Day 572: Tell Her You Saw Me

“Tell Her You Saw Me” is a song by Pat Metheny.  Here’s a live version of it:

(found here on YouTube)

I listened to “Tell Her You Saw Me” a lot, when my mother was ill and dying, in the summer of 2008.

To this day, I find it very beautiful and sad.

Yesterday, when I was walking to work, I took this photo:

IMG_7367

I thought: I’ll tell my readers I saw that.  I’ll use those initials —  “F.B” —  to share some thoughts about FaceBook, a topic that often comes up in my therapy groups. Plus, my mind seems tuned for making connections, so I was sure I’d identify other F.B’s during the day.

Throughout the morning, I thought of other ways I could use the initials F.B., in order to create a Fine Blog, perhaps, for you.

For example, the doctor I recently mentioned in this post  (about a patient whose application for disability was initially turned down) has the initials  F.B.!  I considered taking a photo of Dr. F.B., for this potential and planned post.

Just then, I checked my email and found that another patient of Dr. F.B.’s, who was also in therapy with me,  had passed away.

Those who worked with this amazing woman, including Dr. F.B., immediately exchanged messages, sharing our surprise and grief.

Later that day, the good doctor F.B.  and I met in person, to talk and reminisce. We agreed that our late patient — despite her many illnesses and challenges — had a spirit so indomitable, we expected her to outlive the two of us.

All day, I remembered and imagined the deceased — her voice, her expressions, the way she met the world.  I heard and saw her, as I worked with other people,  and when I walked  and sat near a quiet brook.  I looked and listened,  the rest of the day, but took no photos.

And I abandoned any previous plans for today’s post.

When I walked back to my car, still not taking photos, I heard “Tell Her You Saw Me.”

I want to tell you this: I loved working with this woman.  She lit up my office, every time she appeared. We shall all miss her, very much.

Even though I’m working on my reactions to death, I still cannot believe that somebody is so there, and then they are not.

If I saw her again, what might I tell her?

I’m grateful I knew her.

Thanks to all my readers,  for looking, listening, and joining with me, today.

Categories: inspiration, Nostalgia, personal growth, tribute | Tags: , , , , , | 28 Comments

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28 thoughts on “Day 572: Tell Her You Saw Me

  1. Lovely post, Ann. Sorry for your loss.

    Kathy

  2. I am sorry for your loss, and the world’s loss, of this lovely woman, Ann.

    But I am glad that you are so eloquently able to remind us of how we should appreciate what people give us here, now, every day, because, well, we never know when a surprise message can carry bad news.

    You know why she was in your life, Ann.

    For Better.

  3. Words are inadequate at a time like this, and while I am so very sorry for your loss, I’m so glad that you had her in your life and you got to enjoy her while she was here.

  4. Sorry for the loss of your friend.

  5. may you feel ease in comfort
    experiencing her beautiful continuation.

  6. Janet H

    Oh, Ann, so sorry. Your tribute was beautiful.

  7. oh i’m sorry to hear about your loss… it is tough and i can imagine that you’re going through all kinds of emotional roller coaster rides… hugs

  8. Gene Phillips

    Very nice tribute.

  9. I’m so sorry for your loss Ann. (((HUGS))) I’m glad she had such a caring professional circle of support.
    Diana xo

  10. How sad and moving. Your words and the music are a wonderful tribute to the lives that were here.
    May you find comfort in your memories and with the love of those around you.
    Sending you a virtual hug.
    Val xo

  11. How powerful yet so emotional…I’m sorry for your loss my dear friend

  12. Pingback: Day 573: Why? Because I thought it was _____. | The Year(s) of Living Non-Judgmentally

  13. Sorry to hear that Ann.
    I know exactly what you mean about someone being here & then they are not.
    Having had the chance to know her was a beautiful gift.
    I love that you mentioned how her presence lit up a room.
    May she rest in peace.
    {Hugs}

  14. I’m sorry for your loss of your patient and friend,and your mother.

  15. Pingback: Day 610: See the world | The Year(s) of Living Non-Judgmentally

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