How a Dying Patient and a Broken Car Made Me A Better Therapist
I will stay with you
Jenny was the first dying psychotherapy patient I’d ever seen. She tested my certainty that I was a pretty good therapist. A survivor of three bouts with breast cancer and some very difficult treatments, she initially consulted me about conflicts she was having with her adolescent son. Every now and then, she referred to the breast cancer, but not often. Several times, we did some relaxation exercises focused on pain control and sleep.
Cigarettes
One early spring afternoon, she marched into my office, plopped into a chair and proceeded to light up a cigarette. I quickly intervened. “Jenny, put that out, the whole fire department will descend on the place.”
“Then let’s go outside,” she said. This was something of a shift in the way I did therapy, but I followed her outside. She leaned against the building and I leaned against a green Volvo station wagon. We both tilted our heads to the strong sun as she took a few deep drags.
Is this therapy?
“The cancer’s back,” she said softly. “And it’s in my brain all over the place and it’s starting in my liver. And Martha…I’m done.”
