Where Are They Now?

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When you’ve been a therapist as long as I have, you have legions of former patients. And you wonder about them, these people who once looked to you, to help them transit the dark night of the soul.

Patients often ask me,“What’s the hardest part of your job?” And I just know they’re thinking that the hardest part is sitting there, listening to people’s problems all day long.

Or else being ‘responsible’ for solving my patients’ problems.

Well, it’s not.

People bringing me their problems is an honor and a privilege, and I’ve always felt that way. No, the hard part isn’t listening to people’s problems, or being responsible for them: that’s just my job!

Actually, there are two ‘hardest’ parts:

One is when I’m much more ‘into’ their therapy than they are! It kind of sucks to be thinking about them all week between sessions, imagining what they’re going through, trying to make psychological connections that might help them, worrying about them, and wondering how they’re doing, and then they cancel a session, or forget, or seem totally uninterested, like they’re just going through the motions. Yes, I understand that it’s all par for the course, that their lack of interest in their own life and growth is a symptom of “what they’ve got,” and just more grist for the (therapy) mill, and that’s why I don’t resent it or feel cheated.

But is it hard?

Yes – it’s hard.

And the other ‘hardest thing’ is when patients leave. I mean, sure, I’m proud as heck when someone finishes their therapy and is launched out into the great unknown, or even when someone isn’t really finished ‘cooking’, but decides they’ve done enough ‘for now,’ and wants to try it on their own a while. But like a parent whose child leaves home, it also feels bittersweet.

In the movie Dark Passage, Humphrey Bogart plays a man who is wrongly imprisoned for life in San Quentin, for murdering his wife. He escapes and is hiding out in San Francisco, in the apartment of Lauren Bacall, a woman who is sympathetic to his situation. Finally, he decides he has to take off on his own to try and prove his innocence. But his face has been on the front page of all the newspapers.

He is riding in a cab, trying to figure out where to go to next, when the cabbie recognizes his face. When the cabbie asks him where he wants to be taken, Bogie, feeling defeated, sighs, “Might as well make it the police station.”

The kind-hearted cabbie says, “Don’t be like that – you’re doin’ alright.” Then he goes on to say he has a friend who is a plastic surgeon, who could change Bogart’s face. Bogart is skeptical, fearing that it will not only cost a fortune, but that the surgeon would then “keep after me for the rest of my life,” i.e. blackmail him.

The cabbie says, “Nah – he’s a friend of mine.”

Still skeptical, Bogart finally agrees to be taken to the back-alley office of the plastic surgeon, who, though he turns out to have been “kicked out of the medical association,” and is kind of a scary-looking old geezer, is actually a fine person, and a fine doctor, just as the cabbie had said.

He operates on Bogart, and finally, early the next morning, it’s time for Bogart to leave, his face swathed in bandages. The surgeon shakes Bogart’s hand and says, wistfully,

 The artist in me wishes I could see what a nice job I’ve done, but I never will. Goodbye, and good luck.

Bogart agrees, pays him, and leaves, forever.

Well, that’s the way it feels, most often, when a patient leaves, quits, or even just drops out of sight: the artist in me wishes I could see the results of my work, both now and in the future. But more than that, I care about them, and just want to know how things ‘turned out’. And some patients do check in occasionally and give me an update, so I’ll know how it went.

But, mostly, I never will.

And that’s hard.

Do other therapists feel this way? I don’t know – I’ve never heard another therapist talk about this, though I imagine they must wonder, too, about the lives of the many people that they were so intimately involved with, for a while.

But, me – I wonder: where are they now?

The woman whose boyfriend got her involved in a dope-smuggling ring, who had to leave him, quietly, in the middle of the night, before she got busted, but was always afraid of him tracking her down and hurting her.

The married doctor who fell in love with a Venezuelan nurse when he was in Doctors Without Borders in South America.

The race car driver who injured both knees so badly in a skiing accident, that he couldn’t even work the accelerator or brake pedals on his family car anymore.

The traveling salesman who had a normal life in the Bay Area, but was a secret cross-dresser on his frequent trips to the Midwest.

The teenage boy whom – in a secret, two-hour emergency session in the middle of the night – I talked out of killing his father.

The girl who, late at night, compulsively ate bowls and bowls of cake batter, cut her own wrists up terribly, and stole Demerol from her mother’s medicine cabinet, who went on to become a Nobel Prize-candidate professor.

The little, abused, ‘poor white trash’ girl in Tennessee who, on the Information subsection of the WISC children’s intelligence test, successfully gave all the correct answers: but they were the correct answers to the FOLLOWING questions – questions I hadn’t asked yet, questions she couldn’t possibly have seen before, or known about.

