Two years ago this week, my physical therapist, a crucial part of my medical care team, was killed, at age 44, in a tragic accident. I wrote this letter to her the week after her passing, as a way to process my emotions. I’ve edited it lightly, and I added a post-script, but it remains largely unchanged otherwise. Consider yourself forewarned: you may want to have some tissues on hand as you read or listen to this one.
June 15, 2024
Dear Caryn,
For the first time in almost four years, I went to my physical therapy appointment on Thursday with a sense of utter dread. Not because of the exercises I would need to engage in or the therapist I had been assigned to work with, but because I knew you wouldn’t be there. That day or ever again.
But how could that be real? This was YOUR practice, YOUR office, YOUR staff, YOUR therapists, YOUR patients, YOUR methodology. Your fingerprints are on every square inch. Instead of the big, welcoming smile and “Come on in” that I normally receive from you, I was met by a teary-eyed receptionist, whose glum look and words of shared condolences caused me to start sobbing again. The therapists and other patients were speaking to each other in hushed and solemn tones, none of them judging this next wave of tears, probably the hundredth I had shed in the past 48 hours, since I heard the news.
On Tuesday, when I entered my parents’ house after a doctor’s appointment, I found my mother lurking awkwardly, awaiting my entrance from the garage. She said “Come in and sit down. I have to tell you something.” My mind raced, thinking awful scenarios about older relatives who were ill or may have become so. “You’re freaking me out,” I told her. “Please just tell me what’s going on.”
I’m not sure exactly what words she used to tell me you were gone, and I’m certainly not sure what the horrified, strangled sound was that emerged from my vocal cords in response. My father entered the room, and, together, they cried while explaining that his friend, who lives in the same community as your parents, had heard the news and called. It seemed impossible for that to be true.
I didn’t fully grasp it until my parents handed me the Local section of the newspaper. “Runner struck, killed on sidewalk,” shouted the headline. At 7:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, you were out for a run. A 19-year-old boy was driving past.
The driver’s front of the Honda struck [the pedestrian], vaulting her onto the hood and windshield of the car before she landed on the shoulder of the road along the curb. The Honda driver continued off the road, down an embankment, and into a watery ditch, deputies said.
[Fire-Rescue] personnel pronounced [her] dead at the scene. The driver of the Honda was uninjured.
Deputies said charges are pending in the collision.
My father’s friend shared the shiva information with us. We had already missed the funeral on Monday, which I would have attended, had I known. Your staff only called the patients scheduled for Monday and Tuesday because they were shutting down for two days to grieve and figure out next steps. Normally, I’m scheduled with you every Tuesday, but this week you were supposed to have Jury Duty on Tuesday, so I wasn’t on the schedule…so, they didn’t call.
Just last Tuesday, upon my return from a trip to Boston, I had an appointment with you. You asked to see my pictures from the trip, so we scrolled through them together on my phone. We celebrated the fact that I had a major accomplishment on this trip…climbing the stairs at a friend’s house. You spent the previous three months training me to do that, and it had been five years since I was last able to climb stairs.
You had asked me to bring back a list of things we still needed to work on from my trip; things that were physically challenging while I traveled. We reviewed it and set up our shared goals for the next few months. In fact, that day, you told me that patients like me are the reason you named your practice “Partners in Motion.” “This kind of give and take between you and I with your plan of care is exactly what I hoped for when I started the business. We are a partnership,” you said.
I also shared with you the complicated report from a doctor’s appointment I had in the Boston area. I have an upcoming surgery pending and was upset about my options, in part because I knew it would be another setback in the progress we were making with my PT. You assured me, “We are in this together, and I will be here for you to overcome the setback and make sure you continue to move forward.”
At the end of that session, you said, “You know you can call me any time, right? Not as your physical therapist, but as your friend?” What I said was “Thank you.” Which I’m not sure gave you the full picture of how much that offer really meant to me. I knew we were friends, not just patient and therapist. You knew it. We’d just never really come out and said it. There’s this professional boundary between physical therapist and patient. Even though we’d seen and spoken to each other twice a week almost every week for nearly four years, we always kept that friendship in the office. In retrospect, I wish we hadn’t.
You used to tell me how much you looked forward to our appointments. It was a time of day when you had someone to chat with and vent to. I shared my daily goings-on, and you did the same. I heard about frustrating patients (in a non-HIPAA violation kind of way!) and staffing woes. We swapped stories, as women who ran businesses; the challenges of being in charge, of having to sometimes be the “bad guy,” and the long hours.
We spoke at length about our shared history, which we didn’t discover until after I had, fortuitously, been referred to you by my physiatrist. We both grew up in the same New York City suburb. I was a year-and-a-half older than you and two years ahead in school. You told me you were something of a popular jock, while I was a band geek, but we still seemed to know quite a lot of people in common. You and your brothers, the eldest who is my age, and the other your twin, attended the high school where my father chaired the Math Department, while I attended the other high school in the district.
We both went to college in Boston, and I completed my master’s degree at your alma mater while you finished your doctorate there. You met your husband on a trip and moved to our current location with him after you graduated. I went on the same trip around that time, and, in 2016, I moved about 2 miles away from you.
We both had long, tightly wound, curly hair. My latest few haircuts have been my best since moving here because I go to the stylist that you recommended.
You were a cancer survivor; a fact that you didn’t share with most people. As someone dealing with multiple chronic illnesses, I knew your personal experience with illness only made you stronger and more empathetic to your patients.
