artificial insemination syringe
I was preparing vegetables for a soup when I received a call from the hospital social worker regarding my client, Marianne. I had made similar calls many times before. At 78, Marianne had several health issues, and she was frequently hospitalized for short spells. But this time was different. The social worker delivered the news bluntly: “Your client; she passed away today from Covid.”
The knife slipped from my grasp and clattered onto the cutting board. Overwhelmed by grief, I began to cry: deep, wrenching sobs. How could Marianne have died from Covid in just five days since we last spoke? Through my haze of despair, I could hear my young child whining and my teenager’s voice echoing in the hallway. I couldn’t respond to them. “How?” I repeatedly asked the social worker. “How could this happen?”
Marianne was the first client I was assigned during my internship, a year before I completed my psychology doctorate. She had wild, silver hair that fell to her shoulders and striking blue eyes. In our first session, I asked her if anyone truly understood her. She hesitated before finally responding, “No, I don’t think anyone has ever really gotten me.” Tears streamed down her face.
For the next 19 years, we revisited that question during our weekly individual therapy sessions and group trauma treatments. I sat across from her for so long that I could recognize the veins on her hands anywhere. “He’s like a piece of furniture,” Marianne once said in a group session about her second husband. “He’s just there, I should dust him when I dust the armoire.” She laughed, her laughter bright yet tinged with sadness.
Her laughter was a burst of sunshine, illuminating the darkness surrounding her.
Marianne once called me from the emergency room after her husband had assaulted her, not for the first time. “I’m done. I’m moving on from him now. I’m telling you, so you can hold me accountable,” she declared, her voice shaky. I promised I would.
“Okay, who wants to know what happened?” she asked defiantly in group therapy the following week. Her eyes were shadowed, and her hair was hastily pinned over a bruise on her forehead. “My husband shoved me against the fridge, and I hit my head and cracked three ribs.” Silence fell over the room as nine women stared down at their laps. My heart ached for Marianne as she fiddled with the threads of her shirt. “It’s okay, I’m from Texas. We always land on our feet.” She despised pity.
As a child, her mother had reprimanded her for smiling with her crooked teeth. Her father was the only one who appreciated her vibrant spirit, buying her overalls and instilling a love for nature. But he also sexually abused her from the age of five until she left Texas at eighteen. No one knew. It took years of therapy for her to accept that it was wrong. “I don’t know how to be angry at him,” she once confessed. “How do you harbor anger toward someone who was also tender with you?”
Before her third marriage (and subsequent divorce), I suggested it was time to confront the trauma.
“But why would I want to do that? I’m managing fine without revisiting all of that,” she replied, avoiding my gaze. I didn’t need to remind her that marrying men who mistreated her meant she was not fine at all. With a heavy sigh, she began to unwind the layers of her abuse, a process that took years.
“I wonder if he died regretting what he did to me? Did he ever think about it, or was I just not that important?” As she exited my office that day, I blinked against the sunlight, overwhelmed by the colors and people rushing by after our intense conversation.
A couple of years later, she asked me, “Did you know what had happened to me in that first session?” I paused, reflecting. “I think I did.” I was ready to elaborate, but she nodded knowingly. “I knew you did.”
While I may have recognized certain patterns from previous work with survivors, something deeper told me.
At times, the therapeutic relationship is clear-cut, but with Marianne, it was different from the start. She needed me, and I grew to love her. After our sessions, I would return home to prepare dinner for my husband, pretending I still loved him. Yet, I couldn’t ignore the stark contrast between my home life and the intensity of our therapy. Initially, this disparity made me feel like a fraud, but ultimately, my connection with Marianne helped me discover the version of myself I valued most.
Marianne found joy in the little things. One day, she discovered a cherry blossom branch outside my office and arranged it beautifully on my ledge. Her eyes sparkled as she recounted finding a complete set of Emily Dickinson’s works for just five dollars at a used bookstore. She loved stories and coaxed them out of her fellow group members. People opened up to her because of her genuine interest. She often shared tales of her postal carrier’s remarkable recovery from addiction. Once, I asked her if she recognized how remarkable it was for her to have rebuilt her life after her traumatic childhood. She stared at me blankly. “No, I never thought I’d make it past twenty. I just keep moving forward.” She reflected, “So, it’s all a gift.”
“Sarah, you don’t seem happy. Is marriage working for you?” she asked me one day, her perceptiveness uncanny. She predicted my divorce long before I acknowledged it, even asking if I was pregnant before I had taken a test. On days I wasn’t fully present, she’d inquire, “Are you really here?” I learned not to pretend. “You’re right, I wasn’t entirely here, but now I am.”
After my divorce, it took time for me to adjust to being a single mother. I felt embarrassed for not being ready to remove my wedding ring, so I bought a thick silver ring that was entirely different from my gold band. Marianne was the only one who noticed the new ring or recognized when I took it off after a year.
“Good for you, honey,” she said, gesturing toward my hand. Our eyes met, and I fought back tears.
She also understood I wouldn’t want to discuss my miscarriage at five months. Instead, she wrote a heartfelt poem about loss and mailed it to me, allowing me to process it privately. One poignant line struck me: “I remember to breathe, I continue to rise, up where the sun, or the stars grace the sky.”
“Sometimes I just marvel at the world,” she said in her thick Texas accent on my return to work. “There’s so much beauty in it. Every day, I find something remarkable. So much heartbreak, but also so much beauty.”
Leaving my office was always difficult for her. She hated goodbyes, so we developed a ritual: I would stand by the door, opening it for her. “I’ll see you next time.” Each time, panic would wash over her as she gathered her belongings—always at least three bags—and shuffled out.
In the end, her unresolved traumas remained a constant beat she couldn’t escape. Though she longed for lasting connections, she often pushed people away. The same fierce spirit that drove her to leave Texas sometimes morphed into rage. In the past year, the isolation caused by Covid intensified her anger. Just last month, the social worker reached out to confirm they could discharge her with a note indicating she still needed psychiatric care. “Are you sure?” she asked, disbelief evident in her voice. I winced, knowing that Marianne’s anger had boiled over yet again.
Ultimately, she pushed away nearly everyone in her life except me. Even the grocery store manager, who had extended her credit for years, stopped after a dispute over a bag of oranges.
My lasting memory of her is one of hope and an unquenchable light. Her hearty laughter was like a bud on a tree scorched by fire. Through our relationship, I learned to be honest with myself, searching my own connections for the fulfillment of feeling “understood,” a word I will forever associate with Marianne.
Our time together allowed me to acknowledge my own brokenness while also cherishing beauty. Marianne viewed life as a surprising gift, but she was, in fact, the gift in my life.