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I was busy chopping vegetables for soup when I returned a call from the hospital social worker concerning my patient, Helen. I had made similar calls countless times before. At 78, Helen battled various health issues and frequently found herself in the hospital for short stays. But this call felt different. The social worker’s words struck me like a blow: “Your patient; she passed away today from Covid.”
The knife slipped from my grasp, clattering onto the cutting board as I succumbed to overwhelming grief. How could Helen, the vibrant woman I had known for so long, be gone in just five days? Amidst the chaos of my children’s voices filling the house, I could barely comprehend her loss. “How?” I repeated to the social worker, searching for answers.
Helen was my very first patient during my internship, a pivotal moment in my journey to becoming a psychologist. She had wiry gray hair and striking blue eyes, reminiscent of a clear sky. During our first session, I asked her if anyone truly understood her. After a long pause, she replied, “No, I don’t think anyone has ever really gotten me,” before breaking down in tears.
For nearly two decades, we explored that very question in our weekly therapy sessions and group trauma treatments. I spent so much time with her that I could trace the veins on her hands from memory. “He’s like a piece of furniture,” she once joked about her second husband, “just there, I should dust him when I dust the armoire.” Her laughter was infectious, yet it often masked deeper sorrows.
Helen once called me from the emergency room after enduring abuse from her husband. “I’m done. I’m moving on from him now. I’m telling you so you can hold me accountable,” she said, her voice shaky. I promised her that I would. The following week in group therapy, she bore the marks of her struggle—bruises and pain—but still, she wore her resilience like armor. “It’s okay, I’m from Texas. We always land on our feet.”
Her childhood was marred by the duality of love and betrayal, as she navigated a relationship with a father who both nurtured her spirit and inflicted deep scars. “I don’t know how to be angry at him,” she confided. “How do you hold anger for someone who was also the only person who ever showed you tenderness?”
Years passed, and Helen’s unresolved traumas remained a constant beat in her life. She longed for connection but often pushed those around her away. The pandemic exacerbated her struggles, leading to more outbursts of anger. Just weeks before her passing, the social worker called me to confirm she was ready for discharge. “Are you sure?” she asked, her disbelief evident. My heart sank, knowing Helen’s anger had reached a boiling point yet again.
Despite her tumultuous life, my memories of Helen are filled with warmth and hope. Her laughter resonated like a flower blooming in the aftermath of a fire. Through her, I learned to confront my own vulnerabilities and seek out beauty amidst the chaos of life. She often found joy in the simplest moments, marveling at the world around her. Her perceptiveness extended beyond herself; she would often check in on me, sensing when I needed support.
After my own divorce, Helen was the only one who noticed my new ring and its significance. “Good for you, honey,” she said, acknowledging my journey. When I faced a miscarriage, she instinctively respected my space, sending me a poem about loss that I still cherish.
Helen’s spirit, filled with light and resilience, will forever be etched in my heart. Our time together taught me about the profound connections we can form, even in the face of pain. She viewed life as a precious gift, and for me, she was the greatest gift of all.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the profound impact of losing a first patient, Helen, who exemplified resilience and joy despite her traumatic past. Through therapy, a deep bond formed, leading to mutual growth and understanding. Helen’s spirit and laughter continue to inspire, highlighting the beauty found in life’s struggles.