She is 14, but we met when she was 10.
She was my first client in my outpatient therapy job.
The first thing she told me was that she was never going to talk to me about her life.
So for the first few weeks, we sat together in silence for a hour.
But once she opened up, her words flowed like waterfalls.
She has an infectious laugh.
She is brave.
She taught me the Cha-Cha slide.
Her favorite game in sessions was charades.
Her incentive chart included being able to throw a whip creme pie at her Grandfather if she did all her homework.
She loves to color, to draw, to dance, and dress up her dogs.
She has been sick since she was born.
She believes in angels.
She is true courage, hope, and joy personified.
She has told me more than once that even know everyone believed she would get better, that she knew that she would not be on the Earth for very long, and she wanted to enjoy every minute.
In June I saw her and her family for the last time. I was leaving and she was so mad at me.
She had tears in her eyes as I walked away.
She is 14 and does not understand therapeutic boundaries, confidentiality, and why, even after working with her for almost 4 years, that I cannot maintain contact with her.
I learned through a strange grapevine that she is dying.
And I can only hope that her body and heart finds peace, and that although I cannot reach out to her, I hope she knows how much she changed my life.