We talked about true crime podcasts and our shared love of the Olympics. You even invited yourself to join my best friend and I on a planned trip to the LA games in 2028. I was happy you did that; we would have had a blast on that trip. You were looking forward to watching the Paris games this summer.
Mostly, you talked about your 17-year-old twins. They just finished their Junior year of High School, and I felt like I took their SATs and AP exams right alongside them. I was excited to hear about your son’s summer program, which he was so thrilled to get into, and about the big hiking trip to Montana the two of you were planning to take. I offered to help you and your daughter explore the possibility of applying to my undergraduate alma mater, where she would be a perfect fit.
On Thursday, three days before your death, it was business as usual. We worked hard while we chatted. You were ending your workday right after my appointment, just shy of 3:30pm. I was proud of you for setting up your summer schedule so that you weren’t working crazy hours. That was something new for you. You told me you were headed out to meet your family and that you were happy to spend the afternoon with them.
I said my usual “See you next week!” as I turned to leave the office. That day, you stopped me. “Hey, wait,” you yelled from the back of the office, prompting me to turn back towards you. “You have that thing tomorrow, right? You’re recording that podcast?” “Yes,” I said, a bit surprised that you had remembered, since it had been a few days since we’d last talked about it. I had only told a small number of people I was planning to share the story of my heart condition for the Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy Association’s “Tales from the Heart” podcast. I was looking forward to it but really nervous. “I’ll let you know how it goes,” I promised. “I can’t wait to listen to it,” you replied. I think that was the last thing you said to me.
I rushed over to your house to pay a shiva call, with my father in tow for support. This was the first time I’d ever been there. I knew you lived in one of the communities in that area, but what a strange way to enter someone’s home for the first time.
Your mother-in-law greeted us in the driveway and introduced herself. She told me she always thought of you as a daughter, never just a daughter-in-law. When we entered the house, your husband was by the front entrance. He and I met a couple of times at the office, but I reintroduced myself and offered my sympathies. I can’t even imagine what he is going through. He was quick to tell me he had every intention of keeping the practice going because that’s what you would have wanted, before ushering me over to a table filled with pictures of you, alongside your family and friends.
I tried to take in my surroundings a bit, and stories of your home life came flooding back. There was the kitchen where you cooked your Passover seders and the staircase leading up to the space you recently re-floored so you could use it as a workout room. And here were all the people who featured in your stories. What an utterly surreal way to meet them.
I had a long talk with your sister-in-law, who was as effusive about your awesomeness as I was. She shared that your friends from New York and New Jersey had been there for the funeral; the ones you were supposed to join on a spa weekend trip this summer. My father and I spoke to your parents, and we introduced ourselves to your twin brother. Your face was looking straight back at me, from his.
I spent time with your Administrative Manager from Partners in Motion, who I’ve gotten to know well over the years. Like your husband, she was quick to assure me the practice would remain open in your honor. I told her we didn’t need to talk about that right now; I was just there to pay my respects to your family. But it was good to know all those great people wouldn’t soon be unemployed and that your life’s work wouldn’t be cut short the way your life itself had been.
Lastly, my father and I spoke to your older brother. You and I had talked about your brothers and their families before, but I had somehow never put his name and his face together. As soon as I saw him, I remembered him from Junior High School. We travelled in overlapping groups of friends, which resulted in us spending some time together. I can’t believe I’ll never get to show you the gawky teenage pictures I found of he and I and our friends at a mutual friends’ birthday party.
I know why you were out running last Sunday morning. You were preparing for your hiking trip with your son, in addition to a possible triathlon that a fellow patient had encouraged you to do, even though you weren’t a great swimmer. You were planning to learn.
What an absolute tragedy that accident was for everyone who knows you. Your family, your friends, and the thousands of patients whose lives you’ve impacted in such a positive way.
Thank you for being the most fun part of these challenging last four years of my life, and especially for the enormous amount of progress you helped me make, physically. You found me in a wheelchair, but your creative exercises and slow but steady approach have gotten me literally back on my feet and given me hope for my future. I really wish you were still here to see it, but I promise I will stay on track and keep working hard. That’s the best way I can think of to honor your memory. Plus, I know you’d kick my butt if I didn’t!
Rest in peace.
Your friend,
Debra
P.S. from June 5, 2026:
There are so many people who still miss you, two years on from that awful day. Your kids just finished their freshman year of college. It hasn’t all been smooth sailing for them without you, but you would be so happy to see their progress. Your husband was true to his word; he is keeping Partners in Motion running and carrying on your legacy. Your mom is still working in the office, and much of your original admin team remains. A large picture of you hangs on the wall, as an ever-present reminder of their mission.
The physical therapist who stepped into your position is awesome. She is someone you worked with previously and were friends with, and she is carrying out your vision for patient care. A couple of months ago, after I took a major step towards one of my long-term goals, she sent me a text message after I left the office: “Caryn would be so proud of how far you have come and is smiling down on you.” I immediately burst into tears. I know you would be proud of me, of all your long-time patients who still speak fondly of you, of your husband and kids, and of the team at Partners in Motion. While the driver who killed you has not received anywhere close to the kind of punishment everyone who knew you believes he deserves, maybe that’s the best justice we can find.
Each issue of “What’s Her Problem?” includes questions for further discussion. Leave a comment below!
This week’s question:
How have you grieved a non-sensical loss?
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