“I only have 24 hours to be concious, Dr. DeShong. How can I stop crying?”
The Past is . . . History.
The Future is . . . Mystery.
The Present Moment is . . . a Gift.
I’d been in practice without supervision for exactly two weeks when I checked the answering service that lonely night in an El Paso motel room. One message. From ‘Ellen,’ a 33-year-old divorced mother of two little girls, I’d seen for all of one fifty-minute hour. Long enough to learn that she was in a losing battle with aggressive breast cancer and that she had narrowed her life down to a single goal.
She wanted to live for five months.
Ellen’s message: “It’s Ellen Strand, I met you last week. I don’t know you that well, but, actually, I need to speak with someone who doesn’t know me well enough to be so worried about me. I need someone more objective, professional. You see, I’ve been told I have 24 to 48 hours of consciousness left and I don’t know how to stop crying. Please call St. David’s Hospital, Room 384. Doesn’t matter what time.”
Her ex-husband, whose only contact with his children always ended badly, was a violent addict on disability from the military. On learning her condition he’d announced that on her death, he intended to take the children against their will in order to triple his monthly checks. To protect the girls, Ellen had petitioned the court to transfer her parental rights to her mother. But there was a catch. The law required that the parent requesting the transfer appear in court one year from the initial request to finalize the petition.
But, Ellen, I’ve only been a real psychologist for days—if there’s anything such as a real psychologist. I’m only 25 years old and pretty much an emotional mess. Ellen was a special education teacher who got up before dawn every day to make lunches and check homework. She made cupcakes every Friday and fought off her ex-husband when he broke in to rob piggybanks. I was already twice married with no children and obsessed with showing horses like a nine-year-old. Ten minutes earlier I’d been struggling with a room service menu.
What did I know? A lot of theories, some clinical skills, a string of degrees. Was psychology even a real thing? What did psychology have to offer? What did I have to offer?
Then I remember Alvin, the groom who’d let me help feed the horses after my mother died. He’d said what most people in pain needed was someone who could listen without judgement or telling them what to do.
