I had this amazing therapist that I used to refer to as T-Bone. I saw him for quite a few years. He was a psychologist, so a PhD, but he dropped near as many f-bombs as me during a session. He was this mountain of a man, tall with a big white beard, long ponytail, and typically wore hiking boots and flannel shirts. He also played fierce guitar.
He left the practice to take a different job in another state and the day he left it took everything I had to keep my shit together. I knit him a hat as a going away present. He was well and truly a surrogate father for me when my dad died in 2012.
I transitioned to seeing a female therapist in the same practice, someone I had worked with during DBT. We have an amazing relationship now that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Literally, anything.
She told me a month or so ago that T-Bone was coming back. I don’t know the circumstances of his return, just that he was not only returning to the area but specifically to the practice. The first thing I said to her was that I’d like to see him, to say hello, but I’m not leaving her care. And I meant that.
Fast forward to yesterday… I’m sitting in the waiting room to see my doc (also in the same practice) and this young man comes in and says he’s got an appointment with T-Bone. I almost cried. And then T-Bone walked past the reception window, looked right at me, smiled and waved. And I almost cried again.
The visit with the doc was good. She agreed that I look and sound better. No changes for a week, we’ll re-evaluate next Friday.
I also asked her to do me a favor and tell T-Bone that I’m still fighting the good fight. She said that since I had given permission she’d be happy to do that.