The teenage girl at a group home I once ran, whose mother had ‘pimped her out’ to her men friends, for a price.

Sure, I wonder, sometimes, about high school friends, or people I worked with at various places along the way, or old girlfriends. I wonder, but it’s not the same. You see, I wasn’t privy to their most intimate private lives, wasn’t responsible for their emotional well-being, wasn’t in charge of their ‘recovery’.

No – wondering about former acquaintances is a different kind of curiosity, more of an, “I wonder what happened to old what’s-his-name?” rather than the deep, committed feelings I have toward my former patients. No, the closest I can come to describing it is that it’s more of a parental concern: like the plastic surgeon who operated on Bogie, I not only feel a continuing sense of responsibility, but a personal ‘stake’ in the outcome – whether it’s a testament to, or a sad commentary on, my work.

But is this a sad thing? A negative thing? No – not at all: I WANT to feel I had an effect, that I made a difference, and most of all, that I tried my best, in life. That I didn’t just ‘mail it in,’ squandering my skills and just getting through time without putting the precious gifts of life and talent that I have been given, to good use.

And I feel strongly that the best way I can put my gifts to use, is to help other people learn to use, and appreciate, theirs.

There is an old song with the words,

Why was I born?

Why am I living?

What do I get?

What am I giving?

These are the questions we all should be trying to answer. Sure, maybe in the final analysis they’re “unanswerable” questions, but we must TRY. Because life shouldn’t be for just ‘getting through’ – it should be treated like a two year-old treats a Christmas present: the process of unwrapping it is just as important as what’s inside. The two year-old revels in trying to undo the ribbon, in tearing the wrapping paper apart, in opening the box. He is present with his presents, noticing the colors, the textures, the faces of his parents, the smell of the Christmas tree, the whole ‘gestalt’ of Christmas morning. Christmas should never get ‘old,’ whether you’re a parent or a child: like in the song lyrics above, it is about “What do I get?” and “What am I giving?” And those questions are about a lot more than gifts and presents; they’re about the purpose of life itself: getting and giving.

And a therapist should treat each patient like that two year-old treats a present: really ‘being there’ for the unwrapping, with senses at the ready to take in the (emotional) colors and textures. Making space for each person, each session, to be ‘new’, not standardized, not ho-hum, not predictable. If you’re sitting with your patients and feeling bored, feeling that it’s all predictable, that you’ve seen it all before, feeling unchallenged, then it’s ON YOU to shake things up, to dig deeper and find what’s new, what you didn’t know, what you haven’t seen before.

Because, if you’re really paying close attention, there’s no such thing as a predictable person, a boring person, a ho-hum person: it’s YOU who has become predictable, boring and ho-hum! Sure, you could be FEELING bored or ho-hum with someone, but then it’s up to you to use this information for the patient’s benefit, not as a way to excuse yourself from full participation, or to check out. You must ask, WHY is this boring? WHY is it ho-hum? What is ‘dead’ about this patient, that you are allowing to go unchallenged, unquestioned? What are they telling you, here and now, that you are failing to register, or respond to?

Is it because they were treated in a ho-hum manner, and they’re unconsciously ‘pulling’ to recreate this same relationship dynamic with you, in the here-and-now of the therapy session? Are you just going to ‘go along for the ride,’ checking out and participating in a re-enactment of the old damage, without bringing it to everyone’s attention?

Is it a way to (unconsciously) ‘tip you off’ as to how they feel in life? Bored, ho-hum, uninspired? Here, they’re giving you a ‘front-row seat’ to their insides, and are you just going to let it pass by without comment, without saying, “Wow, you must feel so dead inside.”

To which they most likely will say, “How did you know?”

And the answer should be, “Because I’m paying close attention to what you’re telling me. Because you matter.”

Once upon a time, a young executive, who was ‘dead inside,’ asked me, cynically, about the session, “What are we actually doing here, anyway?”

And I responded, “Buddy, I don’t know about you, but I’m fighting for your life!”

It shocked him – that I wasn’t ‘playing the game’ of ho-hum, a game that he was used to, in his personal life and at work – a very common game, unfortunately, in our society. No, in therapy, I don’t allow ‘ho-hum’ to be the mantra, or if it is, I challenge it. We don’t ‘mail it in’ in therapy – we WORK, even if the work is to sit with ho-hum, and explore the hell out of it, until ‘something happens’ – something REAL and alive, even though the ‘something’ is often unwelcome or scary feelings: ‘unwelcome,’ ‘scary,’ and ‘out of control’ are fine – we can get through them together, like slogging through a muddy bog, on our way to where we’re going.

