Back to table of contents Previous article Next article Residents' ForumFull AccessDeath and Life in ResidencyNatalie Gluck, Natalie GluckSearch for more papers by this author, M.D.Published Online:5 Aug 2005https://doi.org/10.1176/pn.40.15.00400032A couple of weeks into my third year of residency, just as I was beginning to acquaint myself with a large and daunting caseload of outpatients, my father died. Without warning, I went from navigating another day in the clinic to making travel plans and funeral arrangements. My life as a resident would have to be put on hold.When I received the devastating phone call on that balmy afternoon, my immediate response—thanks to a ready reserve of ego defenses—was to agonize over my patients. How would a sudden, unexplained departure affect a group of people already traumatized by the recent changeover of doctors? How could I gracefully maneuver through all of the phone calls without sounding panicked or betraying my veil of neutrality? I was stuck in a quagmire of technical questions, the answers to which were not easily found in a Glen Gabbard textbook.As a resident in a program that clings doggedly to modern psychiatry's psychoanalytic roots, I have been served ample portions of dynamic theory. But in all our lectures on process in psychotherapy, not a single one had addressed the transference and countertransference implications of a therapist's crisis. I thought a lot about this during that period of suspended reality known as shiva, the first seven days of mourning in the Jewish tradition, and questioned whether I could treat people in pain while I myself was suffering. I grappled with issues of self-revelation, wondering how I would explore my patients' fantasies of where a “family emergency” had taken me. My own fantasies led me to fear the worst— that my patients would flee treatment, stop their medication, or decompensate.I returned to work, emotionally at half-mast and with no clear idea of how I would manage. But I quickly found that, consciously at least, it was possible to keep my father's death out of the room. Many of my higher-functioning patients expressed relief at my return but did not linger on the issue, and we were quickly able to pick up where we had left off. For those in a more supportive therapy, I offered a direct explanation for my absence, accepted their condolences, and moved on.Outside of the therapeutic interaction, however, I noticed a kind of self-consciousness about being a person in mourning, unsure of what others expected of me. I worried that supervisors would restrain their questions in an effort to avoid the dangerous territory where supervision becomes individual therapy. I worried that my colleagues might interpret a bright affect as pathologic. I even scanned the DSM-IV criteria for abnormal grief reaction for fear of confirming their suspicions.I'd often respond to inquiries with intellectualized defenses, including quoting the stages of grief described by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, who, ironically, died a few weeks after my father. There were questions of whether I was in therapy (twice weekly, thank you very much) or had considered joining a bereavement group (I had, but couldn't find one where phrases like“ identification with the lost object” were appreciated). After a while, I developed a sort of haughtiness, as if the death of a parent somehow adds to your life's curriculum vitae. Yep, now I can say that I get loss.As I enter my final year of training and approach the first anniversary of my father's death, there are many things for which I am grateful. I am grateful for my fellow residents, who have showered me with kindness and support, offering everything from taking extra call to permitting a space for bereavement in process group. I am grateful for the supervisors who acknowledged my sorrow, but respected the work enough to keep me from drowning in it. I am grateful that patients are more resilient than I gave them credit for and that my sudden departure weaved its way into their therapies in subtle but meaningful ways.Through the tribulations of residency, I've battled self-doubt and uncertainty. But even as I weather sadness and anger, I realize that most of my patients are doing well, and a few have even gotten better. And like my father—himself a physician who devoted much of his life to the practice of medicine—I continue to derive satisfaction from my work.My dad would have been proud. ▪Natalie Gluck, M.D., is a PGY-4 resident at the New York University School of Medicine. ISSUES NewArchived