Quiet Room - Lori Schiller [116]
But the closer and closer we came to her date of departure, the harder it became to hold on to the new feelings, and the more seductive the old ones became. The old feelings and patterns were still stronger than the new. I began avoiding her, refusing to come to sessions. Dodging her when I saw her. When I did manage to come to sessions, I would sit in stony-faced silence. I knew that one day we would say goodbye and that would be it. I didn't want that day to come. I wouldn't let her leave me. I would leave her first.
The thought gave me an idea. I would kill myself in honor of her leaving. I wanted to be special to her. How better to make myself special in her memory. If I killed myself just as she was leaving, she would never be able to forget me.
Proudly I brought my idea to Dr. Doller. She looked at me with a half smile on her face, her head tilted in her quizzical, listening pose.
“Lori,” she said. “No one could ever forget you—just the way you are.”
And for the first time, something in me heard her, and was proud. Maybe there was another way. Maybe I could make Dr. Fischer remember me by living, not by dying. Maybe I could make her remember me by being the best patient she ever had. By taking everything she had taught me and putting it into practice. Maybe I could make her not only remember me, but be proud of me.
Still, I faced the end of June with dread. I couldn't bear to see her go. And when, finally, we sat in her office—the office I had struggled so hard to be able even to enter—I couldn't picture never being able to come here again. She had been such a big part of my life for so long. She had come so close to me, done so much to save me. I didn't want to die for her anymore, but how could I live without her? We agreed that we would exchange letters for as long as I wanted to. Finally I could no longer hold on, and tears spilled out over my cheeks. This was it.
We walked back to the unit in silence. As we approached the door where we would finally part, she turned to me.
“Would you like a goodbye hug or a goodbye handshake?” Before she could offer her hand I grabbed her. I gave her the biggest, most heartwarming hug I could muster. It was nothing at all like all the fantasies that had been brewing in my mind all these years. It was nothing like the kinds of hugs the torturing Voices had urged on me in sessions. It was normal. It was friendly. It was a warm, kindly, enveloping bear hug. And then she was gone.
Who would fill the place in my life that Dr. Diane Fischer had left behind? Even Dr. Doller somehow didn't seem enough. But still, where else would I turn? I was hurting so badly I had to talk with someone. Later on that afternoon I met with Dr. Doller. I cried out my pain and loss, trying to explain to her just how big a hole in my long days Dr. Fischer was leaving behind. But as I spoke I realized that while I had lost a friend, I had not lost my only friend. I looked up at Dr. Doller and saw that she had tears in her eyes too.
Gradually my daily life in the hospital changed. My room had furniture in it again. They had taken it away to reduce my stimulation. Now it was back. I could put my things in my dresser and offer a chair to my guests just like any other patient. The bodyguards were gone. No one was stationed outside my room. No one accompanied me to the bathroom. No more room-care plans, eating solitary meals on solitary trays in my solitary room. I was getting up, getting dressed and going down to the cafeteria to eat with everyone else.
There was no discussion of my being discharged immediately. I was doing well, but no one wanted to jeopardize it by letting me go too soon. I needed to make sure my medication was at a therapeutic level before I left. I still needed other medication for my