Always Watching

to come up to the hospital. I’d let her go to a friend’s, thinking it would be good for her to have a break. Paul took a turn for the worse and died in my arms. When I told Lisa, she screamed, “I never got to say good-bye!”
    I forced my mind back to the present.
    “It’s natural to think of things you could’ve done differently, but this isn’t your fault, Heather. Your parents would want you to be happy. The best thing you can do for them now is to continue with your care plan and live a good life.”
    “I always thought that my dad would be proud of me one day, once I got myself together, you know? That’s why I was starting to feel better last week. I was thinking that I could go back to school, maybe for design, get a good job, and show my dad that I was married to this amazing husband. Now there’s no point.”
    “Those are still great goals, Heather. Continue doing them for yourself.”
    She shook her head. “There’s no point. I’m never going to be happy.”
    “I know it feels like that right now, but trust me, you will feel happiness again in your life, and things will get better. You just have to give it some time.”
    She stared at her feet, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t care if it gets better. I just don’t ever want to feel like this again.”
    *   *   *
    The rest of the session I worked on reassuring her that the pain would pass, but she was still despondent and wanted to go back to bed. Sleep was probably the best thing for her right now, so I didn’t push her to engage too much. The next day she was sad, but not as lethargic and depressed as she was when she’d first entered the hospital. She’d been in the ward for more than three weeks at that point and was on the full dose of Effexor, which seemed to be helping her cope. When I asked if she’d been having any thoughts of hurting herself, she said no, even repeating it while she looked me in the eye. That was a good sign.
    Over the next couple of days, they kept a close eye on her at the hospital. I was off for the weekend, but I called in and asked about her a couple of times, relieved to hear that she was managing. Though she was obviously grieving about her parents, she was willing to come out on the floor and watch TV with the other patients, and three days after we’d given her the bad news, she participated in one of Kevin’s meditation groups. I ran into him out in the hall at lunch on Monday.
    He said, “I was happy to see Heather made it to my group today.” Along with MMPI testing, which is figuring out personality types, as well as IQ testing, Kevin also worked with anxiety groups and did some “one-to-one” counseling.
    “Yes, the poor thing’s been through a lot.”
    “I’d say, but she’s processing her feelings well.”
    I was glad for the validation, and my shoulders unknotted. I didn’t realize until that moment just how worried I had been about her. “You think so?”
    “We talked after group, and she thanked me, said it helped.”
    “That’s wonderful!”
    When I saw Heather the following morning, she was still lethargic and speaking slowly, but she told me that Daniel was going to bring some vacation brochures that afternoon because they’d never had a honeymoon.
    I said, “That’s exciting. Maybe you can put up some photos of where you’d like to go on your trip and things you’d like to do, like a vision board.”
    “Maybe.” She met my eyes. “You’re a good doctor.”
    Surprised by the comment, I said, “Thanks.”
    I waited for her to explain, but she didn’t say anything else. I asked a few more questions: How was she managing? Was there anything she needed? Anything she wanted to talk about? Had she any thoughts about hurting herself?
    She stared at her feet and just kept answering “No” to everything, so we finished the session there. She was grieving, but in proportion to her recent loss, and I was hopeful that in time the supportive environment of the hospital would bring her back to where she was before. Then we could continue her treatment so she could go home and finally take that honeymoon with her husband. When I said good-bye, I added, “I’m going to want a postcard from your trip.”
    She smiled wistfully and gave me a little wave.

 
    CHAPTER TWELVE
    I went home after work that night, pulled on my overalls, threw my hair into a careless topknot, and worked in my potting shed for a while. Normally I loved the snip, snip of my pruning