Page 80 of For Her Own Good

It’s been a while since I’ve lost a patient. Always a risk in my line of work, with the populations I’m drawn to. And every time, it’s a punch to the gut. Like someone’s forced a balled-up hand into my midsection at speed, grabbed a fistful of entrails and dragged it out of my body, forcing me to look at it.Here are your worst fears come true. And you are as powerless as you were then to stop it.

It’s selfish of me, I know, to be thinking so much about what this has done tome. I should be contacting his family and seeing if there’s anything I can do, any help I can offer. I will. I may have failed Tony in allowing this to happen, but I won’t fail him in this. It’s the least I could do to offer anything I have to his grieving widow and the children he left behind.

The anger I feel toward him isn’t fair either. It’s there anyhow, yelling and stomping and wanting to shake him becauseHow could you? How could you do this to the people you loved and who loved you?But that’s the shitty thing about depression, isn’t it? He probably believed they’d be better off. That perhaps they didn’t love him. And I didn’t think so the last time I saw him, but perhaps he was so far gone down the path that he didn’t think he loved them either. Perhaps he looked at them and felt nothing but icy numbness. I’ll never know. Even if I did, would it satisfy? No, nothing will. Because nothing could.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says softly, her breath warm on my neck. “But this isn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could’ve done. If he was determined and sure and his depression was screaming so loud he couldn’t hear anything else, no one could do anything. You know that, right?”

She rests a hand on my chest, over my heart, and it’s not anatomically possible, but I swear it lets in more blood so it can swell toward her touch, beats hard to let her know she was heard. Heard, yes, but believed?

In my head, I know that’s true. Intellectually, I can repeat her words, and I would say the same to any of my colleagues who were in this situation. Have, in fact, done precisely that. But in my chest? In this muscle where the ache of loss seems to be centered?

“I know. But—”

“No buts.” She sits up, not taking her hand off my chest. “Who’s the expert in depression here, me or you? Not like the DSM andPsychiatrist Weeklyand peer-reviewed journals and shit like that—you can wear that crown, I don’t want it. But of the two of us, who is viscerally familiar with what depression can do to a person?”

The words come to my lips, ready to give Starla her due, but what comes out is a choked sob. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’m a mess. All I can do is close my hand around hers and bring it to my lips, kiss her knuckles and assure myself she’s here, and I don’t need to worry anymore about losing her to the darkness. I say a prayer over her fingertips that that’s true.

“You are. And I’ve thought about that every time I’ve lost a patient since I left. Every single goddamn time. It would’ve been awful enough without that added ton of guilt, but every time…every time.”

Which is not her burden to bear and I’m a right tosser for mentioning it to her. I have no right to ask her to absolve me of any of my sins, but particularly that one. I shouldn’t have handed that weight to her, but I can’t take it back now. She’ll have to carry it too.

Chapter 26

Starla

It’s disconcerting,having Lowry hunched over my fingers and in such obvious pain. I had no idea… But of course, I wouldn’t have. When he left, I convinced myself it was because he didn’t care for me, that I’d worn him out, used up all the nurturing and watching over he was capable of giving. That horrible thought was only borne out by never hearing from him once he’d gone. I had no idea he’d fretted over me, that he worried I would take my life, and that if I had, he would’ve believed it was his fault.

I don’t think words will do any good at this point; I know they couldn’t reach me when I was at my lowest. It would’ve been like someone trying to talk to me through a blizzard. So, I do what I can and thread the hand he’s not clutching through his hair, murmuring things to him like how I am still here. I am very much here. I am not going anywhere. And the fact that I’m here is due in large part to him.

I doubt he takes enough credit for the lives he’s saved, and takes on far too much blame for the ones he’s lost. And as I told him, those are not his fault. Nor is it the fault of the people who killed themselves. It’s near impossible, I think, for people who’ve never experienced it to understand exactly what depression is like. Not the occasional period of being blue, but a hole so deep you have no expectation, and indeed not even any hope, of climbing out. But when the call is coming from inside the house—inside your own mind—it’s exponentially worse.

If you can’t trust your own mind, who can you trust? If your brain is trying to kill you, why shouldn’t you listen? Is anything you can experience with your muted emotions going to be worth the agony of walking this earth one more day? These are the questions I asked myself. And I was so, so lucky to have someone like him there to give me a hand up and out of the abyss.

Yes, it took effort and struggle on my part, and sometimes I feel myself slipping back toward that deep, dark well where I could drown, but I also appreciate how he and my entire medical team were racing around at the top of the crevasse trying to figure out how to get me out, like baby Jessica in the well. I couldn’t see it then, I was convinced I was very much alone. But when it worked—I could see them and everything they’d done for me, and I felt—still feel—tremendous gratitude. And some other stuff because I was a teenager and hormones and adolescence are confusing enough even without the threat of serious mental illness looming over you, but my enduring feeling is gratitude. I am so very grateful for still being here, and to everyone who helped make that a possibility.

I try to pour some of that gratitude over him, into him, make him feel and not just know that he has helped people, that he hasn’t been a failure. I’d ask how many more people wouldn’t be here without his help, but I don’t think that would be helpful right now. That would likely bring on more despair.

I comfort and soothe him until his broad shoulders stop quaking and then I hold him. Willing him to know how deeply I love him without having to say the words.

“Have I talked about my feelings enough?” His voice is gravelly, his eyes rimmed with red, and he’s looking at me with a ravenous hunger. I don’t have much in the house, but I don’t think he’s craving food anyway.

“You could be done for now, if you want.”

“I want. Christ, I knew how draining it can be for my patients to talk to me, but I feel hollowed out.”

I remember that sensation, one that would last for weeks on end, sometimes months. Well, I’m not going to let that happen to Lowry. Not that it could in the same way since his brain doesn’t have that unfortunate wiring that predisposes him to be depressed, but still. For as many times as he’s given me something to hold onto, I’m going to fill him so he doesn’t feel empty any longer.

“And do you have any thoughts on what you’d like to do now?” I check my watch as if I don’t know the time. “Our reservation is soon. We could clean up and head over if you’d like.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t stomach the idea of being out in the world. I only want to be here with you. And if you’re up for it…”

He looks me up and down, the intensity of his gaze singeing my skin as it travels the length of my body. “The only sustenance I want to consume right now is you.”

Oh. Yes, I could do that. Let him devour me.

“I think that could be arranged.”

“Yes? And I’ll finally get to see what’s under that skirt of yours.”

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