The Death of a Client

I listened to the steady buzz of the photocopier. Stacks and stacks of paper, a continuous hum that lasted well into a late Friday afternoon in mid- April. I had already sat through two meetings. Then I spent a good portion of the afternoon re-reading and then photocopying my client’s medical records. The stacks of records were so thick that they reminded me of the old-fashioned phone books (for those of you who could remember).

My client was scheduled to come into the office to meet with me in a few short hours. He was to pick up all of his medical records, as well. Why had I waited until the last few hours to copy these stacks of records?

My client was in his late 60s and had a lengthy medical history. Decades of “hard living” translated into piles of lengthy medical and mental health records. And substance use recovery program records. Multiple programs. Multiple attempts at substance use recovery. Along with the piles of medical records were other documents that he kept: character reference letters dating back to the early 2000’s.

Can you please provide me with some current letters? I had asked him. Sure, he had said.

He was supposed to come in to see me at 3 p.m. I waited… 3:30 pm… 4 pm…

I had finally left for the day. My bags in tow, thinking about the weekend, I heard the phone ringing. It was probably my client, finally responding to explain why he had missed our appointment.

But it wasn’t him.

It was my client’s wife… My client had died of a heart attack that morning…

Loss

Losing a client can be a traumatic experience, and it certainly was for me. It hits in a way that’s largely inexplicable for many reasons. Outside of the field, who could truly understand the vulnerability it takes for another human being to bear their soul in your presence? And the reciprocal connection that develops because of that trust.

As a forensic social worker in New York, working with clients with severe life circumstances is not unusual. My client – I will refer to him as “John Doe” was no exception. In his late 60s, John was facing criminal charges. This was not new for John, whose rap sheet spanned decades; he had spent decades of his life in prison as a result.

His first arrest was at 9 years of age. I really didn’t want to believe it. But there it was, documented on his rap sheet. As a social worker, a human being, and as a mother, this haunted me. Arrested at 9 years old.

Sure, he was in his late 60s, and times have changed. Laws have changed.

But 9 years old…

And then it got worse...

The truth, he said, is that he wasn’t 9 years old. (Even though it was documented). He was, in fact, only 7 years old, he told me. The police had it wrong when they arrested him for stealing as a child.

Arrested at 7 years old.

This was the first of many times that I asked myself: Did my client ever have a chance?

John lived a tragic life. From an early age, he had endured every kind of abuse that you could imagine, some of which was perpetrated by the very people in his life who were entrusted to care for him.

When I first began working as a forensic social worker, I was told that it was a very misunderstood population. No words could be truer.

I had absorbed John’s life story as he recounted it, in his own words. It took time to gain his trust. He wasn’t one to give it easily. He had been resistant, even testy, at first. I still recall his gruff voice: “What do you want to know? About my childhood? Is that what you want to know?”

As I recall my late client’s mannerisms, I have tears in my eyes. I remember how difficult and guarded he had been when he started telling me his life story. And how soon after he had softened in my presence. Then his tears came.

“I’m a grown man, but it scarred me,” he said, recounting his years of trauma amidst his tears.

A Social Worker’s Reflections

The grief that I have felt for John’s death has felt isolating. Perhaps because the connection between a social worker and a client is not something that many outside of the field have experienced or can understand. The space that we hold for our clients to share their stories is sacred space, in my book. I decided to honor that sacred space by writing John a letter that would never reach him.

I also lit a candle for John. Then I sat and stared at the flame for a good amount of time.

During a staff meeting the following week, I told my fellow social workers about his death. Truthfully, I am usually not one to share during staff meetings. I prefer listening over sharing. But this staff meeting was different. I was eager to share. Not for me, but for John. I wanted to share his life story. I wanted to hear the gasps when I told my colleagues that he had been arrested for the first time, when he was 7 years old.

I shared and shared some more…

Why? Because his life mattered.

So much of what is done as a forensic social worker calls for humanizing our clients. A misunderstood population, indeed.

My wish for John is that he truly rests in peace. His life was a complicated one. I hope, and I pray that, in death, he finds the peace that alluded him for so much of his lifetime.

He liked you, his wife had told me that day on the phone when she told me about his death.

“Thank you,” was all I could muster as a response at the time.

There was more that I could have said. But the words escaped me, at the time.

I reflect on the comforting words of my supervisor at the time. At least he died, knowing that someone cared and was trying to help him.

I am proud to have been that someone.