As I waited in the lobby of the new office space that my therapist, Brian, secured for his special 'one week only' face-to-face sessions since going all virtual, I was sure I grimaced at the lack of formality it held. It was a large open space, similar to one you might find in a hospital waiting room. There were three large windows facing the street where I parked, and a massive floral and fauna arrangement overtook the center of the room, which may or may not have included a water feature. Had I paid more attention, I might have noticed. Two or three elevators flanked the wall to the right and private office doors lined the back wall and ran down the hallway to the left.
I scanned the room for office number ten, the one he said we would be meeting in. And the bell he assured me would be there to announce my arrival was non-existent. Was I supposed to knock? I never knocked when we met at his regular office. I always buzzed myself in. But, it had been a while since we met there. Nearly a year. After Covid ended, he never fully returned to regular office appointments, saying most clients preferred remote. I wasn't most clients. What if he had another patient with him? I wouldn't want to interrupt. I had at least ten minutes to wait. Maybe he would open the door at our scheduled time. But where to wait? Was I to sit on the large couch facing the elevator? That seemed odd. Where was the anonymity in this place? I was surprised he stood for such a lack of protocol.
Wait, who was writing this again, him or me?
I began my relationship with him over fourteen years ago when I was in my mid-forties and he, at least sixty. Back then, the notion of switching offices would have been off the table. Brian kept our sessions within strict boundaries. We never deviated from our scheduled time and place and nearly every aspect of the therapeutic process remained in the strictest therapeutic frame. He dressed the same way, used the same phrases, reacted in a similar manner, no matter what off-the-wall story I shared during my session. I chalked it up to his old-fashioned ways, being he was probably fifteen years older than me and quite conservative in nature. But those were different times and we both were different people. I never realized it before, but it was exactly what I needed at the time, since it was the opposite of what I brought to the table.
My life was chaotic and stressful, and I was on the verge of a breakdown. I walked into that office looking for help for my husband who drank too much after a stroke and had residual anger and resentment. There, Brian introduced himself, in his dress pants, button down shirt and tie. No matter what I said, he remained neutral in his black chair near the metal framed window as I sat on the grey couch with no pillows. I never witnessed anything like it before. I was used to people smiling and matching my expression with theirs. People who got caught up with my insane stories. He didn't laugh when I laughed or frown when I frowned. He just watched me as I exploded answers to his probing questions. It was unnerving. I hated it, yet loved it, for fourteen years.
When his questions hit rough spots, as they often did, I cried and he would listen patiently and pass me a tissue box. Nothing more. After a moment, he was always ready with his next question. It's not like he rushed me, he just never lingered or gave pity. To be fair, he sometimes asked if I needed more than a moment. Who is this guy? I thought. Does he have a heart? He never once got up and sat next to me, to offer me a hug, like I secretly wished he would. Not once. I heard about therapists who did that. I even saw them on T.V., like Judd Hirsch in Ordinary People. He was warm, loving and caring. Why couldn't I have a therapist like that?
Sometimes I tried to change the subject and make it about him. “You have a family, I’m sure. What if this happened to them? How would you feel?”
He never fell for that, or took the bait. He was too smart. “It’s not about me,” he would say calmly, too smart to poke through the frame he created.
“Damn. You get to know every little thing about me, and I know nothing about you,” I would bark in frustration.
He would simply look at me, unphased, and say, “Why don’t we get back to your situation?”
Ugh! I was convinced he was made of steel, iron and metal. Blood didn't run through his veins. But I found he was warm and caring, in his professional way. Over the years, as I made improvements in my life and got healthier, I felt the boundaries loosen. I'm not sure if it was a conscious decision on his part to be more open with me, or if that was the way I perceived things because I was no longer a neurotic mess. Our conversations were more productive, more 'back and forth' instead of me complaining about things. Sometimes this led to laughter on both our parts. We certainly made great strides since the early days and I understood he cared for me in a way that was healthy. He cared about my safety, my well-being. There was great mutual respect between us both.
But as the years went by there were changes, too. Brian was diagnosed with Parkinson's and had since slowed down considerably. I noticed shaking in his hand during a session one day and struggled internally whether to point it out to him. Having an uncle who was diagnosed with the disease at a young age, I knew the signs, but breaking protocol and discussing something personal about him was not a common occurrence. Plus, with my codependent background, this could easily take a turn for the worse and be seen as me deflecting my own issues. I had serious concerns about his health and couldn't, in good conscience, let it go. I finally brought it up to him one day and sure enough, he later confirmed the diagnosis. It was a terrible blow. The man who never faltered from his strict professionalism, shared very personal information. Another fracture…
Then, more changes were on the way. Prior to Covid, we met two days a week, in person. During Covid, we moved to remote sessions two times per week which, for us, meant over the phone Facetime sessions. After Covid, we returned to the office for a while. Then, I dropped down to once per week, which showed progress for me, personally. But some time after his diagnosis, he informed me he wouldn't be renewing his office lease, ever. I was surprised and felt another huge loss. He explained it was a better move financially due to overhead, which I understood, but I couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with the Parkinson's. I felt the end of an era. My traditional therapy was ending. I'd never really "see" him (in person) again. I felt the frame shattering.
