Finding My Blankie
Dear those in heart, even if in the distance,
It’s funny how we get attached to people like we do with transitional objects. We get used to their presence, and when they’re gone, we keep looking for them.
As I approach a big transition in my life, I find myself thinking about the patients who have come and gone, as well as those still here—facing the storms of life alone, finding some relief and hope in my presence.
Some I lost to cancer. Some decided they’d had enough. Some wanted to continue but couldn’t—their minds unable to hold the pieces together.
I lost some to COVID, not to the illness itself, but because they didn’t want to work online.
And now, it’s my turn. I’ll be away from my office for a while, recovering from surgery—unable to climb the stairs, and needing to be non-weightbearing. I may lose some again—those who don’t want to meet online. But their absence will weigh on my heart.
I wish they could, but I understand. There’s a part of me that sees the writing on the wall. Though I’m not ready to retire and hope to keep working as long as I can, the question of staying in my office keeps edging forward in my mind.
And when that day arrives, always know that the threads between and within will continue to connect us, even if the walls around us change.
The other day, I went looking for an old blanket my wife had knitted—a fixture in my office for years. It gave patients something to hold onto in hard times, when they couldn’t find warmth inside themselves.
It reminded me of all the other objects that wouldn’t be there if I gave up my office, not just the ones my patients loved, but also those that comforted me. Some were given to me by my children who grew up with them into adulthood, but were always close to heart.
Some were gifts from patients close to the heart. One such gift—a little elephant statue—was tucked in a corner of my office. I didn’t find it for several months.
The dear woman who left it for me ended therapy soon after I discovered it, having learned that she had Alzheimer's and would be moving out of the area to be closer to family. Perhaps she forgot to tell me. But I like to think it was her way of saying goodbye—reassuring us both that she would be okay.
She wanted to know I wouldn’t forget her, even if she could no longer remember me. I never did—the light always went both ways, even after she passed.
Still, I kept looking for that special blankie—until one day, I found a photo I had taken many years ago. There it was, on the lap of a woman near the end of her life, alone in a nursing home, no family around.
I had given her the blanket to hold onto during difficult times. And on that day, she found the strength to eat a piece of European bread I brought her—like the kind she had often made for me when we met in my office.
She loved watching me savor each delicious morsel.
I never got to say goodbye. But now I can. I imagine her holding onto the blankie tightly, just as she does in the picture—knowing she is not alone.
I’ll never see her again, but I realize she left me a message. It’s a message of love, woven into my heart, about the work I have difficulty letting go of. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe I just want more time—because this work is such a big part of who I am.
When the day comes that I'm working only virtually, if you’re one of the people who have sat with me in my office and remember, please know this: I haven’t forgotten the things you held onto. Every one of you is in my heart—held gently, gratefully—even when we’re not in the same room.
I hope you’ll always remember who you are in your core. That the little ones will know they are safe in your heart. And that you'll find the blankie—the warmth and light inside yourself—when needed.
I hope you will always know that I’ll have my blankie, too. It’s a beautiful one I can always find in my heart. And I believe you’re holding yours too—that same love woven into it, ready to be found when we need it most.
With gratitude and hope,
Marc
Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold, or long to be held by, in the light of invisibility.
Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.