~ 9 ~
Three Cries
Though I met her only once for a single consultation many years ago, our hour together remains sharply etched in my mind. A lovely, saddened, well-spoken woman, Helena came to talk about her friend Billy and cried three times during our talk.
Billy, who had died three months earlier, loomed large in her life. Their worlds had been different—he swirling in the Soho gay world, she ensconced in a fifteen-year bourgeois marriage—but they had been lifelong friends, meeting in the second grade and living together during their twenties in a Brooklyn commune. She was poor, he rich; she cautious, he devil-may-care; she awkward, he brimming with savoir faire. He was blond and beautiful and taught her to drive a motorcycle.
“Once,” she reminisced with sparkle in her eyes, “we motorcycled for six months throughout South America with nothing but small packs on our back. That trip was the zenith of my life. Billy used to say, ‘Let’s experience everything; let’s leave no regrets; let’s use up all there is and leave death nothing to claim.’ And then, suddenly, four months ago, brain cancer, and my poor Billy was dead in a few weeks.”
But that was not when she cried—that happened a few minutes later.
“Last week I reached an important milestone in my life. I passed my state exams and am now a licensed clinical psychologist.”
“Congratulations. That is a milestone.”
“Milestones aren’t always good.”
“How so?”
“Last weekend my husband took our two sons and their best friends camping, and I spent much of the weekend assimilating this milestone and reviewing my life. I cleaned house, I sorted through closet after closet packed full of useless possessions, and I came upon an old forgotten album of photos of Billy that I hadn’t seen for years. I took a deep breath, fixed myself a drink, sat on the floor in a corner, and slowly turned the pages, but this time with starkly different vision—with a therapist’s vision. I gazed at my favorite picture of Billy. He was sitting on his cycle, leather jacket unzipped, flashing that miraculous midsummer smile, saluting me with a bottle of beer, and beckoning me to join him. I always loved that photo, but suddenly it dawned on me, for the very first time, that Billy was manic, that Billy had bipolar disorder! I was staggered by the thought. All those treasured adventures, the crazy wild things we did, maybe it all was nothing but . . . ”
And it was here that she cried for the first time. She sobbed for several minutes. I prompted her, “Can you finish that sentence, Helena? It all was nothing but? . . .”
Helena continued to weep, shaking her head and apologizing for going through most of my box of Kleenex. Collecting her thoughts, she ignored my question and continued, “It was at that point I phoned you for an appointment. The thought that he was bipolar was bad enough, but later in the day it got even worse as I reread my last emails with Billy. Toward the very end, he wrote me a loving message telling me how much I meant to him, how he treasured my friendship, how he clung to images of me even though chunks of his brain were crumbling away. And then . . . ”
At this point Helena broke down and cried for the second time. She reached again for tissues as she sobbed heavily.
“Try to keep talking, Helena.”
“And then, as I looked at the email more carefully,” she said between sobs, “I realized that his letter had been sent to over a hundred people. That I was just one of a hundred, one hundred and thirteen to be exact.”
She continued to cry effusively for several more minutes. As the sobs grew quieter, I said, “And then, Helena?”
“And then I turned to a page in the album I had completely forgotten. Pasted on the page was an invitation to one of the joint wild birthday parties we used to give in Brooklyn. I was born on June 11 and he on June 12. We were born only a few hours apart, and we used to celebrate our birthdays together, and . . . ”
Here, for the third time, Helena broke down into tears.
I waited a few moments and then finished the sentence for her, “We were born only a few hours apart, and now he’s dead. Must be a frightening thought.”
“Yes, yes,” Helena nodded vigorously as she sobbed.
I checked my watch. She had asked for a single session, and there were only twenty minutes left. “Helena, let’s focus on these last tears first: you and Billy the same age, born within hours of one another. And now he’s dead. Tell me more of what you’re thinking.”
“It’s just chance that I’m here and he’s dead. It could have been the other way around. I remember one day we went to the horse races. It was my first time. I was surprised that Billy refused to bet, and when I asked about that, he gave a quirky answer. He said that he had already used up his luck by winning the lottery of life—all those millions of other eggs and sperm cells, and he was the one lucky enough to have pulled the winning ticket. He pointed to all the torn losing tickets on the ground and said he owed it to the ‘lottery of life’ not to throw away his money or to snatch more from others but, instead, to use it to live life to the fullest.”
“And did he do that?”
“Oh yes. Oh yes. I never knew anyone so fully alive, so fearless, so exuberant in the sheer act of being alive.”
“And,” I said, “if that brilliant life spark could be extinguished, then your own life seems precarious.”
Helena looked up at me with a bit of surprise in her eyes at my bluntness. “Exactly, exactly.” She grabbed another handful of Kleenex.
“So your tears are also for yourself. His death makes your own death more vivid, more real. Is this the first time you’ve had such an encounter with death?”
“No, no. I think there were many times as a kid when the thought of death thundered down upon me. Every time I attended funerals I had bad sleepless nights thinking about being dead. Also when my oldest son was being born. His first cry hit me hard.”