He wasn't very tech savvy, so we were relegated to Facetime calls, but I wish we could have set up Zoom calls so at least he was full computer-sized when we met. Apparently, I missed the black chair, the grey couch and the metal window — the annoying consistency of it all. Until today's rent-an-office space.
My watch pinged a reminder that it was my appointment time, so I stood and headed towards the door. I hesitated to knock, hoping he might open it first. When he didn't, I knocked gently. Within a few seconds, he was standing before me. I immediately noticed he aged since we last saw one another. Of course, he could have been thinking the same about me. His distinctive dress shirt and tie peeked out under a zippered sweater, giving him an older look. But I felt a warm safety in the familiar sight of him.
“Hi, Jeanne,” he said.
“Hi, Brian. It’s good to see you,” I said.
“It’s good to see you too,” he said, seemingly moving in slow motion.
He led me through a short corridor into a strange office that held too many chairs and two couches. Eyes darting from side to side, it took me a moment to process all the changes at once. Apparently, a new situation can send a therapy patient into an emotional frenzy. I took a moment to ground myself as he took a seat in his spot and I pondered where to sit. There were too many options. I longed for the old office or our usual phone calls. I finally chose the chair to my right, my typical spot when we were face to face. We regarded each other for a moment, having not been in person for so long. I sighed a big sigh and let myself relax into the space and take it all in. I looked around at the artwork on the walls and almost commented, realizing it wasn't his. Why bother wasting precious time on shit that didn't matter? He sat in silence and allowed me my time. This was one of the many reasons I appreciated therapy. The quietness of it. He never rushed me. Ever. I'd love to have that in life without having to pay for it.
I noticed both of Brian's hands were shaking instead of just one. My heart quietly sank. Last I saw him in person, only one hand shook, as far as I noticed. A confirmation of time passing. He asked how I was, and I shared the nitty gritty details of my life of the last three weeks while he listened, as only he could; intently with masterful attention to detail. I discussed my summer plans and how the end of the school year went. His voice was hoarse, another symptom of Parkinson's, as he asked me pertinent questions. He fumbled a few of his words but he remained mostly articulate and precise, as always. Still, I wondered how long I would be able to remain in therapy with him. I knew other patients were coming to say their farewells to treatment and once we returned from break, he would be slowing his practice considerably.
The truth was, I wanted to be done before he was. The thought of watching him get worse was a familiar road I traveled. It was one of my biggest fears — trusting him, caring about him, and then losing him. Losing my father at ten years old was the cause of a good deal of my trauma. I finally learned to deal with it, and it was going to happen again? I needed to leave therapy first. Didn’t I? Shouldn’t I? Or was there a different lesson here? I remembered back to my early days with him, just prior to long breaks and holidays, when abandonment issues blinded me with fear, afraid I would never again see him. He would assure me, “I have no plans of going anywhere. I’ll be right here when you get back.” And he always was.
Well, here we are now — all these years later. Look who is going somewhere.
We talked with ease for our scheduled time and when our face-to-face session ended, Brian asked me something I never expected. “Would you like a hug?”
I thought he misspoke, or I was hearing things. I sat, stunned. This was something I used to dream about — a hug from my therapist. It’s Judd Hirsch in Brian’s body! Am I being punked?
Without hesitation, I said, “I would love nothing more.” I stood before he came to his senses or changed his mind.
He commented it might take a moment for him to get up from his chair. I thought about all the years I wanted his physical touch so badly. But now, it meant something so different. This wasn't a hug of urgency or the need for love, affection or pity. If I received a hug years ago, it may not have helped me at all, it might even have done some damage. That's probably why he had strict boundaries and a frame as tough as nails. He clearly knew what he was doing. But now, I didn't need a hug, I simply wanted one. I embraced the man who helped me save my life. The man who helped change the trajectory of my family and helped pave a new and healthy path for me and my husband, my children, and their children. We were able to share a hug because I am a healthier version of me.
I can finally say thank you. But how do you say thank you to someone like that? It's not like he changed the oil in my car. He changed my life.
I hugged him with the arms of my inner child, my inner adolescence, my inner teen, my adult self, and dare I say, my future self, and all the wounded parts of myself that ever existed. Then I said thank you from each and every one of those wounded and now healed souls. I made sure I felt the hug from arm to arm and heart to heart. I made sure to breathe deeply and inhale. His musk was purely human and reminded me he was not, and never was, Superman, as I once believed. I didn't rush the moment. I savored it and I noticed — he was hugging me, too.
When we released from the hug, I said, “That was one thousand times better than I ever expected.”
“Was it?” he asked as he smiled at me.
In that moment, I accepted all that was. I knew my life was better because he was in it, forever how long, and I was grateful and ready for whatever came next. With his help, for as long as I could have it.
And I knew that would have to be enough.
