Finding My Way

CHAPTER ONE

Let me introduce myself. My name is Victor Best. If you live in Santa Barbara, California and you are seeking psychotherapy, I would likely be high on most referral lists. I have been practicing for over 30 years. Even now at 68, I love my work and the people I serve.

My wife taught public school here as long as I had been in practice until she retired five years ago. She was struck down with cancer three years later. Her last months were brutal for both of us. She died a year ago today, and my friends and I spread her ashes at sea as she had requested. The experience has been so unreal to me, that I, as yet, haven’t come to terms with her being gone from my life.

I have not done well in dealing with her passing. She was so central to my life. Only through friendship and work, have I kept my life together, but I feel as if I am only going through the motions. This day is a painful anniversary and will be more of a challenge for me and the patients I will see than usual. Hopefully, all will somehow benefit from it.

Over the past year, I have sought some resolution, some relief at least from the grief that continues to haunt me. I had the notion that surrendering myself to the problems of my patients, would serve as a balm for mine. So far, it hasn’t worked, but I’m not giving up. Martha died on a Friday and by Monday I was back at my office offering counsel. I could see nothing else mattering that much to have chosen to do otherwise. I tried to hide my pain, but Mary, my second patient of the day, quite a perceptive and compassionate young woman, questioned me. Dr. Best, she began, I hope I’m not out of line by asking, but are you feeling all right? I was caught off guard by her concern and attempted to regain my composure without being evasive. I decided I would tell her the truth. Thank you for your concern, Mary. I drew a deep breath to ward off any betraying of emotion, and continued. My wife died last Friday. Tears immediately flooded her eyes, and I had an immediate stab of guilt. I didn’t want to say or do anything to hinder her progress in therapy and questioned my judgment in telling her of my loss. Oh, I am so sorry, Dr. Best. Would you rather end the session? No, no, Mary. Please go on, I said. It turned out to be a valuable session for her. She now found it easier to tap into feelings of sadness for herself, that she had long been repressing, but I did not come out of it any better for wear. I continued to experience an all-consuming feeling of grief.

Twelve months have begrudgingly passed in which I have maintained my existence almost by rote, numb to my loss and sadness. I find continuing to work to be a necessity, a way I have chosen to gain some meaning to my life, and the will to go on. Returning to my office within days of Martha’s passing, was not a decision that I had made without second thoughts. I rationalized my decision; my patients needed me, I couldn’t let them down. I was committed to be available to them. I knew the truth, though. Work is all I had and I turned to it even as much of the passion was gone. I felt guilty when I considered that I might be cheating my patients by not being wholly there for them, but I am intent on giving them the best I can. Also, at 68, I am a dinosaur in the field. Many of my associates have retired, claiming that they are burned out. I never could relate to that concept.

True, when I began my practice over thirty years ago, I had difficulty separating myself from the problems of my patients, often taking them home with me. Seeing me in anguish drove Martha crazy. She advised me that either I go for help or get out of the business. I chose to get help and it turned out to be the right decision. But, I am tired now, and could have joined my associates in retirement years ago, which would have been fine with Martha. She saw, during her illness, the stress I was under. It wasn’t the money that kept me working. We could get by on my social security and the dividends from our investments. I was hesitant about using up the savings I had willed to the kids, but they were doing well on their own, and encouraged me to treat myself kindlier. They suggested that I take a trip to Europe, something wistfully I talked about for years, something I had hoped and promised one day to share with Martha. I often, in fantasy, have gone with her to Rome, Venice and London. It was too late now, to make that a reality. Even if I wanted to go at this point in my life there was no one to share it with. I miss Martha so, so much. She was the center of my life, through hard times and good times, and we had plenty of both. She put a spark in my life that had been missing, and which is missing now again. I treasured her wit, and intelligence, and her delight with life. A sudden image, a thought, a memory of her, and I am flooded with pain. I remember her sweet smile, the first time she had said she loved me, and how I was so overcome with joy, that I rolled over a curb as I drove away. And I recall so many times of how empty I felt my life would be without her, and it has now come to pass just as I had feared. Martha developed a rare liver disease that was diagnosed as life threatening. We lived in quiet terror with that knowledge for six years, until after she had suffered so much liver deterioration she was told she needed a transplant. The idea was even more frightening to both of us, as we had lost a close friend after that same surgery some years back. We were reassured that great strides had been made in medical science since then and many more patients had benefited from that procedure. We also had the good fortune of obtaining one of the top surgeons in the country, who offered to do the operation once a liver was made available. Nonetheless, we left Dr. Benz’s office shaken, dread shrouding us, making conversation impossible. The thought of losing Martha was unbearable. My efforts of support were reduced to holding her close, and accompanying her to all her appointments. Dr. Benz’s demeanor was extremely confident, but what he revealed and what I had not expected, was his humanity. Sensing our anxiety and uncertainty, he offered to do the surgery himself, even though he was serving the staff more in a supervisory position at this time. I felt much warmth for him. This visit was the beginning of a series of visits, with various members of the liver team that precluded any doubt, that the dreaded surgery would one day be performed. These visits became routine and after a while, I opted out of accompanying her on several occasions when Martha seemed confidant to go to them without me. I made the wrong assumption. On this eventful day, she went off for her check-up and I to my part-time office in the San Fernando Valley, as my practice was mainly in Los Angeles at the time. Although Martha was tense when we parted that day, she felt well physically, which allowed me some down time, and time to have lunch with an attorney friend. Neither she nor I, were prepared for what was to follow that day. Returning to my Valley office, I found the message light flashing on the answering machine. There were two calls, the second more desperate than the first. Dr. Best, this is an emergency. Your wife is about to go into surgery. Please contact Judy at the Transplantation Center immediately. The calls were made at 12:10 and 12:40. It was 1:00 o ’clock as I dialed, my fingers shaking to the beat of my heart. Judy answered after one ring. She had been standing by for my call. Martha is being readied for a liver transplant. We’ve been trying to reach you everywhere. We even had the Highway Patrol notified to try and track you down. I was too anxious to feel guilty and too rushed to defend my absence. I gave myself just enough time, to tell Judy that I was on my way, and should be there in half an hour. She said she would meet me in the waiting area on the fifth floor and I raced out of the office, unable to make patient calls to cancel appointments. My freeway start back to Los Angeles was frantic. Nothing moved; the highway was a parking lot! I felt near panic. I had to see Martha before she entered the operating room. Tears welled up as I contemplated the possibility of losing her but there was no mercy to be granted by L.A. traffic. Every cell in my body flung me head-long through the snarl of cars. Time was not on my side. When finally I reached the hospital, I prayed I was not too late. As I stood in the elevator, my heart in my throat, I felt time slipping through my fingers. Judy was there to meet me when I reached the fifth floor and escorted me hurriedly to the holding area. Martha laid quietly on a gurney, covered by a thin blanket. I saw the terror on her face and tried to mask my own. Without a word, I took her in my arms, tears sliding down my cheeks. Dear, she implored, I was so afraid you wouldn’t get here in time. I’m so scared. Rather than try to reassure her. I revealed my fears as well, as we continued clinging to each other. When they came and told me I could have a transplant, but that I had to make up my mind immediately, I thought I needed you to help me make the decision. When they couldn’t reach you, I knew it was my decision to make. It was a brave thing to do, and the right thing." I said, though I