A Tribute to Therapists

Picture a room about the size of a doctor's waiting room. About ten people sit in a circle. All of them suffer from mental illness. Many of them have either attempted suicide or lost a loved one to it. Only a tiny percentage of their pain can be discussed in approximately two hours. It is a ring of tips of icebergs. This is a microcosm of the courage that actual people display on a daily basis. The credit I failed to give them is enormous to me now. Now, let's get to the therapist.

The therapist CHOOSES to walk into this room, day after day. He or she does this for a LIVING. Listening is a profession. Knowing what to say and when to say it is an art form. Again, this is just two hours of this person's day. Do you know what a therapist can do during a ten minute break in the middle of one of these sessions? It could be paperwork. It might be saving a life. Rest assured, he or she will be back in that room after the break. Just imagine what the rest of the day looks like. The only way I can imagine that therapists manage this is to apply the very skills taught in their groups.

Fellas, raise your hand if you fancy yourself a tough guy. Go ahead, I myself grew up on a steady diet of one-man armies, action heroes, troubled loners and other assorted alienated idols. Do you know where it got me? A seat in that room. As I began to heal, I began to realize the full scope of this profession.

Don't get me wrong. There is still work to be done. The sheer awe I am trying to express here is just a byproduct of that work. I began to see my team. That team consists of me, a psychiatrist and a therapist. My admiration for the therapist, as well as the doctor, helps me come to see my own importance in my care.

Of course, there are many others that choose to report to this environment day after day. Even the maintenance woman uses the word 'mindful' and gets down when there is a Zumba class in the morning. These folks ENJOY showing up to a place where death looms. What is sheer terror for so many, or utter misery, is merely a challenge to which years of experience and education are applied.

Therapists are unsung heroes.  What they do is also not reserved for emergencies only. Therapy is hard work. You do not have to wait for an emergency, or even a setback or rough spot. It applies to any stage in one's life or relationships. There isn't just one type, either. Visit https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/therapists to learn more.

Goodbye Rusty

Rusty does not have much longer to be with us. I have been through my own journey of understanding mortality and the value of life. All the love I could give him was given to the fullest extent every time we were together. Even that does not compare to the round the clock mothering and care given my mother, JoAnn Wilkey, or the fathering and love given by my father, Charles Wilkey. As much as I don't want any of those I love to feel pain or even cry, all is happening at least with the knowledge that everyone in Rusty's life loved him. Maggie started as a single mother of two cats. They are now like children of my own and I know she felt the same about Rusty. She hasn't stopped wishing for a dog since she met our beagle.

I fell apart when I first saw the X-ray. It came at a time of great vulnerability. But I still faced it best I could, bawled my eyes out and said my first goodbyes as soon as I led him out of the vet's office and into our van. My mother began administering the prednisone that would reduce his tumor and help him enjoy what time he had left. He has eaten all the chicken, ham, bacon and assorted treats. Each of us had the chance to take him outside and see him manage to poop and pee. He's been the best boy right to the very end.

I know that my last moments spent with him were mindful ones, with kisses and treats that I'd bought him for Christmas. Just as now I know that continued mindfulness has helped me prepare myself and my loved ones for his passing. I've applied skills learned for my own well being to the task of supporting my mother and father, encouraging them to cry and making sure that they knew that a veterinarian could be called tot he house, so they did not have to worry about any sudden emergency or how they would transport him.

I've been a good son to my parents and a good brother to my beautiful beagle, Rusty. I don't know how to bring this to an end, any more than I know how to face the end of a pet I love. All I know is that my love knows no end. In the past, our goodbyes were said at the vet's office when a pet passed. This time, some kind of service will be held and Rusty will be memorialized. I will take care of this because it is important to me to be part of this, and to make sure we all grieve and remember him properly.

Love forever and ever, to my boy Rusty.