Been There, Done That: Eight Decades and Counting: Requiem for My Therapist

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The following introduction was written by Michael F. Myers, M.D., a professor of clinical psychiatry at SUNY Downstate Health Sciences University. He is the author of the forthcoming book from APA Publishing titled Physicians With Lived Experience: How Their Stories Offer Clinical Guidance.

Patient narratives about the death of their therapist are a precious commodity. They teach us about this unique kind of bereavement and its woundedness. Most important, they impart valuable lessons that inform and prepare subsequent therapists should these individuals seek care again.

Upon learning that his psychiatrist of 25 years (Richard C. Freedman, M.D.) had died, Andrew Solomon, Ph.D., author of The Noon Day Demon: An Atlas of Depression, wrote in the May 10, 2020, New Yorker: “His departure left me bereft not only of him but also of my own history and of some of my inner life. And later in this elegant, and penetrating, piece: “I miss him with all my heart, but I know that what I feel is grief and not despair. As I continue to talk to him in my head, I hear the calm, steady way he used to reassure me that I could manage my own life.”

My Downstate teaching colleague and dear friend Professor Emerita Alice Herb, J.D., LL.M., lost her psychiatrist last January, a man she first consulted over 40 years ago. Since then, we have talked about their relationship over several lunches in her West Village apartment. Writing is one of her many talents, and she decided, in the throes of her grief, to put pen to paper within days of her therapist’s death. I am honored to write these few words of introduction. Her message to readers of Psychiatric News, conveyed to me, via email is this: “I’d like doctors to see some gratitude and the sincere grief and mourning at losing them.”

Alice Herb’s Essay

In November I wrote that I had grown so old that I was losing my network of friends, professionals, etc., who gave me my quality of life. It was light-hearted but real. This time I will share with you a very big loss— my therapist, whom I visited off and on for more than 40 years. He died unexpectedly a week ago. I did not expect to be as devastated as I am. After all, he was not family or a close friend. Yet ... .

I had known the man for more than 40 years. I was in therapy off and on throughout this period. The first time I quit, I did not call back for about 15 years. I left a message on his answering machine asking if he remembered me. He responded within a couple of hours laughing, saying “How could I forget you?” So I once again continued with him for another period of time and then, tired of trying to make sense of my life, quit again.

I don’t remember how many times I quit, but he always took me back. What motivated me to return was usually another crisis or tragedy in my life. Indeed at one point, he said that when he saw that I had left a voice message, he dreaded calling me back because so many times I had lost yet another of my nearest and dearest.

I had originally gone to him when I no longer knew how to deal with my older son, who had gone off track on drugs as a teenager. I had tried several other therapists but found them wanting. I decided to stay with him although our first meeting was inauspicious. I had come to the appointment on time but sat in the waiting room for an incredibly long time. I don’t remember why I stayed that long nor why I didn’t knock on his door, but I just sat there. I must have been desperate. When he finally came out, he exclaimed in horror that he had forgotten about me. We did make another appointment, and I was a loyal patient for all these years—from early in his practice to probably as his last patient. What I now remember from our last several meetings was his insistence on being heard. He told me that I was the most stubborn person he had ever known and had such a complicated life that it was impossible for me to hear and absorb what I needed to hear. When I once asked what his therapeutic approach was—Freudian or what—he said he used everything he could think of to help me. Methods didn’t matter—whatever worked is what he used. He always called me the smart, well-trained attorney who could turn any argument into another path and avoid what he wanted me to examine. I had many fights with him and stalked around his office. I could never lie on his couch. I was a royal pain in the neck.

Yet he certainly did help me. He referred my son, Rick, to a great psychiatrist, who in turn referred Rick to someone whose specialty was drug-using if not addicted youngsters. Unfortunately, I lost Rick anyway in one backward step after he had been clean for quite a while. My therapist hung in there with me in my depth of grief and sorrow. There is no simple anything when one loses a child. I still live with that loss, but he helped me rejoin a more normal life. But then I lost my father and my second husband both in the same year. I realized then how hard he worked to bring me back. I yelled and carried on, and he steadfastly did what he could to draw all the sorrow out.

This last plea for help was about my relationship with my younger son. The two of us had had so many crises that it caused a rift that we are still trying to repair. When I was informed that my therapist was in the hospital, I sent him a text message telling him to hang in there, I still needed help. I was sure he would recover. But sadly he did not. I have a lump in the pit of my stomach acknowledging this loss. But I will refer back to all we had talked about for as long as necessary. RIP my dear therapist! ■