No Magic Pill: A Psychiatrist’s Journey Through Grief and Healing

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COMMENTARY

I lay in darkness in the fetal position, clutching my forehead. The pain that wrapped around my scalp was excruciating. It broke through my propranolol, calcitonin gene-related peptide (CGRP) receptor antagonist, acetaminophen/caffeine/aspirin tablet, and even my botulinum toxin, paralyzing my temporal and frontalis muscles. My medications failed me in that moment like they often fail my patients.

I tried a hot bath, but it just brought waves of nausea. My partner empathically rubbed my shoulders and brought me ice packs for my face and neck. In the stillness of the dark, with icy relief pressed to the skin on my face, hot tears rolled down my cheeks, unbidden. For a moment, behind my protective icy shield, it was safe to surrender, safe to be vulnerable. I did not have to hold it all together. I did not have to be strong.

And then his face appeared in my thoughts. My patient. He passed peacefully a few days earlier, surrounded by his loving family. But in that quiet moment, the weight of his absence hit me. Three weeks earlier, I got to see him smile and experience his calm, kind, and gentle demeanor. He told me he had done the work. His depression had lifted. Life still was not easy, but the transcranial magnetic stimulation and esketamine treatments helped him discover joy again, helped him feel present with his loved ones. The book Being Mortal by Atul Gawande had shifted his perspective. “I’m not afraid of dying anymore,” he said. His words were steady, filled with peace. I had the chance to tell him how much he meant to me. How much joy he brought to our sessions. Now he is gone. And I miss him deeply. The world will miss him, too.…

The icy mask cooled my tears as I whispered a prayer to myself and for my patient and his family. Slowly, my headache eased.

Another thought came to me—recently, one of my therapy patients of nearly a decade had a breakthrough: “Dr Albright, I finally realized something,” he said. “There’s no magic pill that’s going to fix my anxiety. I have to do the work to get better.”

He is right. As I lay there in the quiet darkness, I realized: there was no magic pill for my migraines either. Did my headache medications really fail me? No. The truth is, grief, stress, and neglecting myself surpassed the efficacy of pills. The real failure was me forgetting what I tell my patients: healing requires work. I have to process my own grief and the emotional pain lingering in my body. I have to do the self-care. There is no magic in a pill bottle.

So, I started to do the work. That night, I slept 9 hours. The next morning, I cuddled my dogs, took a dance class, talked with other supportive women, visited the chiropractor, got a deep tissue massage, indulged in a bit of retail therapy, prepared a homemade dinner, and shared quality time with my family. I also processed by writing this. I felt lighter—still grieving, still healing—but lighter.

Today, I wrote a letter to his wife about how much he meant to me, how much his words and our time together touched me. How his brilliance and equal parts kindness were always present, even through the burden of terminal illness. I wrote about how I am in awe of her as she was his faithful and loving caregiver until the very end. A picture of a humble servant and how marriage and partnership should be.

Take care of yourselves, my friends. Grief and stress can hide in the body, but they do not have to stay there. Give yourself the love and care you need. And do not hold back kindness or agape love with your patients. We never know how much time we will have with them—or with anyone.

Dr Albright is an adult, adolescent, and addiction psychiatrist and owner of Sweetgrass Psychiatry in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina, as well as an emergency medicine psychiatrist with the South Carolina Department of Mental Health.