Post 12: A Personal Breakthrough

A year after Rex died, I enrolled in a master’s program in counseling. Before I could begin the program itself, I had to complete a prerequisite course in biopsychology.

The name alone was intimidating, although I held out some hope that the emphasis would be on the psychology part. Then I opened the textbook. The first page had diagrams of cells and words like mitochondria. There were no discussions of behavior, no theories. It was pure biology, and it was clear we were not getting to the psychology anytime soon.

It was the same material that had haunted me in fifth and ninth grades, and again during my freshman year of college, exactly forty years earlier. The moment I opened the book, those old frustrations came rushing back. But I was not the same person. I was fifty-eight years old. I had raised four children. I was preparing to begin a master's program and had survived my first year as a widow. Surely, I could handle this class.

Because of COVID restrictions, we had only one live lecture each week on Zoom. Everything else, including labs, was self-directed. I felt old, disconnected, and completely out of my element. But I was also thrilled to be back in school. And I have to admit that I loved telling people I was studying neuropsychology. So impressive.

The Reality Check

I kept putting off the first reading assignment. It was only one chapter. How difficult could it be? At 7:30 p.m. the night before class, I ran out of excuses. 

The moment I opened the book, reality hit. The print was tiny, the chapter was long, and nearly every page was filled with biology. I remembered that mitochondria were the powerhouse of the cell. That phrase rolled right off my tongue, but I could not have explained what it meant. Power for what? I barely understood what a cell did. Beyond that familiar phrase, the words stopped making sense.

At that moment, I missed Rex more than ever. He would have been thrilled that I was taking the class. He would have understood the material and would have been able to help me with it, no question. He would have loved seeing me finally lower my defenses and approach science with an open mind. He also would have teased me for somehow making it through college without learning something so fundamental.

We had had similar conversations before, so I knew exactly how he would respond. He would have been shocked to learn how difficult this was for me. Then he would have been proud that I was doing it anyway.

Instead, I sat alone, staring at words I did not want to learn.

I had to force myself not to escape to the hot tub. I gave myself a version of the same lecture I used to give my piano students: "Yes, this is painful. But you have run out of time. Read the assignment. This degree—the one you have dreamed of for years—depends on it. Stay put until it makes sense. Copy every word if you have to. Cell basics are the foundation of this class. There are no shortcuts.”

And then a new thought surfaced, one I had not dared to consider before:

What if, this time, I actually understood it?

What if I could push past the fear and frustration and learn to enjoy biology instead of continuing to have nightmares about it?

That thought shifted something in me. For the first time, I was not merely enduring the material. I was opening myself to it. The subject that had overwhelmed me for most of my life became a challenge I might be capable of meeting.

The course remained demanding. Our professor warned us that it would require at least ten hours of study every week, and more for some students. I was definitely one of the “more” students. The cumulative tests were grueling, and the weekly assignments often felt impossible. I talked about the class with anyone willing to listen.

I also accepted help. Our professor offered Zoom office hours, and although I had rarely taken advantage of that kind of help in my earlier college years, I did this time. I met with him often. Each time, I felt a little less lost.

Mr. Rogers’s words came to mind: “Look for the helpers. There will always be helpers.” I had thought of them often after Rex died. They reminded me that I was not alone.

The material never stopped being hard. Every week pushed me beyond what I thought I could handle. Yet something unexpected happened: when I studied, my spirits lifted.

I felt frustrated, but I loved learning. I was overwhelmed, but I also felt capable. The struggle was real, and so was the sense of accomplishment.

I was experiencing something I had not believed possible during the earliest months of grief: two very different emotional realities could exist at the same time. I could miss Rex terribly and still be interested in what I was learning. I could be carrying tremendous sorrow and also feel proud of myself. 

Moments of energy, curiosity, and even joy did not cancel the grief.