The Coal Miner

It is a cloudy Saturday the weekend before Thanksgiving. My boyfriend, Robert, and I are walking out of Henrico Doctors Hospital after visiting his mother, Cabell, who is recovering from a hip fracture. Seeing his mother in such a fragile state does not faze Robert, as his formative years were deeply influenced by Cabell’s frequent hospital stays due to various health issues. Robert copes with humor, joking that his family should have a wing dedicated to them thanks to the insurance revenue his mother’s hospitalizations generate. 

I, on the other hand, am feeling unmoored given my traumatic memories from my experiences in the same hospital. Almost six years ago, I gave birth to my son via a harrowing emergency c-section after being involved in a car accident. As we pass the pharmacy tucked away to the side of the entrance, it is hard to ignore the distressing memories from just 10 months prior, of securing shots of methotrexate—a drug used to treat cancer—my OBGYN prescribed to resolve a non-viable pregnancy of unknown location. Robert and I had only been dating for three months at that point, but experiencing such an immensely painful event together fortified our relationship akin to the solidarity of soldiers who fight alongside one another in battle. 

Yet, as we begin our drive home, neither of us desires to delve into such weighty subject matters. Our conversation quickly drifts to the housing market and the outrageous price tags for the small, two-bedroom homes we are driving past, driven solely by their prime location in the highly sought-after West End. I wonder aloud about how tiny the closets must be, while Robert shares his bigger concern: the cramped, pocket-sized bathrooms like the one in our Bon Air tri-level, where his knees touch the door whenever he sits. Laughing at the image that springs to mind, I tease him, saying, “I get it, babe; the bathroom is a man’s sanctuary.”

Over dinner, I share with Robert my realization of my family’s dysfunctional relational dynamics which I now attribute as a major factor in my recent mental health struggles. Writing, I express to him, is my therapeutic outlet to process the trauma of my emotionally chaotic childhood, divorce, and single motherhood. My hope is that by sharing my stories publicly, I can normalize authentic vulnerability, helping others who are struggling to not feel as alone in their suffering. I weigh the benefits and drawbacks to sharing my story in its raw truth, versus fictionalizing it to add a layer of separation between my real life and the reader. Robert is listening, yet I sense something is off with him given the stoic look on his face. “Can I say something without you getting offended?” he asks. “Alright,” I say with trepidation. “Obsessing over the past is very unhealthy; you need to move on,” he says bluntly. 

I feel as though he punched me in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. Instantaneously, I launch into fight or flight mode, jumping up from the table, running outside, and burst into tears. Realizing I should not draw unwanted attention from my neighbors, I move to the backyard where I quietly sob while sitting on Rowan’s Paw Patrol Roller Coaster. Switching gears to fight mode, I storm inside, hastily rushing past Robert as he calls for me to talk to him. He follows me into my office where I erupt in rage, defending my need to process my past or risk experiencing another mental health breakdown. 

Robert counters my rage, raising his voice and warns me that I am pushing him away.  “Fine, go ahead and leave then,” I huff as I run into our pocket bathroom. I collapse on the floor, lean against the wall, and prop my feet up against the opposite wall. Robert follows me into the bathroom, sits on the toilet, angling his knees diagonally toward me. As I am sobbing, Robert calmly encourages me to take deep breaths. I respond in defiance, “I don’t want to; just let me have my five-year-old tantrum moment.” He lets out a slight chuckle and says, “I’m sorry for how I expressed my concern; please know it was out of love but lacking in tactfulness.” I take a deep breath, and retort in a playful tone, “Is that the position you poop in?” With that olive branch of a joke, the fight is over. 

Robert helps me get up from the floor, and lovingly says, “Babe, why don’t you freshen up, you look like a coal miner.”  As I look in the mirror, gazing at my mascara-streaked face, canaries in coal mines pop into my mind. In the 19th century, canaries played crucial roles in protecting coal miners by detecting carbon monoxide—an odorless, colorless, and toxic gas. Since then, the development and use of personal protective equipment (PPE), such as respirators, now protect miners from deadly hazards. 

Reflecting on the way a blunt, but well intentioned, comment set me over the edge, it hits me that Robert is my canary in the coal mine. He sounds the alarm when I am digging too deep into my traumatic past without wearing my PPE. The core feature of my mental health PPE is the principle of radical acceptance, rooted in Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT) that involves fully and completely accepting reality as it is, without resistance, judgement, or denial. By implementing this practice, I acknowledge the facts of past trauma, removing blame—thereby draining the traumatic memories of their power to define my identity and control my future. 

As I gently wipe away the mascara streaks from my face, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the hardships I have endured. For I now see that out of my suffering, I have developed an unwavering sense of perseverance that refined my character, giving me the courage to audaciously hope for the restoration of my wholeness. So, the next time I hear the canary sing, I will put on my respirator and forge ahead into an unknown future, knowing that when there is darkness, there is always light on the other side.