One of my favorite patients of all time died last night. His daughter called me this morning to tell me the news personally so I wouldn’t read it in the paper tomorrow. I have sobbed for an hour and dread telling the kids that Mr. Will has gone to heaven.

This is what is hard about my profession. It would be easier if I distanced myself from the patient, from their circumstances and their lives. But that isn’t me. Every patient is special to me, but Will and I connected the moment he became my patient. Teaching someone to walk again after hip surgery is fine, but teaching someone to walk that was once on a ventilator, once unable to sit up or stand, now that’s what being a therapist is all about.

As I taught Will how to regain function, he taught me about life, loss, and laughter. He had lost a son at the age of 19, then a wife to cancer, then when life was supposed to be easy, Guillan Barre came knocking at his door. Sure, he had his pity party days, but then he’d pick himself up and we’d fight that monster. We cried together, laughed together, and shared secrets with each other.

There are lines that are supposed to be drawn with patients if you are a healthcare professional. If I would have obeyed those ‘rules’, this loss would be another number or statistic on a never ending list. I would have missed the friendship, the memories, and the lessons that only Will could teach me.

There will be no more trips to the gambling boats in Shreveport or visits to gossip and gripe. His laughter will no longer echo in my home but only in my mind.

As much as I cry, I know he is with his wife watching all of us prepare to say goodbye.

I hate goodbyes.