Ripples of Loss
Last night.
I was sick for the first time since Carlos died. Where was he? I anticipated gloom until I realized that Buenos Aires’ pharmacies are first aid stations.
I would not have anticipated what happened when the pharmacist was trying to help meā¦!
This morning.
I am at Dos Escudos; someone brought a baby in his carriage. No wonder I like this Buenos Airesā ambiance with a mix of people of all ages hereāwe are all neighbors here.
MartĆn, the server, has been spying on my typing, so heās figured out that I speak English. I note he likes to befriend me. Although servers are very nice in this city, MartĆn slightly crosses a barrierāacting with more than the usual familiarity.
I am feeling naughty ā¦
Therapy.
Ringing the bell of office 34 marks the beginning of my weekly internal adventure.
I ask Dr. Novelli if I am working through my grief as I should. āIāve been wondering. How would I know? ā¦ How far in the stages of grief process am I?ā ā¦ I learn how uninformed I am.
The fear of forgetting Carlos has hounded me since he died. When I donāt cry I feel afraid that I will eventually forget him. My anxieties
are natural ripples of grief. Yet I learn unconscious dynamics behind the fear of forgetting Carlos.
As I exit the office I walk along the narrow hallway on the 3 rd floor and call the āminiature āelevator. I gave it that name because it is cozy enough for one and a half persons. Today, it is just adequate for me and the ripples of guilt that undulate in circles around me
I walk under the tall tipa trees that border the sidewalks of Buenos Aires. I remember a friend said to me: āBeing alone must have been difficult for you.ā She cried. I could not cry. I felt guilty that no tears rolled down my cheeks. After this experience with Pamela, I wrote a poem.
She leans over and
hugs an earlier me.
My story having
broken her down.
