V

a couple of years ago, I worked with a patient who died from cancer. She was 21 and from another country.

the plan was for her to go back to her home country once she stabilized, to see everyone again. I needed this plan because, selflessly, I wanted her to see home again. But I also needed this plan because, selfishly, I could not watch her die. I needed her to die somewhere else, because I did not think I could grieve her.

the last time I went to see her, we were told there was no point: she couldn’t talk. but as I spoke she gripped my arm, eyes shut, and muttered, thank you for coming.

blood crusted along her mouth, her gown. I knew her body was full of medication for the pain but I still wanted to scream: how can we let her suffer?

she never went home.

there is something about losing a therapy patient that is hard to explain because nobody else was there. nobody else saw your relationship, nobody else is even allowed to know her name. it is a secret grief.

and so some days I want to talk about her.

I want the world to know how funny she was. how she was quick, witty, and would not take anyone’s shit. Especially not mine.

She went through hell and did it with grace. More than anything else— she wanted to live. She deserved to live.

2024