Author: Lindsey Staub
Art: Lu Fuhrmann
When my therapist died unexpectedly, I hoped I’d be invited to the funeral. We were no longer living in the same city and hadn’t been for two years, but I would drive my Jeep up the I-5, six hours alone with a malfunctioning radio, if it meant that I could see the other lives Dr. K touched.
The relationship between therapist and patient is unconventional: Dr. K knew my darkest thoughts, yet, for so long, I didn’t even know if she were married. I wondered about her life outside of our sessions constantly until I—four years into our relationship—confessed my obsession. In classic Dr. K fashion, these questions were not quickly and easily tidied up, which they could have been if she just told me what I wanted to know. Instead, we spent two long sessions discussing 1) what I wanted to know about her life (answer: did she have kids? A partner? Did she go to the same university as me? Up until then, I only knew she had a dog, who sometimes peaked his head into frame on our video calls) 2) why I wanted to know these things about her and 3) how I would feel after finding them out. Only once we analyzed the hell out of my questions did she finally answer them, and I was surprised by the elation I felt, finally able to see her as a full person. I told her that it sounded like she had a beautiful life and that I was so happy to be let in on it. That was the last thing I said to Dr. K. Before our next appointment, she died.
What do I do now?
To have such a limited context of the person who had such a huge impact on your life is in itself a strange dynamic that takes some getting used to. But then to lose that person—what do you do with that grief? Who do I share it with now that the one I yearn to go to, the one I always went to before, is gone?
I never did get an invite to her funeral—Dr. K had always been very strict in terms of HIPPA, which extended to her position postmortem. I never met her family, other patients, even colleagues she liked. To me, Dr. K is God-like, someone with whom my relationship was entirely one-sided, insular; someone that exists only in my mind. I don’t know anyone with whom I can share this grief.
I got the call from a covering colleague while I was in my bedroom in LA. I was supposed to meet with Dr. K in three days, and I had already planned all the things I was going to discuss: I was going to show her my haircut, cry over the foster dog I passed onto the shelter, and revisit the boy I couldn’t get out of my head. I was supposed to ask if my insurance had finally reached out to her. But that Monday, I was informed that, though she was comparatively young, her body had failed and she passed away. It was like being told a meteor was headed toward earth: shocking, devastating, leaving you wondering what do I do now?
The night I got the news, I took a walk around my neighborhood, passing strangers who averted their eyes when they made contact with my raw and puffy ones. I felt locked inside myself, overwhelmed and unsure of what to do. I texted a friend because I didn’t want to spend the night alone, and like how that foster dog I never told Dr. K about appeared at my front door, I was shepherded along the way by several friends until I arrived at my own safe house, where I slept in a friend’s bed for twelve hours.
She was my therapist for over four years, but I could’ve continued seeing her for the next forty, until both of us were gray and hunched-back. I could’ve continued seeing her forever.
As I drove to my parents’ home in Santa Barbara the next day, I was consumed with the kind of guilt and confusion I’d usually talk through with Dr. K. I felt dramatic taking bereavement leave. I felt cruel thinking only of myself. I questioned the validity of my feelings, which was something Dr. K and I talked about a lot—when I started seeing Dr. K for therapy, I believed that because my life was objectively good I didn’t deserve help—and now, a nauseating thought seeped into my mind: was I really this upset, or did I just want a couple days off work? I reminded myself that this was a trend of mine as I turned onto the I-10. It was a defense mechanism I learned, but it no longer had a place here. As I went over this in my head, I realized whose voice was coaching me through this feeling. I recognized it from the 200 hours I spent with her crying, laughing, complaining. I could hear it in all of its different inflections, in all of its tones, even while she spoke through a laugh after saying “excuse my French” on the rare occasion she cursed. It was Dr. K’s. It’s kind of the point of therapy, isn’t it? To recognize what your therapist would tell you when your feelings start to get the best of you. Over four years, she taught me about myself, and even in such a dark moment, I remembered those lessons.
I have been encouraged by nearly everyone in my life to find another therapist. My psychiatrist, the woman who called me to inform me about Dr. K’s death, my friends and family. They all agree: this is too much to shoulder alone. But I have been hesitant to reach out to someone new because this has felt like a journey with only room for me and Dr. K. To rehash all my history and get them up to speed, to sit through their questions that wouldn’t hit bullseye like Dr. K’s did, it all seems like too much. And the disappointment. God, the disappointment when this new therapist couldn’t live up to the one in my past. It is too much to bear. And yet I’ve been asked: Don’t you think Dr. K would want you to see someone new? And the answer is clear. It’s so obvious. Of course she would.
I haven’t made that step yet, though every day I feel closer to reaching out for a referral. The same person who has helped me through the toughest points of my life is now helping me move on, though she’s now just a voice in my head, and all my memories of her in her home office, a space that I never saw in person but can imagine was filled with love and her laugh and her brightness.
About the Author:
Lindsey Staub is a reader and writer living in Los Angeles. She writes about more of her life on her Substack, cryinginpublic.substack.com, and posts book reviews on her instagram, @Lindseylikesreading.