“Why then?”
“It brought home the obvious: that life has a start and then proceeds in linear fashion. I’m just a carrier passing it on to my son, who will pass life along, and then he, too, will face death. I guess it brought home that we’re on a schedule, every one of us, and I sure ain’t no exception.”
“I’ll tell you what’s on my mind,” I said. “It’s Billy’s statement, ‘Leave no regrets.’ It seems from what you’re saying that your life with Billy was lived fully. Right?”
“Right.”
“I see that from the excitement in your eyes as you discuss it. No regrets from that time of life?”
“None at all.”
“Well, what about your life now with your husband and your sons?”
“Ah, yes. You don’t waste time. Different story. I’m not in life now. I seem to be postponing it. I’m not really experiencing and savoring life as it happens in the moment. And I’m so weighed down with things: clothes and linen and bedspreads and too many lamps and baseball gloves and golf clubs and tents and sleeping bags.”
“Not like your motorcycle trip with Billy—six months of South America with just a small pack on your back.”
“Oh, that was heaven. Sheer heaven. Now I’m married to a good man. I do love him, but, oh, I wish I weren’t so weighed down. I wish I could go on with just a pack on my back. Too many things. Sometimes I visualize a giant steam shovel breaking through my roof and filling its jaws with our things—giant TVs and DVD players and sofas and dishwashers—and, as it rises to take things away, I see some striped canvas lawn chairs dangling from its teeth.”
“And so? Speak more of your regrets about life in the past few years.”
“I haven’t valued it, haven’t lived it as I should have. Perhaps I’ve hung on too long to the idea that real life was back there, with Billy.”
“And that belief makes it all the more difficult to come to terms with your own death. It’s always more painful to think of death when you sense you haven’t
lived fully.”
Helena nodded. I definitely had her full attention now.
“Let’s go back to the other two times you cried. You cried when you learned that he had sent a farewell email to over a hundred people. Let’s talk more about that.”
“I just didn’t feel special anymore. We were once so close, so very close.”
“You’ve been seeing a great deal of him?”
“I used to but no, not for the last several years. Not since I moved to Oregon about ten years ago. We’ve been on opposite coasts, and I saw him about once or twice a year at most.”
“So,” I mused, “I think of Billy invaded by a brain tumor and perhaps, like so many dying people, feeling isolated and, in desperation, reaching out to touch his entire social network, to contact everyone he knew. That seems understandable and so very human. But by no means, Helena, is his act a comment about his relationship with you.”
“Yes, yes, I know that. God, do I know that! I see a lot of couples in my practice, and almost every single day I’m saying to some client or other that every act is not necessarily a message about the relationship.”
“Precisely, and it is even more unlikely that it is a message about the genuineness of your relationship with Billy so many years ago. Relationships end, but that does not obliterate what they once were. And that brings us to the very first time you wept here, when you spoke of your sudden realization that Billy was manic. Try to imagine what your tears were saying then.”
“His mania seems so obvious now. He never stopped. Always at full speed. He never slowed down. How could I have missed it? Unbelievable.”
“But let’s look at why it shook you up so.”
“I think it called into question my whole sense of reality. What I used to consider the peak of my life, the glowing exciting center, the time when I, and he, were most thrillingly alive—none of that was real. Now I realize that it was all just the mania talking.”
“I can appreciate how destabilized you must feel now, Helena. All these years you saw your life one way, and now suddenly you’re faced with a new and different version of reality. To see the past changing before your eyes—what a shock!”
“Exactly. I feel dazed.”
“There’s also something very sad about your comments, Helena. It’s sad how Billy, this vital, precious man, this lifelong friend, has been reduced to a diagnosis. And your entire youth with him—all those wonderful exciting experiences—also reduced to being ‘nothing but,’ nothing but an expression of mania. Perhaps he had some mania, but, from what you tell me, he seems so much more than just that label.”
“I know, I know, but I can’t get past that right now.”
“Let me tell you what’s going through my mind now. When you said that your entire youthful life with him was ‘nothing but’ mania, I shuddered a bit. I imagined applying this ‘nothing but’ approach to what’s transpiring right now between you and me. I guess one might say that this is nothing but a commercial transaction and that I’m being paid for listening and responding to you. Or perhaps one might say that it helps me to feel stronger and more effective by helping you feel better. Or that I get life meaning from helping you attain meaning. And yes, all these things may be true. But to say therapy is ‘nothing but’ any of these things is so very far from the truth. I feel that you and I have encountered one another, that something real is occurring between us, that you’re sharing so very much of yourself with me, and that I am moved and engaged by your words. I don’t want us to be reduced, and I don’t want Billy reduced. I like the thought of his miraculous midsummer smile. I envy your motorcycle ride through South America, and I’m sad at the thought of your taking all this away from yourself.”
