I do not know why I was so uncomfortable with our first meeting. From his intake record, I knew he had requested a grief counselor. The service assigned new patients based on a system that could have paired him with any of my partners. Most of our cases involved grief counseling; death, divorce, retirement, and infertility each had elements of loss. He called during the Christmas holidays, and as the only Jewish partner, all cases were assigned to me. In exchange for the burdensome holiday workload, my office occupied the entire upper floor and no one questioned my disappearance for three weeks each summer.
A sign on the front door of the renovated Craftsman advised patients there was no receptionist, and to please take a seat and wait to be greeted personally by their counselor. A smaller sign indicated the room was equipped with security cameras. I watched the screen on my laptop as he arrived a few minutes early for his afternoon appointment. The sun had already set, but he remained standing, eyes seeking the darkness of the bay. Many clients preferred not to sit, but his posture hinted at impatience. I let him stand a few minutes before I went downstairs to greet him.
His handshake was firm and he nodded politely, refusing to mount the steps ahead of me. I led the way. My office contained several small groupings of furniture. He walked purposefully to the leather seats near the large front windows, indicating where I should sit first. His story was not unique and almost sounded rehearsed. He likely spent the last three years imagining speaking those words aloud. Instead, he held them inside.
He told me he was a writer, a published author, yet he had never written down this tale. He believed it inspired him and drove his success, but now he felt it a burden and the guilt was enshrouding. He shared with very little prompting and I was surprised when he stood and held out his hand, exactly forty-five minutes after we first sat down. I rummaged on the table for my card and asked if he would like to arrange another visit. He said he would contact the service if he felt the need.
I locked the door behind him after he left, and stopped in the kitchen to pour a glass of wine, before returning to my office to type my notes from our session. Contrary to admonitions of my professors more than two decades ago, I did not take notes during visits. I preferred to engage my senses fully with the patients, and found my notes were more luminous processed this way, as long as I took time to type them after the session. I finished the typing and the glass of wine and stood at the window, distracted by the blinking jeweled Christmas crosses on masts in the bay below. The act of typing my notes severed the personal connection, allowing me to reflect upon each case without attachment. This time, however, the documentation did not lead to closure.