But ho-hum is not fine: it is saying ‘No’ to the life you’ve been given, like being handed a treasure chest and saying, “Not interested: cart it off to the City Dump.”

Yes, I understand, sometimes ‘ho-hum’ is all a person can do, their only possible response to how they’ve been treated, or the hand that life’s dealt them. I get it, I understand, but I can’t join them in ho-hum. Sometimes, on our journey together, I have to ‘carry’ the caring, for both of us, until they can catch up.

You, the patient, can afford to not care (temporarily, I hope) but I can’t: it’s my business to care, to have you matter, to make you matter, even over your own objections.

And I do – and caring has its consequences. When things, and people, matter – when you care about them, you can be enriched by them, you can feel the joy of connection, you can both ‘give’ and ‘get’ in equal measure. But you can also be disappointed, you can be hurt, and you can feel loss when you lose that connection.

Just as it’s wonderful to have a patient dare to do new things, to finally be herself, and to feel, at last, truly alive, it’s also hard to care deeply and have a patient leave therapy, without a word, or cancel five sessions in a row without responding to your calls, or start seeing another therapist without even telling you about it.

It’s hard, but it’s worth it.

Because caring means being alive, just like in the lyrics of that song, that end,

Why was I born to love you?

But see, that was a ‘torch song,’ where the singer was lamenting how she was, unfortunately, fated to love this guy who would always hurt her. So, I’m hereby taking it on myself to change those lyrics, just a little, for my own purposes. They are now:

Why was I born? 

To love you.

And that’s it exactly: that’s why I was born, that’s why we were all born:

To love you – whoever ‘you’ are.

To love and be loved – that’s about what it amounts to. That’s why we’re here. It feels wonderful, it feels crummy, it’s the highest high, and the lowest low. But it’s alive.

Caring.

Try it sometime.

And, oh yeah, I almost forgot. Where are all those patients – the ones I wonder about?

Not really as far as you might think.

They’re right here, in my heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Note: All clinical vignettes herein are significantly altered to protect patient confidentiality and privacy.

Growing, Growing, Gone

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When I was a kid, my Uncle Rowe, my Mom’s younger brother, was the one who brought news of ‘worldly’ things to my immediate family. He was the one who was single, and therefore ‘out there’ in the contemporary world. Oh, my parents were out there too, but in the way squares are out there:

Dad was a court reporter, who hung out with attorneys ‘after hours’ at L.A. watering holes, a fact I could verify because my room was right next to the front door, and being a night owl, I was always up late, hence hearing him fumbling with his keys at the front door, then making multiple stabs at the keyhole.

And Mom – well, her ‘out there’ was getting lost in her classical records, and reading her books.

But my uncle was different. He was single. He went to parties. He wore stylish clothes. He smoked. He drank. He drove cool cars, like that snazzy red Triumph TR3, with the cut-down doors, so you could sit in the passenger seat, going 75 on the freeway, and reach out and touch the ground if you wanted to – provided you didn’t mind losing a finger or two. He was the one who once brought a young rooster to our house at 2:00 A.M., on his way home from a party. A party where, according to him, they’d had a lot of fun making the chicken smoke and drink.

Fifties party-cool.

Yeah – me, neither.

Oh well – I ended up ‘adopting’ the chicken, and kept him as a pet in the backyard for years. I called him Irving, and as far as I know, he never smoked or drank again.

My first successful intervention.

Cock-a-doodle-doo.

Uncle Rowe was also the first man I ever knew who was a good cook – no, a great cook. Like most men who actually cooked in those days, he wasn’t just an everyday, throw-some-bacon-and-eggs-on-the-table cook. No – he had ‘specialties’. Fifties-era specialties. You know, like scalloped potatoes. They weren’t good, they were knock-your-socks-off good. And like all his specialties, they had secret ingredients. There was always a secret ingredient, that he would never reveal to the women of the family. I mean, they’d ask, alright, but they’d just get that Mona Lisa smile and a change of subject, for their trouble. I can’t remember his other specialties, but if you were asked to his place for dinner, you were in for some fine eating.

Nothing predictable at his table. Nope, none of that Swiss steak and mashed potatoes stuff for him, with green beans boiled until they were mush. No, it would be steak, but with some kind of fabulous mushroom sauce on it, that brought the party to your taste buds. Or if it was lamb, it wouldn’t be that yucky, muttony slop with the weird gelatinous membrane on it, that my Mom made, that made you shudder and want to wash your hands for a week. No, it would be rack of lamb in sherry, with some kind of brandy plum pudding they never even would’ve dreamed of at Bob’s Big Boy – my gold standard for fine dining at the time.

