The last time Jeff Axelbank spoke to his psychoanalyst, on a Thursday in June, they signed off on an ordinary note.

They had been talking about loss and death; Dr. Axelbank was preparing to deliver a eulogy, and he left the session feeling a familiar lightness and sense of relief. They would continue their discussion at their next appointment the following day.

On Friday morning, though, the analyst texted him to cancel. She wasn’t feeling well. Dr. Axelbank didn’t make much of it — over years of long-term psychoanalysis, each had canceled on occasion. But the following week, he still hadn’t heard from her, and a note of fear crept into his text messages.

“Can you confirm, are we going to meet tomorrow at our usual time?”

“I’m concerned that I haven’t heard from you. Maybe you missed my text last night.”

“My concern has now shifted to worry. I hope you’re OK.”

After the analyst failed to show up for three more sessions, Dr. Axelbank received a text from a colleague. “I assume you have heard,” it said, mentioning the analyst’s name. “I am sending you my deepest condolences.”

Dr. Axelbank, 67, is a psychologist himself, and his professional network overlapped with his analyst’s. So he made a few calls and learned something that she had not told him: She had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in April and had been going through a series of high-risk treatments. She had died the previous Sunday. (The New York Times is not naming this therapist, or the others in this article, to protect their privacy.)