The Faraway-Nearby of Trauma and Loss

Six faces stared through cyberspace as our writing workshop began. In all the groups I've led lately, as part of an initiative aimed at helping health care workers and first responders find their way through grief, some stories linger in my mind. This time, an ER doctor spoke first.

“All year I saw COVID deaths. Most days I lost count,” he said. “I didn't want to tell my family the horrors I saw, so I tried to hide how wrecked I felt. Now that things are calmer—getting back to normal—I don't know how to find my way back to them.” He turned his head so we wouldn't see his tears.

The yellow Zoom box of another participant, a nurse's aide, lit up. “I can't get a conversation out of my head, and it replays over and over, driving me crazy,” she said. “A patient's husband was holding the phone to her ear. I don't think she was even conscious, but I heard her daughter weeping, telling her mama goodbye, that she loves her.” Now the aide was crying too.

Until now, in the face of exhaustion, terror, and hopelessness, these people simply carried on, with no time to think about all that they were experiencing. What are they to do now?

I understand loss. In thirty-plus years as a psychotherapist, I have heard stories of trauma, despair, and pain. Witnessing a horror or experiencing a trauma can silence us, leaving us unmoored, alienated from those we need and love most. But giving words to the unspeakable, to all we have lost, is necessary. This is what happened to me, we need to say.

Nobody can undo the pain and sorrow these health care workers and many of the rest of us have experienced this past year. But I've found that storytelling is one way through.

Writing enables us to step back and reflect on the “before and after” of trauma and loss. It's healing to create a narrative of what has happened to us, to find the words to replace the silent fear, anxiety, and pain we all feel. I've come to understand t