Oh yeah, in keeping with his cool image, he lived in one of those sexy cantilever stilt houses in the Eagle Rock hills, overlooking all creation. I loved it, but of course, my father, who considered my uncle his arch-enemy (i.e. for the affections of my mother) always had to call it,

“That goddam crazy-ass, cockeyed shack of his. Every time you sneeze, you expect the whole damn thing to come tumbling down the mountain.”

Not that it matters anymore, but once I did corner my uncle and demand the secret ingredient for his scalloped potatoes. I think I needed to know, once and for all, that there actually was a secret ingredient, and that the whole ‘secret ingredient’ thing wasn’t all just an elaborate hoax he’d perpetrated on the family, laughing to himself the whole time.

Well, he did tell me. And there really was a secret ingredient, all along. I’ve never told a soul before this, but now that he’s gone, and his distinguished record as a fabulous chef is safe for all time, and his secrets buried with him, I feel that it can be told:

Angostura bitters.

Shhhhh!!!!! I still feel guilty spilling the beans, so please don’t tell anyone. So now, if you’re ever on a “Cheat Day” on your low-carb diet, and you’re scarfing down scalloped potatoes, you can smile genially at your host while thinking to yourself, “Haha, I know a way to make this even better – but you don’t!”

My uncle also brought us the ‘news’ from the outside world about the latest popular songs. Sometimes he even brought us the 45s, so I could put them on my little turntable and listen, again and again. He liked the mainstream hits, like Shrimp Boats, and The Tennessee Waltz, but he also seemed to get a kick out of the novelty hits that were so ubiquitous in those days – things that a kid like me could also laugh along with. Things like Raggmopp, How Much Is That Doggie In The WindowThe Naughty Lady of Shady Lane, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Beep Beep, and my favorite at the time, because it was the craziest one of all:

Open the Door, Richard!

I mean, how could a little white kid living in North Hollywood not like a song with ‘call-and-response’ lyrics like,

I met old Zeke standin’ on the corner the other day – that cat sure was booted with the liquor.

He was what?

He was ab-nox-i-cated.

He was what?

He was in-e-bri-a-ted.

He was what?

Well, he was just plain drunk.

Well alright, then.

My uncle had dogs, too – he always had dogs. Well, technically, dog, singular. He was a serial dog monogamist, is what he was. When I was real little, I think I remember an Irish setter, a cocker spaniel, then an Afghan hound. Then, when I got older: we struck royalty. And by royalty, I mean a smallish standard poodle named Cocoa. Sometimes you just ‘know’ there’s something special about a dog. If you’re a dog person, you’ll know what I mean. Is it intelligence? Stance? Something in the eyes – an alertness, a noticing? Whatever it is, Cocoa had it. He was devoted to my uncle, and vice versa. I don’t mean he growled whenever someone other than my uncle approached him. Far from it: he was courteous, affable – to a point, accommodating – if need be, not overly possessive, and civil – as required.

But when it really came down to it, Uncle Rowe was his guy: Period.

He was regal, without being aloof, superior, without being a snob about it, cool, without making you feel bad. He could do tricks, and do them easily, perfectly, but unlike most performing dogs, with Cocoa you always felt it was more of an ancillary parlor skill, like Orson Welles also being good at magic, or Bill Clinton playing the saxophone. Somehow, you felt that when he did one of his tricks, he was stooping to your level, humoring your low tastes, but always, always, of course, with good grace. Sure, he had the whole gamut of de rigueur Fifties dog tricks: sit up, beg, shake, roll over, play dead.

But he also had a few more, high-tone, out-of-the-ordinary tricks in his bag, too, like the famous, poignant depiction of an Indian’s last ride, known as End of the Trail:

end of the trail

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, my Uncle Rowe would say, “End of the Trail,” and Cocoa would pose JUST LIKE THAT, I swear to God; it would almost bring tears to your eyes, like if a mediocre stage impressionist was going along, doing his Jimmy Cagney and his Edward G. Robinson, and then suddenly slayed you by dropping into Charles Laughton as Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I mean, it was like Cocoa actually got into character as he laid out into that iconic pose.

They were a good team, Rowe and Cocoa: Rowe was a little, fast, Mickey Rooney kind of guy, full of jokes, always moving, always on to the next thing. When I got a little older, I didn’t even like to be in the car with him driving, because he drove just like he lived: it was all herky-jerky, stop-start, and impulsive.

But Cocoa? He was a whole different matter: he was like Jeff Markham, Robert Mitchum’s private detective character in Out of the Past, when Kirk Douglas (his potential employer) was sizing him up:

Douglas: “You just sit and stay inside yourself. You wait for me to talk. I like that.”

Mitchum: “I never found out much listening to myself.”

