Emily for taking her life.

What I realise now, sadly, is that the challenge is not to get rid of the grief, but to feel it and face it head-on and to live through it. I hate that so much. Why isn’t there a magic formula I can follow? Why is it so creative and fluid and in no way linear or systematic? Why do I have to invent my own examination rather than take the same true or false test that everyone else dealing with a similar loss should be able to take, too? Then I could get 100 percent and just move on to the next challenge, which surely must be easier than this one. 

Oh, I wish it were that simple. Instead, it’s a rambling essay I must write that changes its thesis every few days and doesn’t seem to have a clear ending. It’s an invent-your-own-adventure novel that I don’t want to be writing at all. And also, why must I ask for help? Why can’t I just do this on my own, in the privacy of my blanket-smothered bed or tub of scalding water? Why do I have to share it and collaborate with others? I want to the how-to manual that will allow me to soldier through independently.

As I sit in the middle seat of the plane, on my way home from Mexico, surrounded by Canadian snowbirds also quiet in the knowledge of their return to rainier climes and more stark reality, I know that my earth school exam will be ongoing. I am grateful it has no time limit and that I don’t need to pass with flying colours. I just need to get through it. For those of you reading this, thank you for collaborating with me on this. It appears I can’t do it without you.