We ended, both of us tired and enlightened. She could reclaim her past and once again treasure her life with him. And, for my part, I had gained a new perspective on my longtime aversion to the act of diagnosis. During my training as a psychiatrist I often found the official diagnostic categories problematic. At case conferences, many of the consultants disagreed on the proper diagnosis of the patient presented, and I eventually grasped that the disagreements generally ensued not from practitioners’ errors but from intrinsic problems in the diagnostic enterprise.
During my tenure as head of the Stanford inpatient ward I relied on diagnosis to inform decisions about effective pharmacological treatment. But in my psychotherapy practice over the last forty years with less-seriously disturbed patients, I have found the diagnostic process to be largely irrelevant, and I have come to believe that the contortions we psychotherapists must go through to meet the demands of insurance companies for precise diagnoses are detriments to both therapist and patient. In the diagnostic procedure we are not carving at the joints of nature. Diagnostic categories are invented and arbitrary: they are a product of committee vote and invariably undergo considerable revision with each passing decade.
But my meeting with Helena brought home to me that the chore of making a formal diagnosis is more than a simple nuisance. It may, in fact, impede our work by obscuring, even negating, the full-bodied, multidimensional individual facing us in our office. Billy was a victim of that process, and I was glad to play a part in restoring him to his former complexity and exuberance.
~ 10 ~
Creatures of a Day
Jarod entered my office and trudged straight to his chair without greeting me. I braced myself.
While staring out the window at strands of fleecy wisteria, he said, “Irv, I have a confession to make.” He hesitated and then suddenly turned to face me directly to say, “This woman, Alicia . . . you remember my talking about her?”
“Alicia? We’ve spoken a great deal about Marie, of course, but no, I don’t remember Alicia. Refresh my memory.”
“Well, there is this other woman, Alicia, and the thing is . . . uh . . . Alicia also thinks I’m going to marry her.”
“Whoa, I’m lost. Jarod, back up, and fill me in.”
“Well, yesterday afternoon, when Marie and I met for our couples therapy session with your Patricia, the shit hit the fan. Marie began by opening her bag, pulling out a sheaf—a very large sheaf—of emails, highly incriminating emails, in which Alicia and I discussed marriage. So I decided I’d better fess up here today. I’d rather you hear this from me than from Patricia. Unless you’ve already talked to her.”
I was stunned. In the year I had been meeting with Jarod, a thirty-two-year-old dermatologist, we had been focusing heavily on his relationship with Marie, his live-in partner for the last nine months. Though he claimed to love Marie, he balked at commitment. “Why should I,” he said more than once, “offer up my one and only life?”
Up to now I had been under the impression that therapy was proceeding slowly but steadily. Jarod had been a philosophy major in college and had originally sought me out because he had read some of my philosophical novels and felt certain I would be the right therapist for him. In the first months of our work together he often resisted therapy through attempts to engage me in abstract philosophical discussions. However, in recent weeks, I saw less of that, and he seemed to have grown more serious and shared more and more of his inner self. Even so, Jarod’s most pressing issue, his problematic relationship with Marie, remained unchanged. Knowing that it was futile to attempt couples work in an individual therapy setting, I had suggested a few weeks earlier that he and Marie see an excellent couples therapist, Dr. Patricia Johnson, whom today, out of the blue, he referred to as “my Patricia.”
How to respond to Jarod’s confession? Several directions beckoned: his crisis with Marie, his having led two women to believe he would marry them, his reaction to Marie’s breaking into his email account, or his comment about “my Patricia” and the fantasies that underlay that. But all these things would have to wait a bit. I considered that my primary task just then was to attend to our therapeutic relationship. That always takes precedence.
“Jarod, let’s go back and explore your very first comment: your statement about needing to make a confession. Obviously you’ve withheld some important things from our work, things that you speak of today only because you believe I’ll hear about them from Patricia. From ‘my Patricia.’”
Dammit, I shouldn’t have added that last bit. I knew it would divert us, but it just popped out.
“Right, sorry about that Patricia crack. I don’t know where it came from.”
“Any hunches?”
“Not sure. I think it’s just that you seemed so keen on her and so effusive in your praise of her ability. Plus she is drop-dead gorgeous.”
“And so you thought there was something going on between Patricia and me?”
“Well, not really. I mean, for one thing, there is a big age difference. You said she was a student of yours about thirty years ago. I did some Internet research and learned she’s married to a psychiatrist, another ex-student of yours . . . so . . . I mean . . . uh . . . tell you the truth, Irv, I don’t know why I said that.”
“Perhaps you may have wished it, wished that you and I were in collusion, that I, like you, was engaged in a problematic affair?”
“Preposterous.”
“Preposterous?”
“Preposterous but . . . ” Jarod nodded to himself a few times. “Preposterous, but probably true. I admit that when I walked in today, I felt exposed and alone, flapping in the breeze.”
“So you wanted company? Wanted us to be co-conspirators?”
“I guess so. Makes sense. That is, it makes sense if you’re psychotic. God, this is embarrassing. I feel like I’m about ten years old.”
“I know this is uncomfortable, Jarod, but try to stay with it. I’m struck by your word ‘confession.’ What does it say about you and me?”