I found out on New Year’s Eve Day that my psychotherapist of thirty years, Rosalind Kaplan, PhD, lay dying in a hospice facility somewhere. If I hadn’t just written a book that I wanted her to have a copy of, I would never have known that her life is nearly at its end. As it turns out, my only link to her now happened through an ironic twist of fate. Because when she retired, she insisted that there would be no further contact between us. I was hurt and furious with her for that.

She was my psychotherapist for exactly thirty years from June, 1982, to May, 2012, which in itself is quite ironic since, in my professional writings, I have been very critical of what I have called “cult therapists” who hold onto to their patients for twenty years or more. But, then again, so much of life is filled with irony. And, like a failing marriage, what initially attracted me to her style of therapy in the end infuriated me.

She was scrupulous about boundaries. I had come to her from a treatment environment where there were none, so she was a source of stability, sanity, and comfort. For the first six months of treatment, I thought she was incompetent, because she didn’t tell me how to run my life, which was the template of therapy in which I was trained and treated. Despite the realization that this was toxic to me, it was the only type of therapy that I knew. In my treatment with Roz, I had to re-learn what therapy was and what my role as a therapist—to myself, to others—should be.

So when she told me in November, 2011, after 29 ½ years of working with her, that she was retiring at the end of the upcoming May, I was appalled. It was in this end-of-treatment phase that her adherence to strict boundaries became a liability. She decided that, once treatment ended, there would be no further contact between us. My feelings were hurt, and I complained that only six months was not enough notice, too short a time, to process a termination after all these years. It felt like a smack in the face when she replied,”Even if I gave you a year, it wouldn’t be enough for you.” She was probably right, but in my heart it was irrelevant to the manner in which she handled the end. I was so upset with her that I consulted my friend and colleague, Dr. Lena Furgeri, and asked her opinion of how Roz was managing her retirement announcement. She was spot on when she said, “It looks like she’s not used to having to account to anyone for her actions.” From what little I knew about Roz, she lived alone (except for her cat). She never married nor had children. She was somewhat of an odd duck, a loner in that way.

As a psychotherapist myself, I could appreciate her desire to maintain a professional relationship with me even after the treatment ended but there was a coldness to her insistence that even after thirty years, an unusually long analysis, that this was only a professional relationship. Ironically, in one of our last sessions, she let on that she hadn’t realized just how much she was going miss her patients. Although she kept it general, not mentioning me by name, I assumed that I was included in that category, but I chose not to call her on it, not wanting to make it too uncomfortable for either of us.

When my book was finally published this past October, a book that ironically focuses on boundaries in psychotherapy, I was conflicted about giving her a copy. I knew that the book would probably never have been written without her, although it wasn’t that she had collaborated with me on it. But if it weren’t for her, I might not have been able to extricate myself from the tortuous treatment mess that I was in at the time that I began treatment with her (which served as the impetus for writing the book in the first place). I was holding on to my resentment toward her and felt punitive, even though I had recognized her help on the Acknowledgments page. To hell with her for leaving me like this, I thought. Why would I want her to have my book anyway, if I never hear from her about it?

When my daughter, Alison, asked if I was going to give Roz a copy of the book, I began to waffle. There was something about talking to my daughter that was like holding up a mirror to my own actions, making me see that I could feel hurt without hurting back. I have great respect for Ali’s high regard for me, and I imagined that she would see through my veneer of foolish pride and understand the healthier, but buried, need to let it all go. I half didn’t even believe myself when I heard myself say to Alison, “But I have no way of getting in touch with her.” Then a light bulb went on in my head. Years ago, when my daughter had asked for a referral for a psychotherapist, Roz recommended her friend and colleague, Dr. Frieda Kurash. It was then that I thought of contacting Dr. Kurash, and imagined that she might be able to patch me through to Roz. It was when we finally spoke that I learned of Roz’s tragic fate.

She gave me the bad news—Roz was gravely ill and dying. I went into shock but I was at work, between sessions, and couldn’t speak with Dr. Kurash for very long. I was distracted but kept my focus on my work with patients until the workday was over. I knew that was exactly what Roz would have done, had she been in a similar situation.

Later that night, while celebrating New Year’s Eve with my fiancée, Lois, and with our friends, at around midnight, between the toasting, my mind wandered back to Roz, and I had this dark, sad, and disturbing thought: She won’t live to see the end of this year. And at the age of 74, she is much too young to die.

Now getting the book to her has taken on a sudden urgency.   I want Roz to know how much she has meant me, and I’m including a photo of our dog, “Molly”; Roz often asked to see a picture of her. Dr. Kurash has assured me that she will bring Roz a copy and that she will read it to her at her bedside. And though I feel guilty for having waited this long to have gotten over my anger and hurt about her abandoning me at the end of treatment, I also feel fortunate that I didn’t wait a moment longer—before life’s ultimate abandonment takes away the chance forever—to forgive her.

Post-script: Roz died this past August.