Cocoa was like that: no wasted motion, no panic-moves, just do what you have to do and move on; a confidence and sense of self we could all aspire to. And, like I said, that regal quality, that grace, that you don’t run into too often in life, and when you do, you don’t forget it.

But Uncle Rowe – if you met him at a party, you’d laugh and say, “He’s a kick.” Always ‘on’, always the life of the party, always up on the latest, always bringing the news. And the sad thing was, as I grew up, I outgrew him. Yeah, I know, being the quiet, ‘deep’ type, given to meditation, cogitation, the dark side and all that jazz, I guess it was inevitable.

See, the good thing is, if you’re the ‘growing’ type, you’re always growing. And the sad thing is, if you’re the ‘growing’ type, you’re always outgrowing, too. Of course, “They” don’t tell you that – They don’t tell you much of anything, in fact. You just stumble onto it yourself, mostly. “They” tell you that if you’re a good boy and mind your Ps and Qs, it all turns out great. But the truth is, Life, with a capital L, is painful, too, and sometimes, cruel.

Things – well, they change.

And people? Well, they change, too.

And it hurts, sometimes, when they change – even whey “they” is you. Because every coming means a leaving; to find a new vista, you have to leave the old one behind. Yes, I know, I’m the one who’s always quoting, “Make new friends, and keep the old; one is silver and the other’s gold.” And that’s true: IF you can. I guess it depends on what you mean by “keep”: sometimes, it means you keep old friendships going for the rest of your life – and if you possibly can, please, please do, by all means. And if you can’t – well, then “keep” means respecting, treasuring, always holding a place in your heart for what someone gave to you, when you needed it, and what they received from you, when they needed it. You don’t “flush” someone, as a patient recently said he was going to do with all thoughts of his (soon-to-be) ex-wife; even if what happened with someone turns out to be hurtful, you try and honor them, even if only for the lessons you learned from them.

But, like I say, if you’re the ‘growing’ type, if you’re a truth-seeker, if you’re committed to lifelong learning about who you are and why you’re here on earth, you are going to outgrow a lot of people and situations, especially if (like me) you ‘started’ from a place, and a family culture, that was way out of sync with your true nature: it’s inevitable, unavoidable. But that doesn’t mean you ‘flush’ the old: yes, in a lot of cases it means the old ways, and the old people, won’t work for you anymore, and you may go through this cycle several times in your life – a current patient calls it ‘weeding’. Yes, it’s weeding, but, you see, weeding can be done in different ways. You can go along, ripping up the offending vegetation viciously, tossing it aside without a thought, except to loathe it for being in the way of your new plans, or you can do it mindfully, respectfully, seeing it as ‘all in the game’ of gardening, or in the case of your life, all part of the process of becoming who you are, and finding your way.

So yes, I know, now, that my Uncle Rowe was not ‘my type’, not someone I would hang out with a lot, at this point in my life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t treasure him and all that he gave me, at a time when I desperately needed it, needed ‘alternatives’ to the cult-like strictures of my family, needed a more relaxed attitude towards life, needed possibilities of ways to be, that weren’t in lock-step with my parents’ views of things, needed permission to appreciate, value, and laugh along with, the pop culture of the day, then and now.

So, I say to all of you, you who are sitting out there afraid (and guilty) to grow, afraid to change, afraid to believe in your own ‘differences’, afraid to vary from what has been laid down, in your particular subculture, as ‘gospel’, afraid to be a little crazy, a little fun, a little wild – to all of you, I say,

Open the Door, Richard!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Note: All clinical vignettes herein are significantly altered to protect patient confidentiality and privacy.

The Goner, Part II: Blowing Out the Speakers

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(Note: Please first read The Goner, Part I: Whistling Through the Grass)

The summer weeks drifted by in Asheville: group therapy, botanical rounds, the cockroach and raccoon wars, loving a neighbor’s puppy named Shane, doing individual therapy sessions, hopes borne out with some patients, hopes dashed with others, teaching my wife how to drive a stickshift in the Blue Ridge Mountains, claiming my gifts, accepting my limitations, crossing back and forth through Beaucatcher Tunnel, work and home, heat and humidity, summer rain, lessons, lessons, under the hot Southern sun . . .

A new patient arrived: Victor. A Vietnam vet. His diagnosis: Depression. I don’t know why, but I gravitated to him. Make no mistake – all patients are not treated the same. Not that all don’t get the benefit of everything the program has to offer, but sometimes you take a special liking to, or a special interest in, a particular one, and spend “more time than you’re getting paid for,” as a supervisor once put it, in his care and treatment. Such was the case with Victor.

