My therapist died. I had a session with him on Thursday. He had a fatal heart attack on Saturday. On Tuesday I got an email with the bad news.
The thing is, I loved my therapist. Over a period of 18 months, he had helped me through feelings of depression 
and anxiety, and then midway through our time together, I was diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer.
Working with him I had identified the treatment option best for me and undergone the first two surgeries. Now, I had two surgeries to go. How would I minimize my anxiety without the benefit of John’s expertise?
He was the first therapist I’d tried. His website pictured him standing in front of choppy, gray Puget Sound with an evergreen behind him, and he specialized in Jungian techniques and treatment without medication. In our first session together I sank into a well-worn, velveteen couch and rested my feet on a cushy Oriental rug. I breathed in the subtle aroma of spicy incense and watched leafy tree branches bow outside one window. John’s blue eyes twinkled as he asked, “So…what brings you here?”
I immediately spilled my guts and felt an instantaneous connection, probably due to projecting my feelings onto him. Over the months I saw him, I learned he had written a few books, but he rarely spoke about himself. I didn’t know him; he knew me. This was a big part of the reason I loved him. To me, he was the epitome of the wise old man on the mountaintop. He was 69 with a PhD, years of experience in his field and in life, and I trusted him enough to reveal the depths of my psyche—both the rational and the embarrassingly irrational parts I could barely admit to myself.
I felt I was on the verge of shaping an authentic life for myself—belief by belief, thought by thought, and action by action. He validated my progress and I carefully recorded my dreams, which we interpreted together.
Now, he was gone. Boom. No gradual illness, no transition to another counselor, no passing on of notes about my progress, nothing. I felt hopeless, lost, alone—my journey interrupted.
After learning of John’s death I cried for days, especially when a thought arose that I would normally want to capture to discuss with him. I stopped journaling, stopped recording my dreams. I ordered his books on Amazon and books on Jungian philosophy, and read voraciously.
I grieved both the loss of this man and the possibility that my personal growth would be stunted. I knew no other therapist possessed all the qualities that made him such a good fit for me. He excelled at catch-phrases I could easily recall when I began spiraling into old patterns of anxiety or a tendency to please others. “It may be difficult, but I am okay.” “Avoid absolutes; instead, think ‘I would prefer….’” “Don’t limit yourself in any way.”
Several weeks passed, and as the shock and sadness began to subside, and the date of my next surgery approached, I started referring back to my journal. I pored through my notes, looking for the glimmers of insight that had emerged from our sessions.
Like what you’re reading? Sign up now to get Whole Life Times free bimonthly issues e-mailed to your inbox.
On the last page of the journal, in our final session, I noted that we had discussed a dream I’d had of living in a luxurious mansion with a staff of a dozen or so beautiful women assisting me. After mining possible meanings, we’d concluded together that the dream signified I already had all the resources I needed to achieve a rich, fulfilling life.
Here it was in black and white. In our last session, two days before he died, John had given me the message I needed to help me through his death. I had everything I needed to complete the next leg of my journey of self-discovery and authenticity. I was not lacking in any way. It was my journey and I owned it.
I closed the journal with a sense of relief, logged onto my computer and googled therapists, and met with my top pick later that week. She has similar schooling to John and similar areas of expertise, but she’s not John, and that’s okay with me. John gave me what I needed for the first phase of my journey, and now I’m ready to tackle the next.
4 Comments
Thank you for this article. My therapist died in December. I’d been working with her for 35 years. The grief has been enormous but I’m making it. Was good to read someone going through similar feelings.
I am uninsured. I found a therapist at a sliding scale church run clinic that I could get to on the bus cuz I have no car and walking is painful cuz of untreated orthopedic problems. In Texas there is little or no help for people like me.
I got a call from my therapist’s partner 2 days ago and I was not home and listened to the voicemail a couple of hours ago. I am besides myself. I am too upset for words. He understood me. So few do. My old dog is dying and I had hoped he could help me through it. My dog has been with me 12 years longer that most people. My therapist died Saturday. Suddenly. I feel so sick I could not go to work. I have dressed myself head to toe and wrapped myself in three blankets and turned the thermostat to 68. I want to find a small space to crawl into but my healthy dog already has the closet.
The therapist/psychiatrist I worked with when I experienced the most severe symptoms of my life from BiPolar 1, passed away suddenly. She had helped me to understand the disorder and brought me back to being a stable, functional and healthy person when the illness was new to me and I wasn’t sure that would be possible. I worked with her for several years and she tried to help me gain acceptance of the disorder. I was sixteen when she died. I felt terrible that there was nothing I could do to help her after all that she had been able to do for me. She was very kind and compassionate towards me. When I was very ill and afraid to be hospitalized due to the past trauma I’d experienced she offered to treat me through in home care at a time when that was rarely done. She came to my parents home with a colleague trained as a psychiatric nurse and tried to make me smile by showing off her retro black doctors bag ( something she knew would usually make me laugh). She found ways to bill the insurance for these services and others while working with my family’s financial situation. She guided me gently into remission. One day we got a call from her colleague who had joined her on the home visits, my case would be transferred to this colleague. I attended the funeral, it was a cold autumn day. I saw her colleague there who gave me big hug. We had a unique beginning to our sessions. I can’t imagine counseling a teen professionally while mourning the same person. It was supposed to be a temporary match but there was a strong bond created in that strange beginning and I continued to work with her for many years. I owe both of these women a deep gratitude for teaching myself and my family how to live normal lives despite mental illness.
I just lost my therapist of 23 years. She died in her sleep just hours after I talked to her on the phone where she sounded uncharacteristically tired. I told her all my childhood secrets of physical and sexual abuse by my alcoholic father. I told her all about the worst parts of me and yet she still thought I was worthwhile. She took my calls and calmed my fears. She was everything to me. I am afraid to go on without her.