Despite It All

Chapter 45

Six months later...

"And how does that make you feel?"

My eyes wander, mindlessly taking in these familiar surroundings. Calming, slate blue walls are decorated with white wainscoting, the contrast elegant and tastefully done. Several framed degrees are displayed proudly, their cherry wood borders thick and sturdy in appearance. An upscale bookcase covers most of the wall beside me, mountains of leather-bound texts arranged neatly on each shelf.

My gaze travels back to the person before me, the one subtly driving this conversation. Straight, blonde-ish hair rests neatly on her shoulders, perfectly framing her black-rimmed glasses. Soft, kind, piercing brown eyes observe me, patiently awaiting my response.

A puff of air escapes my mouth before honestly responding, "I guess a part of me does feel guilty, for loving my new job so much. Like I gave up on the kids who needed me most. Like I wasn't strong enough."

Dr. Brentwood nods slowly, providing a pause for me to continue, as she usually does. I've gotten better though, actually, at allowing the silence to linger. A few months ago, I couldn't stand the absence of sound—and I did everything in my power to fill it, unwilling to permit the stillness to subdue me into thinking too hard.

"But," I continue, "taking care of patients in the survivor clinic has been really good for me. I think... I think I needed to concentrate more on the perseverance than the struggle. It feels good to still be able to help the same population I love without sacrificing myself anymore. I'm slowly... I'm slowly accepting that I'm worth that. I deserve to be happy, too."

A small smile pulls at the corner of Dr. Brentwood's lips before she corrects herself, clearing her throat. I've been seeing her for almost six months now, and the road to self-awareness and acceptance has certainly been curvaceous and bumpy.

I'd like to think she's proud of me.

"And Logan?" She questions.

Now, it's my turn to smile.

"He's doing well. Some days are a little harder than others, but now I'd say it's mostly good days with the occasional bad one. We're able to... we're able to talk about her with a fondness, now—without inducing tears or too much grief. He actually," I chuckle lightly, "he brought home some dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets the other day, in her honor. They were her favorite. We looked at pictures of her—of us—as we ate them and laughed, smiling as we remembered her," I pause before continuing, "We even have a date night planned for tonight, and I'm really excited."

She nods again before carrying on, "So no more concerns like the ones you voiced in your session last week?"

I pause, a fiery ball of uncertainty bubbling deep in my gut, "I mean... I don't know. I do feel like he's been maybe, regressing a bit these last few weeks? I know he's been taking on extra projects at work but he just seems... preoccupied, I guess."

A sizable pause stretches between us, the taste of my words lingering on my tongue—and they're a little sour.

"Well, Ms. Allert, the process of coping with grief is certainly not linear, and as you know, everyone's path differs. Is he still talking to someone as well?"

I nod, "Yeah, he still sees his therapist as well—usually two to three times a month now. We both..." I look down, a blush creeping up my neck, "we both think deciding to pursue therapy is the best thing we could have done for ourselves, and for each other. We needed more."

"You've made excellent progress, Ms. Allert. I must say, I do think you're ready to scale back the frequency in which we see one another, but of course I will leave the decision up to you, ultimately."