He was a big, likable guy, a heavyset bear of a man with a deep, resonant voice that you noticed right away. Paul Robeson’s voice came to mind – and William Warfield, maybe Billy Eckstine, but for obvious reasons I wouldn’t have made any of those particular comparisons to Victor’s face. White guys from Mississippi don’t like that.

I scheduled some individual sessions with him, and we talked of all kinds of things: the wife he still loved (she had left him for another man while he was in ‘Nam), his lonely childhood (an only child of a drunken mother and a father who was on the road all the time), his own drunkenness and addiction to pills (he had kicked both years before, “on his own”), and most devastating of all, his loss of the guys he called ‘the only family I’ve ever known’ – the platoon that was annihilated by the Viet Cong, all but him.

Victor was the first person I ever heard say, “I wish I had died instead of them,” and really mean it. He explained, “The dead get to rest. I have to face hell for the rest of my life, because aloneness, and life without The Goners, is hell.” That’s what he called them – The Goners.

I thought about that, and thought I could understand it, a little. I had never suffered a significant loss of a person in my life, but I could see what he meant about the dead ‘getting the best of the deal’, in that their struggles were over, while the living had to go on and face life without their loved, and lost, ones.

But what about that peculiar phrase, The Goners? For some reason, I felt I needed to file that question away for later.

In the meantime, I tried to talk to him about the things he did have to live for.

What about other women?

He would shake his head sadly, and say, “For me, Joanie was the beginning and the end.”

Subject closed.

New friends?

“What’s the point? You let people matter, then you just lose them, and it’s worse than never having them in the first place.”

Subject closed.

Work?

“I’m an electrician. I do my job. I go home. What else is there to say?”

Another one bites the dust.

Finally, I mentioned his voice.

“You’ve got quite a voice. Ever done any singing?”

That got a small smile. “Singing? Sure – when I was a kid, in church. I was a soprano. Then, my voice changed.”

“It sure did.”

He really smiled, for the first time ever. “Now I’m a bass – like Daddy.” He grinned, proudly.

Hmmm – were we finally onto something? “Daddy?”

“Yeah, you know – my father.”

I smiled, “Yeah – even a Yankee knows what ‘Daddy’ means, Vic. It’s just that I never heard you talk about anyone before – anyone other than Joanie, or The Goners – with any feeling. I guess your Dad meant a lot to you.”

He pursed his lips in thought. “He meant everything to me.” He paused, his eyes moving as he searched his past. “He used to sing.”

“To you?”

“He sang all the time – in church, everywhere.” He paused, his eyes lighting up, head nodding proudly.  “He used to blow out speakers, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sure – a really powerful, deep bass can do that, you know.”

“No – I had no idea.”

He was quiet a moment. “But he also sang, special – to me.”

“How do you mean – special?”

“At night, in my room.”

“Like, bedtime songs – lullabies?”

“Not lullabies. Just anything: popular songs, hymns, gospel – you know, church.”

I smiled. “Yeah, I know gospel has something to do with church.” I paused, considering. “Would you sing for me?”

He did a double-take. “What – right here?”

“Yes – right here.”

He looked at the closed door. “Is that okay?”

I did my best Edward G. Robinson. “If they come to arrest us, I’ll take the rap, see?”

He looked down, clearing his throat. “Well, I don’t really sing anymore. It’s kinda like, when Daddy died . . .”

“The songs went with him?”

“Um hmm.”

“So, you don’t really feel entitled to do it on your own?”

“I don’t know about that – I just haven’t done it.”

“Would you do it for me? I’d be honored.”

He looked around again, like we were up to something illicit. “What do you want to hear?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know – maybe some of that hymn and gospel stuff you were talking about?”

“Like, what hymns?”

“I have no idea – I’m just a Jew-boy from California.”

That earned a rumbling laugh. He looked down and cleared his throat again. “Okay, then”

He began, timidly,

Shall we gather at the river,
Where bright angel feet have trod,
With its crystal tide forever,
Flowing by the throne of God?

Now, he really gave it his all – his voice molten gold:

Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river,
Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
That flows by the throne of God.

He looked at me. I nodded, “Keep going.” He continued through the verses, belting it out, body swaying, his eyes closed, and ended with,

Soon we’ll reach the shining river,
Soon our pilgrimage will cease;
Soon our happy hearts will quiver,
With the melody of peace.

Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river,
Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
That flows by the throne of God.

By god, I almost converted, right there on the spot!

There was a knock at the door.

Victor flinched.

I said, “Yes? Come on in.”

The door opened, and two nurses poked their heads through a crack in the door, timidly, one head on top of the other. “Is everything alright in here?”

I nodded. “Everything is great in here.” I looked at Victor, then back at the nurses, asking them, “What did you think?”

