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That's how long I was in the same room as my psychoanalyst over the last 4 years. I feel so much shame and embarrassment on how large his loss is in my life, it squeezes into all the corners excavated by a loneliness I've held since a child, it fills all my mind, all my time -- when I was such a tiny part of his. It's humiliating, that I can't seem to find even a scrap of myself, that is capable of saying, it was nice while it lasted, and letting go. How ringing is my emptiness, exposed by that fact.

For my amusement, I did the math. Let's set aside that the hours he was allotted are now known to be far too few, and leave uncalculated the hours he'll be robbed of.

The hours of his life before he had to leave his practice were 429,240. Of those I was present for 91. Nothing. A blink. Even if I tried to estimate how many other hours he had to spend dealing with me, in phone calls, in emails, in thought, it's a nothingth of a nothingth. I was a part of his life so small as to be undetectable, just a few parts per million, diluted into oblivion. And yet, here I am; 6,570 hours into grieving his loss, and no end in sight.