As I chopped carrots for a pot of soup, I returned a call from the hospital social worker regarding my patient, Helen. I had made calls like this many times before. At 78, Helen faced numerous health challenges and was frequently hospitalized. But this time, the news was different. The social worker delivered the devastating message: “Your patient; she passed away today from Covid.”
The knife clattered to the cutting board as I was overcome with grief, sobbing uncontrollably. In the brief span since our last conversation, Helen had succumbed to the virus? I struggled to comprehend how this could be true. The noise of my five-year-old’s whining and my teenager’s voice echoed in the background, but I couldn’t respond. “How?” I kept asking the social worker. “How is that possible?”
Helen was the first patient assigned to me during my internship, a year prior to earning my doctorate in psychology. With her wiry, grey hair and striking blue eyes, she made an immediate impression. In our first session, I had asked her if anyone truly understood her. After a moment of silence, she replied, “No, I don’t think anyone has ever really gotten me,” before breaking down in tears.
For the next 19 years, we explored that question during our weekly therapy sessions and group trauma treatments. I sat across from her long enough to memorize the veins on her hands; I would have recognized those hands anywhere. “He’s like a piece of furniture,” she once joked about her second husband. “He’s just there, I should dust him when I dust the armoire.” Her laughter was bright yet tinged with underlying sadness.
Helen reached out to me from the emergency room after her husband attacked her, not for the first time. “I’m done. I’m moving on from him now. I’m telling you, so you can hold me accountable.” Her voice was strained. I assured her I would. The following week, she arrived at group with a bruise on her forehead, the result of an altercation that left her with cracked ribs. “It’s ok, I’m from Texas. We always land on our feet,” she reassured us, refusing to be pitied.
Growing up, her mother often told her to hide her smile because of her crooked teeth, but it was her father who nurtured her vibrant spirit—until he turned that love into years of abuse. It took her years of therapy to confront the reality of her past. “I don’t know how to be angry at him,” she said once, confounded. “How do you hold anger for someone who was also the only person who ever showed you tenderness?”
As Helen navigated her relationships, particularly with men, I encouraged her to revisit her trauma. “But why would I want to do that? I’m doing just fine without remembering all of that,” she protested. Yet, I knew that marrying abusive partners was far from fine. Over time, she began to unravel her past, seeking to understand her pain.
She often wondered if her father had ever regretted his actions or if she had simply been unimportant to him. I once left our session feeling the weight of her words, blinking against the brightness of the day, overwhelmed by the intensity of her truth.
A few years later, Helen asked if I had known about her past from our very first session. I hesitated before admitting, “I think I did.” She nodded knowingly; it was an unspoken connection that defined our relationship. Our bond transcended the typical patient-therapist dynamic—she needed me deeply, and I grew to love her in return.
Helen saw beauty everywhere, from a cherry blossom branch she discovered outside my office to her excitement over finding a rare set of Emily Dickinson books for just five dollars. She loved stories and coaxed them from others in group therapy, her genuine interest drawing people in. I once asked her if she realized how remarkable it was that she had built a life after all she had endured. She replied, “No, I never thought I would live past 20. I just keep putting one foot in front of the other. So, it’s all a gift.”
Her insight ran deep. “Sarah, you don’t look happy. Are you sure marriage agrees with you?” she once asked, her perception rarely off the mark. Helen had predicted my divorce long before I could accept it myself. After my wedding ring came off, she noticed and offered her approval with a smile.
When I suffered a miscarriage, she sensed my need for space and sent me a poem about loss instead of asking questions. One line resonated deeply: “I remember to breathe, I continue to rise, up where the sun, or the stars grace the sky.”
Despite her struggles, Helen found joy in the world around her. Leaving my office was always difficult for her; she detested goodbyes. We eventually established a routine, with me standing by the door to open it for her. Each time, she would gather her belongings, her face a mix of panic and reluctance.
Throughout her life, unresolved traumas lingered, shaping her relationships and fueling her anger, especially during the isolation of Covid. The social worker recently reached out to discuss Helen’s discharge, her disbelief evident. The truth was, her anger had become more pronounced, pushing away nearly everyone in her life, even the grocery store manager who had supported her for years.
Yet, my lasting memory of Helen is one of hope. Her laughter was a resilient bloom, a testament to her spirit. Through our journey together, I learned to embrace my own vulnerabilities and to seek beauty amidst the chaos of life. Helen viewed existence as a precious gift; to me, she was the greatest gift of all.
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Summary:
In a heartfelt reflection, I mourn the loss of my first patient, Helen, who passed away from Covid. Over 19 years of therapy, we explored her traumatic past and her journey toward healing. Despite her struggles, Helen radiated joy and resilience, teaching me to appreciate the beauty in life. Her laughter and spirit will remain with me forever, reminding me of the profound connections we forge through our shared experiences.