The one on the bottom had her hand clapped over her mouth. They both had tears in their eyes. The one on top said, “It was just . . . just so beautiful.”

Victor looked alive for the first time since I had known him. Something had happened – it doesn’t matter what, or why, or how, only that it happened. A spark of life had been struck. Now it was my job to keep that spark alive.

I continued to meet with him, and, while he was still depressed, it seemed he had turned a corner and stepped out onto the street of life. There was only one thing I still wanted to know, and I waited till our last meeting to ask him. Maybe he’d be willing to tell me now.

“I know you don’t like to talk about the War, but could I just ask you one thing?”

He drew in a breath, hesitating. He still didn’t want to go ‘there’, but he said, “Okay – what is it?”

I had earned my one question. “Why do you call your platoon The Goners?”

He smiled. “Oh, is that all? That one’s easy.” His eyes did that moving-back-and-forth thing again, searching the blackboard of time. “When I was a kid, and my Daddy came home, which wasn’t often, he used to play soldier with me all the time. And whenever I would ‘kill’ him, he would clutch his hand to his heart, spin around, say, ‘I’m a goner’, then fall down.

“So, every time he had to leave home again, it became a regular thing that I’d say to him, ‘Guess you’re a goner, huh?’ And he’d say, ‘Yep – I’m a goner, boy.’ Somehow, it made it easier.

“So, when the guys were all killed, I just took to calling them The Goners – like, they were with Daddy, somehow.” He looked at me, but not really at me. “I guess it makes it easier.”

I nodded, and stuck out my hand. “Thank you – I appreciate it. I think I understand, now.”

Little did I know that, thirty years later, I would ‘borrow’ his father, and the platoon, to make it easier for myself when Brett died.

Oh, before I get back to Brett, there’s one more thing about Asheville, and it’s in the nature of an ‘amends’. While we lived in Asheville, the older, nice guy, Bob, whom I mentioned earlier, was wonderful to us. He ‘had us over’ to his lovely house for dinner, did everything possible to make me feel welcome, talked with me patiently about my doubts and questions at work, and even laughed at my dumb jokes sometimes.

And yet, there was something sad about him, something very human. Maybe he was a self-questioner, a self-doubter, like me? I don’t know. I didn’t know, then, that ‘old guys’ were human, too, could need companionship, too, could be lonely, could doubt themselves. I just know that, on my last day at work, on my way out I glibly said to him,

“I’ll be in touch.”

He immediately replied,

“No, you won’t.”

Not like an accusation, or anything of the sort – just straightforwardly, like a statement of hard-won truth. It took me momentarily off guard. People aren’t usually that direct, or that honest. I think I shrugged it off at the time, and continued my merry way down the hall.

So, for the record, and to my shame, I just want to say that, Bob, you were right. I was a boy in a hurry – to get my Ph.D., to grow up, to get paid, to earn respect, to ‘make it’. I so wish that Botanical Rounds, that your generosity toward me, that the South, had taught me to slow down and let my heart put down roots in life, sometimes. I know it now, but I didn’t, then.

And I’m sorry – I’m the one who missed out on the privilege of a continued relationship with you, Bob – I’m the loser. And now that I’m an old guy, I know that age has nothing to do with it: I think you recognized in me a fellow traveler, and wanted to know me longer than my three-month ‘hitch’ in Asheville. Maybe at the time I couldn’t imagine an older guy actually wanting to know me, or finding genuine companionship with me – I didn’t think I had that much to offer.

But now that I’m older than you were then, I see that when a soul connects with another soul – age, or race, or gender, or background doesn’t matter much at all; sure, maybe those superficial similarities make it easier, but if the actual connection isn’t there, those things don’t make up for it. The connection is the precious part – and I let a true connection fall by the wayside when I failed to follow up on our friendship.

Maybe somebody reading this now will learn and realize that truth, and think twice about letting a special connection lapse.

That’s all I can offer you now, Bob, but I am offering it, with all my heart.

(Next: The Goner, Part III: Mission Accomplished)

Note: All clinical vignettes herein are significantly altered to protect patient confidentiality and privacy.

BK

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Today I want to talk about King Kong. No, not the Big Themes, like Beauty and the Beast, or human chauvinism, but something smaller and quieter. No, today I want to talk about BK.

