A Moment Too Late?

An Essay on Loss & Timing

In a room, in a house that I’ve visited often, I sit at the bedside of one of the most important men in my life… as he prepares to die.

He isn’t my father, brother, uncle, or any close relative, but he has played a deeply significant role in my life for over two decades.

Throughout my memoir, I simply refer to him as my therapist, but his name is Errol.

My mind struggles to accept the reality before me. I can see the shape of his body—the sheet draped over him traces his silhouette. The once fit and active man who I thought would go on forever has been replaced by a bag of bones. There’s nothing left… he’s fading away from this existence.

His head is propped up, mouth covered with an oxygen mask, glasses off. I’ve hardly ever seen him with his glasses off except for on occasion in therapy. At times he would stop everything, take out his notepad, take off his glasses, and start scribbling. I’d sit there waiting eagerly for the complex insight into my psyche that he’d present to me—the inner conflicts, critics, child parts, and so forth, all laid bare. I was astounded by his brilliance, his ability to see so deeply and clearly.

Then after he presented his analysis of what was going on, the session would continue. We’d keep talking. Sometimes he’d suddenly say, “Stand up.” It meant we were about to dive in deep with EFT tapping and kinesiology to unravel layers of pain that seemed inaccessible due to my psyche’s complex protective mechanisms. They were built nicely over the years to keep things contained inside the pressure cooker of my inner world.

But somehow in Errol’s loving presence the walls of protection came tumbling down, and the vulnerable, painful parts felt held, comforted, and understood. No amount of pain seemed too much for him to meet. He was a true warrior of the light, ready to meet anything, no matter how dark or painful. A trailblazer. A pioneer in his approach to healing.

Now, as I settle into the chair beside his bed, I hold my book—my memoir—in my hands. I only just got back from my trip to Finland a week ago. Before I left, I had planned to reach out to Errol to give him a copy of my book—to thank him and show him what I had achieved. Now regret fills me that I didn’t come sooner.

The shocking text message came yesterday—Friday. Errol is in home hospice care… the door is open for visitors… I thought about visiting him during the week to avoid weekend beach traffic, but a sense of urgency guided me here today—Saturday. Last I heard, he was still seeing a few old clients—but then something went very wrong with his medical care, leading him to this exit gate.

“I love you, Errol,” I say as I hold his hand, my book in my other hand. Tears fill my eyes as I speak. “I want you to know how much you helped me… This book is a symbol of that… this book is a symbol of how far I’ve come… I was able to write it because of you… I’m here because of you… you saved my life… you saved my marriage… and you saved my family.”  

I wonder if he can hear me… Apart from one slight twitch of his hand, there's no response… Has he left his body already?

I sit beside him and read him a short passage from my book anyway.

Then I leave… wishing deeply that by some miracle he will just wake up.

Errol doesn’t wake up. On Sunday he dies.

My mind tries to tell me that I was a moment too late.

But was I really?

Or was I just in time?