Recent events brought to the surface something I thought I’d explored and understood as part of my professional and personal life—acceptance that life isn’t fair, never has been and never will be. Too often the balance between pain and joy seems skewed toward the former and holding on takes all the courage I can muster.
Jessica was seventeen when she came to my office the summer before her senior year in high school. She was an honor student, award winning softball player, and at Saint Julians, a leader in the church youth group where she, her six siblings, and parents were members. She was strikingly beautiful, but the joy for living expressed in her eyes, smile, and overall demeanor made her attractive to peers and adults alike.
The week before our first appointment her mother mentioned to the school counselor that something seemed amiss with her daughter, nothing obvious, but her intuitive sense told her “something isn’t right.” Her counselor, Jake, a friend of mine, gave my name to her mother and with the mother’s permission called me and gave me some background information regarding changes the mother had noticed in Jessica’s behavior—weight loss and canceling commitments. Jessica agreed to meet with me, stating that she was interested in a career in the field of psychology.
Jessica drove herself to our initial session, a pattern that continued throughout the time we worked together. She talked openly about enjoying school, loving her family, excitement about her boyfriend, Gus, and hopes for graduation and acceptance at either UC Berkeley or Stanford University. She doubted whether she was good enough to play softball at either school but hoped a successful senior year would increase her chances.
When I asked if she believed her mother’s concerns had merit, she said no.
“My mom, who’s a great mom, worries about all of us,” she said on numerous occasions, “and we’re all okay. I’m doing fine, and I wish she’d stop, but I guess that’s what moms do.”
We had been seeing each other for three months, during which there were no red flags to suggest otherwise, when I reiterated the question, “Are you okay, and is it possible that your mother is picking up on something that you’re missing?”
Like her mother, I had begun to wonder if Jessica was hiding something from us, and maybe even from herself.
As the school year began I again voiced my puzzlement to Jessica, apologizing for revisiting the undefined concerns of her mother, but posed the possibility that sometimes we can be oblivious to what a loved one might sense.
Jessica smiled at me. “I like you, Dr. Bob,” she replied. “You’re easy to talk to. If I major in psychology, which I think suits me better than pre-med, I can see myself doing what you do.”
The first semester of her senior year involved many school and civic activities and after juggling schedules to accommodate them, we mutually decided to end our weekly sessions. She asked if it would be okay to call me after Christmas break. I assured her that would be fine, and that I looked forward to hearing from her.
A couple of days after the New Year, I shared an elevator ride with an internist in my building. He and I had a friendly, collegial relationship, one that often involved referring patients to one another. He mentioned that a young man, a senior at the local high school had tragically succumbed to a lengthy illness, a popular teen whose first name was Gus.
I immediately thought of Jessica’s boyfriend and made a note to call her later that day. Just as I planned to call her, I also intended to call the school. Although Dr. Lee’s sad story stayed with me, a busy schedule forced me to follow up two days later.
Two days after Dr. Lee’s revelation, I received a call from Jake, my friend at the high school.
“Bob,” he said in a somber tone, “I have some pretty distressing news. Jessica died in a car accident. The police are investigating, but she was the only passenger. She was on McKenzie Avenue and sped through a stop sign at that intersection with Williams Boulevard. A delivery truck slammed into her car.” He paused. “Declared dead at the scene. Police are waiting for the toxicology report, but no one thinks substances were involved.” Then he paused again as if dreading telling me more. “But apparently the police are raising the possibility of suicide.”
My heart sank. I assumed Jessica would be calling to resume our sessions, and now she was dead. I worried I’d missed something, or should I have pushed her about my puzzlement concerning her mother’s concerns. I had been quite certain that Gus had been her boyfriend and Jake confirmed that was accurate.
“Do you think his death had anything to do with her accident?” I continued.
He was silent then replied that they planned to attend college in the Bay Area. We spoke for a while. I said I would call the family and express my condolences.
This tragic series of events, never far from my mind though they occurred when I was a young therapist, came back to me following the recent suicide of a patient of mine, a middle-aged woman who took her life without warning, and did so hours after she and I had met for a session.
I am filled with grief and questions, doubts and wonderings that have kept me up at night. There is a weightiness we bear as therapists, we care for those who entrust their lives to us, strive to walk alongside them through the messiness that life brings, and hope to provide them with hope and the tools for healthier lives.
Though well intended, even the most astute and caring of us in this profession cannot prevent tragedy. I wish it were not so.
by 
A friend wrote that we all carry “freight,” and sometimes it seeps into the present, surprises and confounds us.
You are spot-on! Thanks for reading…
Roger
Thank you for your latest blog, “The Freight We Carry”. Call it fate, coincidence, or one man sharpening another, I happen to have a Dr. Bob in my life.
If I were sitting by a warming fire drinking coffee with my friend Dr. Bob, I would tell him, I also have a Jessica and Gus locked away in that dark and fearful part of my brain. They are locked up tight in a box I call unresolved memories. This box begs to be opened at the most vulnerable times in my life. I would gently refer my friend to what the prophet Isaiah said to the people of Israel recounted in Isaiah 43:18-19 “Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert”. I would tell Dr. Bob, I believe God wants to realign our hearts, just like he did to the people of Israel through the prophet Isaiah’s words. If God’s people had stayed focused on their captivity, they would have never experienced their release.
Perhaps the legacy of my Dr. Bob became manifest in this time together sitting by the warming fire.
Larry
A Protégé of the Reluctant Disciple
Thank you, Larry, for reading and writing this comment. We all need the warmth of a fire and coffee, good friends who listen and sit with us in times of sadness, struggle, joy and laughter. I’m in good company.
Roger
One reader wrote that she agreed, “life isn’t fair, but then God never said it would be.” She continued to write that God would never leave us, a fact that has been comforting to her when sorrow and feelings of depression have occurred, providing solace and comfort in knowing she will never be alone.
Thank you for sharing these thoughts!
Roger
A reader wrote that he was brought into the relationships in the chapter and understood the character’s feelings which included mourning and grieving the teens deaths.
Thank you,
Roger
A friend wrote that ” the pain so many feel is difficult to witness–what a worthy profession “Dr. Bob” chose. A difficult one that offers hope!”
Yes, my friend a hopeful and difficult one in which the former stays ahead of the latter–but not often by much!
Roger
Thank you for your wonderfully moving story. I really “got it”. It must be very difficult to do what you do, the heaviness you bear because you deeply care for your patients. The loss of life that sometimes happens must very hard to deal with. Thank you for caring as you do. There just seems to be no way to avoid pain in life.
I was in therapy for eleven years. I am able to function as well as I do because of my therapist, AA and the eventual reconnection to my faith. But Jan, my beloved therapist, was key to helping me confront my demons and understand my shame. Shame feels like a whitewash of pain and it’s a killer. So friggin’ devious. It feels like it’s everywhere, in every crack of your soul. But when we can finally identify it, it starts to lose its death grip.
Some years after I left therapy, I became friends with Jan. The transition into friendship was awkward at first, but well worth the temporary discomfort. Having her in my life is very important to me.
Thank you for your riveting and deeply emotional piece, so beautifully written.
Jo Anne,
Thank you for reading and commenting, yes, your words of affirmation are appreciated, but the vulnerability and openness in sharing your story is inspiring. Thank you for that. One day at a time, or one step at a time–either or both keep us focused when distractions are everywhere. Life is short. Glad you found what you needed to keep focused!
Roger