The other night I opened up what was, ironically, the best bottle of wine I’ve had since Ruby’s conception – Napa Cellars 2011 Pinot Noir, in case you’re interested. Jason was at work and Ruby was in bed. I drank one glass.
And I had the kind of reaction I had in college after drinking more than one glass of something and realizing that whatever boy wasn’t going to make me feel any less lonely. Only this time it isn’t a boy leaving me. It’s my therapist.
My therapist is leaving me. I’ve known this was coming for a couple months. Ever since her bulging belly popped out from under her scarf in that obvious sort of way. And I still have a few weeks left.
But I only have a few weeks left. And then she’ll be gone. Gone gone. And I’m not ready. The reality of this hit me the other night after that glass of perfect wine, and is hitting me again as I write this.
I really lucked out in finding her. Or rather, tripping accidentally into her. Our union is the sort of thing that makes me think there must be something almighty coordinating our affairs. She, herself, referred to the arrangement as “serendipitous.”
You see, I first went in under the label of “Crisis Management.” My therapist, who is trained in infant-parent psychotherapy, just happened to be there that day. And the on-call crisis therapist I saw just happened to think of her. That’s how it started.
According to the Kaiser model, I should have seen her for a month or two. Just long enough to get out of “crisis mode.” At that point, I should have graduated to group therapy. Or she should have referred me to someone on the “Adult” team. Instead, she squeezed me in.
I’ve been seeing her once a week or so for almost a year now. She knows me. She knows my story. She knows the DETAILS. She has experience counseling patients with EERILY similar DETAILS. I trust her. When I have a bad day or a bad week I look forward to seeing her. She supports me in a way my incredibly supportive husband, family and friends JUST CAN’T.
And she’s leaving me. For a BABY. Of all things.
So now I have, more or less, four options.
I could go back to group therapy. I say back because I did actually go for awhile. I went because it was something to do. An excuse to get out of the house and see people. I did not go because it did anything for me. It was always a small group, and the people were constantly changing. There wasn’t enough time to build the kind of trust that’s necessary to share the DETAILS. Somehow I mustered the guts and bared my soul the very first week I went. And some lady responded by saying the EXACT. ONE. WORST. thing she could have said.
Besides that, I wasn’t a fan of the format. The (I’m sure well meaning therapist) that led the group had us do yoga-for-the-sedentary for half the session and talk about our self-care plans for just about the other half. There was very little time left over to actually deal with any issues.
So that’s option one.
Alternatively, I could get that referral to the “Adult” team. Apparently therapists on this team have a very high case load. They aren’t able to see patients more than about once a month. My new therapist probably wouldn’t be trained to counsel women with PPMD. And because they’re constantly receiving new patients, there’s a chance they would try and push me in the group therapy direction anyway.
This does not sound appealing.
So then, I could venture outside of Kaiser. My therapist has volunteered the name of her mentor. The obvious downside of this option is that I would have to pay out of pocket. The less obvious, yet more daunting obstacle is starting over. I would have to start from the beginning and go through the DETAILS all over again. And that sounds painfully exhausting.
That leaves us with the fourth and final option. I could just give it a go on my own. Only problem is that feels lonely. The kind of lonely a single lady sometimes finds at the bottom of her wine glass.