“This won’t be the last time you see me.”

I looked into his deep brown eyes. They always held equal parts kindness and mischievousness. Today I saw equal parts fear and determination too.

I knew it was a lie. But, I knew he believed it.

“It better not be.”

“I promise. You will see me again.”

He hugged me and I didn’t even attempt to hide the tears rolling down my face. Residential treatment is no place for stoicism. 

I knew it. I knew it in that moment. And I can feel it like it was yesterday even though it was 7 plus years ago. I would never see him again. But, I would hope.

As a therapist, you care about all of your clients, otherwise you are in the wrong profession. However, some of them worm their way a little deeper into your hearts and leave marks that will be there forever. This kid was one of them. 

Kid. He was 23 and I was only 28. He had a kid of his own. So, I guess I shouldn’t call him a kid. He was hardheaded, stubborn, always causing trouble. I got so many phone calls about him, write ups I had to deal with.  He got delayed twice. I remember getting called because he pooped in a food container and threw it in the fire. He drove me up a wall. 

And I loved him. 

The troublemaking turds were my favorite, which is good, because I got A LOT of them. 

He was as kind and sensitive as he was trouble. He cared so much and felt so deeply, the drugs and alcohol he had become addicted to were the only way he knew how to manage everything he felt. He didn’t show many people his heart at that time, though it was obvious if you paid attention. I was one of the lucky few that got to see the real him.

I fought for that kid. I worked hard for that kid. When he first got there he made me guess what he was thinking by playing songs that shared his thoughts. For two weeks, he refused to talk to me in every session because he was mad at me. I walked him out to the gate in the rain and left him there. I told him not to come back until he was ready to do something different. I had zero power to make that call, but he didn’t know that. 

He also spoke of his love for his son, the pain he felt for the bad things he’d done… the fear he wouldn’t be a good dad. In family week, we end the week with a group where the family writes affirmations to each other and read them. He included me and wrote about how much it meant that I never gave up on him. I still have that paper. 

But, there he was, standing in front of me, telling me he was leaving treatment without completion. We both knew that meant he’d probably go to prison. I knew that meant he’d probably die. A heart like his does not survive prison. I did everything, including beg, to convince him to stay. But his stubborn stupid beautiful mind was made up.

As he told me I would see him again, both of us crying, I  wanted to believe it. I desperately wanted to believe it. But, I knew it wasn’t true. 

And, I hoped.

I let go of the hug. I told him he was good and that nothing would ever change that. I told him I believed in him and nothing would ever change that. And then I turned away and walked inside. I wiped my eyes, sucked it up and went and finished family week with a different one of my residents. By the time the group was over, he was gone. The last time I saw him was through the window, outside, hands in his pockets.

Today, I found his obituary.

I’m still a therapist, but I left that treatment center a few years ago. In the seven or so years since that day, I have thought about him many, many times. I googled him periodically to see if he was in jail or worse – always holding my breath until the search results came up. 

It had been years since I had looked him up though. I got married, changed jobs, had a kid. Life got busy in a different way and great lengths of time would go by when I wouldn’t wonder about him. But he had been on my mind for several months. I had a nagging feeling and a sense of dread, so I would push thoughts away and move on. But today, I googled him.

And there it was. His smiling face, along with his obituary. He had died 6 months earlier. 

It’s a weird feeling to lose a resident. He is the first I’ve lost, though I don’t know how because it’s unfortunately common when it comes to addiction.  I felt numb. Sick. An odd sense of relief because I don’t have to wait for this day anymore.

Because I knew this day would come.

And just as equally, I hoped I’d see him again.

That’s hope though. It leaves you open for awful heartache and disappointment, but without it, you just cannot live. Life without hope means certain pain and disaster. Hope may still mean pain, but it is the only way to allow space for miracles, for joy. It is the birthplace of faith and contentment. It is a life vest in uncertain and tumultuous water. It is breath.

I know this because literally yesterday, another former resident of mine texted me a picture of his new baby girl. Sometimes, hope turns out fairly beautiful.

Honestly, his death still feels surreal. And it may seem stupid to some that I still care this much after all this time. But, if you knew him, really knew him, you would too. You couldn’t help it. When his guard came down and he laughed – really laughed- everyone else did too. I hope and pray he found peace. I am grateful he got so many more years with his family, with his son. When he came to treatment, he was not far from death. I’m glad he got more time. I’m grateful I got to walk part of his journey with him.

I’m sure I will still think of him from time to time. After all, you never forget someone who lights poop on fire. It will just be a little sadder now. 

I hope I will still see him again, fully restored, in heaven.

I hope I never lose another resident or client.

I hope.