How it feels as a social worker when your client dies

I remember it well; sitting at my desk, working late, the last one in the office, when the phone rang. I was reluctant to answer it. It was late and I wanted to go home too.

The next minutes have stayed with me ever since. Even now I can remember the call vividly, right down to the feeling of disbelief when the parent told me, remarkably calmly, that their 28-yearold son – my client – had killed himself. They had just wanted to let me know.

As a longstanding social worker who cut his teeth on a hospital ward, and even saw a patient die right in front of him while on placement as a student,

I ALWAYS ASSUMED I HAD DEVELOPED THE RESILIENCE TO DEAL WITH CALLS LIKE THIS.

Over the years numerous people have died on my caseload. Most were elderly and chronically sick, so it was not unexpected. Sometimes it was a relief, given the suffering. But some deaths came out of the blue – like this.

This death was different. My client, *Jack, had been doing so well. As I spoke with his mother on the phone, numb in shock, I glanced over at a card received from Jack just days before, saying thank you for all my help. I still have that card today. In hindsight, I now realise it may have been his way of saying goodbye. But it hadn’t felt like it at the time. It had felt like he’d turned a corner.

MAYBE THAT’S WHAT WAS SO HARD TO ACCEPT. HE WAS YOUNG, WITH SO MUCH AHEAD OF HIM. HE HAD BEEN THROUGH SO MUCH.

We had spent many hours talking candidly about his life and the difficulties he’d faced, sitting in a small discussion room with comfy chairs, pens, paper, and cups of tea. We met at the same time every week.

There was a reason we worked this way. He had always struggled with keeping appointments and he always felt terrible for missing them, so much so that he would avoid my calls and we’d lose touch until a crisis brought him back again. So, we had made a deal. I’d be available every week, waiting in the same discussion room, and he could turn up if he wanted to for however long he felt he could manage. After we made the deal, he never missed a session.

Tuesday afternoons at 2pm for many months afterwards were always poignant. They always felt like ‘his’ time. Every year when the anniversary of his death rolls around, I find myself thinking of him, and of his family. I consider dropping his mother a line, before deciding this would be overstepping the mark.

OF COURSE, I’VE WORKED MY WAY THROUGH A WHOLE LOAD OF EMOTIONS WITH THIS CASE. ANGER. GUILT. REGRET.

I’ve wracked my mind about the signs I must have missed, and even whether

I inadvertently triggered the thoughts that led to him ending his life?

Years have passed since, and I still think about Jack in quiet moments. Probably I always will. I will always keep his card.

When I eventually got home that night, my partner enquired about my day and asked how I was, and I said I was fine. I said the same thing to my boss because it didn’t feel like I had any right to be anything else. Jack wasn’t my son, my family, my friend.

But he was still important to me. I don’t think I’ll ever forget him – or receiving that phone call.

By Matt Bee