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As I chopped carrots for soup, I received a call from a hospital social worker about my patient, Emily. I had been in similar situations numerous times before. At 78, Emily faced numerous health challenges and was frequently hospitalized. However, this time felt different. The social worker’s blunt words struck me: “Your patient passed away today from Covid.”
The knife fell from my hand onto the cutting board as I broke down in tears: deep, uncontrollable sobs. How could it be that Emily had succumbed to Covid in just five days since our last conversation? Amidst the chaos of my thoughts, I could hear my young child whining and my teenager calling out from the hallway, but I couldn’t respond. “How?” I kept asking the social worker, desperate for answers.
Emily was my first patient during my internship, a year before I earned my psychology doctorate. With wiry, grey hair and striking blue eyes, she had a unique presence. In our initial session, I posed a question that lingered between us for nearly two decades: was there anyone who truly understood her? After a moment, she replied, “No, I don’t think anyone has ever really gotten me,” and then she wept.
Over the years, I sat across from her weekly, absorbing her stories and struggles. I became familiar with the veins on her hands, and I would have recognized them anywhere. Emily once described her second husband as “a piece of furniture,” joking about how he was merely there in her life, as she cackled.
Her laughter was a bright light, but it often masked the storm of emotions underneath. I remember the time she called me from the emergency room after her husband had assaulted her. “I’m done. I’m moving on from him now,” she declared, her voice strained. I promised to support her in that decision.
In group therapy, she shared her experiences, always with a mix of strength and vulnerability. “It’s okay, I’m from Texas. We always land on our feet,” she said, even as her life was filled with turmoil and pain. The scars of her past haunted her, stemming from childhood trauma that she gradually began to unravel with my help.
After years of therapy, she asked me if I had known about her abuse during that first session. “I think I did,” I admitted, recognizing the deep connection we had formed. Our relationship blurred the lines of therapist and patient; she needed me, and I grew to love her.
Emily found joy in the smallest things, like a cherry blossom branch or a bargain at a bookstore. She had an innate ability to find beauty even amid heartbreak. Yet, her unresolved traumas cast a long shadow, complicating her relationships and leading to conflict with those around her.
As the isolation of Covid exacerbated her anger, I was called upon to provide guidance. Despite her struggles, Emily still radiated hope and resilience. Her laughter and spirit taught me to acknowledge both my own brokenness and the beauty in life.
In the end, she withdrew from most people in her life, relying on me as her anchor. My memories of her are filled with light, laughter, and the lessons she imparted about love, loss, and the importance of being “gotten.”
Emily was a gift in my life, and her absence leaves a profound void.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the profound impact of losing a first patient, Emily, who navigated the complexities of trauma and resilience throughout her life. It highlights the deep emotional connection formed between the therapist and patient, exploring themes of hope, heartbreak, and the beauty of life amidst pain.
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