My therapist of 25 years has pancreatic cancer.
I’ll call him Dr. M to protect his privacy and the boundaries of our relationship.
He tells me he is feeling fine, that they caught it early, and that he is about to start chemotherapy. That is what I know. I am already worrying about things he hasn’t told me will happen.
I’m afraid of losing him. I feel sad for him, thinking about what he is facing. I also feel sad for myself, and that is harder to admit. He’s the one with cancer. Why am I thinking about what happens to me?
Then I feel guilty for having the thought, as if I should have been able to hear the news and keep my own needs out of it.
Twenty-five years is one of the longest relationships of my life. There have been sessions about serious issues, things I needed help getting through or understanding about myself.
There have also been conversations about the Dallas Mavericks and whatever else we might have talked about sitting in a coffee shop. I value those conversations too. I don’t want to lose any of it.
I call him my shrink, but he is a human being I care about. He has a life beyond our sessions, and now he has to go through treatment.
I want to know how he is doing. I also know that part of what I want from his answer is reassurance for me.
Dr. M has been very open in answering my questions. He has made it clear that his cancer and how I’m feeling about it are entirely appropriate topics for our discussions. I’ve left the boundary to instinct, deciding how much to ask as we talk.
I still wonder whether to ask about it every session. Is that too much? Moving straight into whatever is going on in my life feels strange too. I can imagine talking about something that has been bothering me and then wondering why I’m taking up his time with it when he’s dealing with this.
It’s my therapy session. I know what the time is for. Knowing that doesn’t settle how I feel about it.
Anticipatory grief is the phrase I keep coming back to, although even using the word grief makes me uncomfortable. He tells me they caught it early. He is about to begin treatment. Am I being fatalistic? Am I letting my fear get so far ahead that I’m treating a possible loss as something already decided?
I don’t know what is going to happen. I want to believe he will be okay. I want many more years of talking to him about my life and the Mavericks. The possibility that we might not have those years is hard to leave alone.
For 25 years, I’ve been able to talk to Dr. M about what is going on with me. Now some of what is going on with me concerns his health. He’s told me we can talk about that. I still feel uncomfortable needing his help with my fear of losing him.
I haven’t worked out where that leaves me. I still want to ask how he’s doing. I want to tell him I’m scared of losing him, and I don’t want to spend every session talking as though I will. In any event, it’s life. His favorite teams are in Michigan, and it’s college football season. He loves the Wolverines. I’ll still chide him if Penn State beats them.