As you probably remember (and I’m talking here about the recent remake, not the original film), early in the film Kong snatches Ann Darrow and, after a long and harrowing journey through the jungles of Skull Island, they finally arrive at his ‘home base’, a high, craggy cliff face. Behind it is an ancestral cave, replete with the skulls of Kong’s dead ancestors – he being the lone surviving member of his line – and in front of it is a magnificent, sweeping view of the island. Ann, recovering a bit from the horror of the abduction and the journey, sees Kong looking out over his world, and for an instant, she understands not only his loneliness in being the last of his kind, but his pride and glory in his kingdom. She touches her heart as she speaks to him: “Beautiful – it is beautiful,” and in some sense, Kong seems to understand, and to see that he is understood. She has seen, and accepted from him, perhaps the most important thing that he can offer. She has understood the magnificence of his primacy over this land, and his sadness in ruling over it alone.

Much later, when he has fled to the top of the Empire State Building, with Ann again at his side, they look down over the glittering city, for a moment safe, for a moment triumphant, and she again touches her heart and says to him, “Beautiful”, and he seems to understand, and this is their bond. He has given her something, passed on a legacy, a gift of the heart, that will live on in her, that will supersede him: his Beautiful Kingdom – BK.

At the beginning of my career, I worked for years in inpatient alcohol programs. I was the ‘hired gun’, the psychologist who came in and ran groups composed of lots of tough union guys – those who had good benefits and could afford expensive inpatient treatment. It would be thirty guys, thirty cigarettes going, in a closed room, for two hours at a time. Crazy, and fun, too – but that’s a tale for another time.

Right now, I want to talk about the wife of a particular inpatient. The program, like most, included treatment and support for the families of the inpatients, helping them come to terms with the reality of alcoholism, that it is an illness, that it can be treated but cannot just ‘go away’, that the family members need support too, to help them stop centering their entire lives around the drinker, to create meaningful lives of their own, whether they stayed or left the alcoholic.

This particular woman, I’ll call her Jackie, had the wide-eyed look of a total innocent, despite all she had been through with her husband’s drinking. There was an indomitable naivete about her, a freshness and openness to life that hadn’t been degraded by the loneliness and frustration of being the wife of a heavy drinker who was killing himself, literally (cardiomyopathy and cirrhosis), and his family, metaphorically, daily.

I ended up seeing Jackie in individual therapy some time later. Her life continued to be hard and hurtful. She eventually did work up the courage to leave her husband, but never hated him or blamed him, although this was certainly not her life plan. Conservative, sweet Jackie even had a brief get-together with a married executive in her industry, whom she still, respectfully, called “Mr. ___________”, throughout their entire relationship.

She still had to raise her children and keep a household together, on very little money. But she maintained her spirit, her joy and her spunk, regardless of the curve balls life threw at her. My ‘job’ was to teach her to be more guarded, more questioning, more realistic, more protective of her own boundaries and limits, and less susceptible to shady situations and unkept promises.

But she was doing a job, too – on me. She would spend an entire session trying to decide whether pimentos should go in her potato salad. She would ask me to explain, in detail, once again, “Why can’t people be nicer?” She would talk about a section of Berkeley where she grew up, and draw word pictures of Ozzie’s Soda Fountain, a place where all the kids hung out, that made me feel I had grown up there too, that made me agree with her that, yes, it really was a shame that the gang at Ozzie’s was not there anymore.

One Halloween, she came to therapy dressed in a witch outfit, complete with pointy hat, with orange and black cupcakes she had made, with orange and black candles in them, which she set down on my table and lit, saying, with pure joy, “Now, look how pretty these are.”

Of course, I was a young, earnest therapist, a ‘serious’ therapist, and on some level I considered all this to be humoring her until we could get to the real stuff, the deep stuff; it was all probably just resistance to the treatment, a way of roping me into her obliviousness to reality – maybe I was just colluding with her denial? How could she ever get better if she didn’t get down and muck around in the grime of reality? Of course, we talked about her past, and she came to understand some of her patterns. I once even tried to point out how the Halloween session might have been a way of avoiding reality.

She looked hurt.

I never did that again. But I did keep worrying about how she was ever going to get better if she didn’t do the ‘deep work’. But Jackie did get better. A few years later, she found and married a wonderful man who loved her a lot. She was happy – a well-deserved happiness if ever there was one. She would finally have the life she deserved.

A short while later, I got the news: Jackie had been killed in a traffic accident. A drunk driver swerved and hit her head-on.

I wondered about fate, about god, about luck, about deserving — and undeserving. I was mad, I cried and thought about the unfairness of life and all the other things that you think about when bad things happen to good people. And, in a strange, maybe selfish way, I felt cheated, too – cheated of the life she should have had because of all the work we had done together.

But as time went on, I came to realize that I still had the time we had spent together. I still had the smiling face, the courage, the unreasonable optimism, I still had Ozzie’s, and the Halloween cupcakes.

All of this was her legacy to me, her beautiful kingdom.

BK.

Note: All clinical vignettes herein are significantly altered to protect patient confidentiality and privacy.