The silence was deafening
Yesterday the room was quiet.
Bags filled the empty space on the floor.
Teenagers sat beside parents on the couches.
Parents looked through the leaflets and materials they'd received.
The silence in the room was deafening.
Yesterday morning while I sat in the waiting room on the couch for to meet with our Dietician I felt the weight of all that was transpiring. New residents were arriving, and all I could do was to feel the heaviness, anxiousness, sense of loneliness rising up from the silence.
Wetness rose in my eyes from the feelings of knowing. I understood some of the heartaches that had led them to this moment. I understood how long the day would be for both them and their child. I understood the questions that lie beneath the surface but would not receive an answer. I understand having to turn your child over to people with whom you had never met; trusting that this would be the answer, that this would lead to health and a new journey.
The silence was deafening.
I wanted to reach over to the mom sitting with her daughter and simply say this is all going to be Ok, we are in this together. I wanted to say you are not alone. I wanted to her look up and let me catch her eye and reach out to touch her because the heaviness of the day was simply too much. I knew because I had sat where they were sitting.
37 days ago we sat on that couch and today I'm still coming to sit on the couch but am in a different place.
No longer in silence but in openness.
No longer sad but joyful.
No longer afraid but comforted.
No longer in loneliness but in solidarity.
No longer full of uncertainty and hopeless but filled with hope and a lamp lighting the way.
Whether it's an eating disorder, a mental illness, a death and grief of a loved one, the loss of a job, a difficult diagnosis, I believe that we all find ourselves sitting in on a couch. We find ourselves feeling alone, uncertain of the future, wanting to avert our eyes because someone might see our pain, lonely and maybe a bit hopeless.
Yet if we look up there is someone else sitting on the couch with us.
Perhaps they are where we are, perhaps a step behind or in front of us but if we look up perhaps we will see that while the silence is deafening there is hope. Perhaps when we find ourselves sitting on the couch we are the ones who are there to share compassion and empathy with the people sitting across from us because they are beginning a journey that we just might understand. Perhaps when we find ourselves sitting on the couch in a waiting room we can let go of the shame and guilt we feel and look up to let someone catch our eye to affirm that we are not alone, they get it; they understand it.
Sitting on the couch is never easy but the silence can be replaced with conversation and community. The heaviness can be replaced with wings that allow you to soar to new heights and feet that allow you to climb the tallest mountain. The uncertainty can be replaced with a sense of confidence in standing in the moment and not rushing to the future. The heartache can lead to growth.
Bags filled the empty space on the floor.
Teenagers sat beside parents on the couches.
Parents looked through the leaflets and materials they'd received.
The silence in the room was deafening.
Yesterday morning while I sat in the waiting room on the couch for to meet with our Dietician I felt the weight of all that was transpiring. New residents were arriving, and all I could do was to feel the heaviness, anxiousness, sense of loneliness rising up from the silence.
Wetness rose in my eyes from the feelings of knowing. I understood some of the heartaches that had led them to this moment. I understood how long the day would be for both them and their child. I understood the questions that lie beneath the surface but would not receive an answer. I understand having to turn your child over to people with whom you had never met; trusting that this would be the answer, that this would lead to health and a new journey.
The silence was deafening.
I wanted to reach over to the mom sitting with her daughter and simply say this is all going to be Ok, we are in this together. I wanted to say you are not alone. I wanted to her look up and let me catch her eye and reach out to touch her because the heaviness of the day was simply too much. I knew because I had sat where they were sitting.
37 days ago we sat on that couch and today I'm still coming to sit on the couch but am in a different place.
No longer in silence but in openness.
No longer sad but joyful.
No longer afraid but comforted.
No longer in loneliness but in solidarity.
No longer full of uncertainty and hopeless but filled with hope and a lamp lighting the way.
Whether it's an eating disorder, a mental illness, a death and grief of a loved one, the loss of a job, a difficult diagnosis, I believe that we all find ourselves sitting in on a couch. We find ourselves feeling alone, uncertain of the future, wanting to avert our eyes because someone might see our pain, lonely and maybe a bit hopeless.
Yet if we look up there is someone else sitting on the couch with us.
Perhaps they are where we are, perhaps a step behind or in front of us but if we look up perhaps we will see that while the silence is deafening there is hope. Perhaps when we find ourselves sitting on the couch we are the ones who are there to share compassion and empathy with the people sitting across from us because they are beginning a journey that we just might understand. Perhaps when we find ourselves sitting on the couch in a waiting room we can let go of the shame and guilt we feel and look up to let someone catch our eye to affirm that we are not alone, they get it; they understand it.
Sitting on the couch is never easy but the silence can be replaced with conversation and community. The heaviness can be replaced with wings that allow you to soar to new heights and feet that allow you to climb the tallest mountain. The uncertainty can be replaced with a sense of confidence in standing in the moment and not rushing to the future. The heartache can lead to growth.
Your post tales me back to July 1996 in ICU at Centennial Medical Center. I did not look up but a young wife in her 20s sat down next to me, put her are on my shoulder, and simply said, “We, too, are here.” That moment of kindness led to a friendship I will never forget and always cherish. Thinking of you. Thanks for sharing.
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