I told her she was great. And I started plotting ways to thank her.
Since I’d seen Gibbs so early that morning, Sharon Lewis was my second appointment of the week, not my first. The continued media attention that her breach of security at Denver’s airport was generating still haunted her. As did the fear of imminent arrest.
“Am I really the most selfish person in America?” she demanded.
Needless to say, I didn’t cast my vote on the question.
Obsessing was one of Sharon’s things, so she obsessed. Should she turn herself in? Should she get a lawyer? Was what she did so wrong? Really? Wouldn’t other people have done the same thing? Wouldn’t they?
Would I?
I didn’t answer that one, either.
Once the legal part of the crisis was resolved whatever way it was going to be resolved, Sharon had a long stint in therapy ahead of her. I was responding to her in the short term so that I would be prepared for what the future would inevitably bring.
Jim Zebid was late for his rescheduled appointment. He didn’t arrive until half our allotted time had vaporized into the therapeutic ether.
“Damn prosecutors” was how he started. “I swear they argue things just to waste my time.”
I tried not to allow my face to reveal anything back to Jim. My wife was one of those “damn prosecutors.” I knew it and he knew it.
After that prelude he dove right into the topic of the day. “I need to tell you that it’s hard for me to believe that you weren’t indiscreet with that little tidbit I told you last week. My guy’s firm that he didn’t tell anybody about selling blow to the judge’s hubby. I tend to believe him; he has no reason to be shooting his mouth off. I certainly didn’t tell anybody other than you. So that leaves you.”
The pointed implication was that I did have a good reason to be shooting my mouth off: to gossip with my wife. “Are you asking me something, Jim? Or is that just a flat-out accusation?”
He shrugged.
I registered some surprise at the fact that he didn’t seem particularly angry. Although his words were sharp, his tone was the same one he might have used to order take-out Chinese.
What did I do? I took the bait.
“I will repeat my earlier assurance. I told no one-no one-about our conversation last week. And I will repeat my earlier suspicion, Jim, that your accusation about the incident has to do with something between us-something in the therapeutic relationship.”
“Like what might that be?” These words were delivered in a tone that was totally dismissive. Litigators, in my experience, are more skilled at being dismissive than most people on the planet. They are able to imbue layers of nuance into their dismissiveness that most of us can only dream of. A law school trick of some kind, I suspected.
“Trust, maybe?” I tried to keep sardonic echoes from my own voice, but I wasn’t totally successful.
“Trust?” He slumped back and crossed his ankles. His wingtips were the size of river kayaks.
I waited.
“Yeah, well. Like my client trusts me right now? That kind of trust? Sure, sure, we can talk about trust, Alan-after I somehow end up convinced that you’re not just covering your ass. How’s that?”
The remainder of my Monday was more or less routine from a patient point of view.
Midafternoon I reached Lauren again. Her neurologist was hopeful that the steroids would arrest the exacerbation and felt confident that her good history of recovering from previous flare-ups boded well for her this time, too. To boost prophylaxis even more he started her on a statin, something she’d been discussing with him for a while, and he gave her some Ambien samples to help her try to get some sleep until the Solumedrol loosened its grip on her psyche.
She said, “I hope it works.”
“The Ambien?”
“Everything. The steroids, the statin, everything.”
“You scared, babe?”
“Yes. I’m afraid you’re getting tired of this.”
“Don’t worry about that. Worry about getting better.”
“Sam wasn’t worried.”
“I’m not Sherry, Lauren.”
“You must have second thoughts about marrying me. Everybody has limits,” she said.
I felt my pulse jump. I wanted to bark,“Of course I have limits. Of course I hate this. Of course I feel sorry for myself.”
I didn’t.
“Be honest,” she pleaded.
¡Dios mío. Hay un hacha en mi cabeza!
Lauren didn’t want my honesty. She wanted my reassurance. In all my years in clinical practice treating couples, I’d seen honesty wielded much more often as ahachathan as a caress. There was a time in the eighties when the relationship mantra from the women’s magazine gurus was“All honesty, all the time.”What a disastrous few years of misguided advice that was. Since then, whenever I heard a romantic partner whine for unabashed honesty in my office, I tested the waters for one of two things. First I listened for the call of insecurity begging for reassurance. Alternately, I listened for the diseased call of someone begging to be hurt or begging for the license to inflict pain.
With her earnest “be honest” I decided that Lauren was seeking the former and not the latter, and I prayed that I was right.
I wished I could touch her or kiss her nose. I couldn’t. So I said, “I’m not even close to my limit.” I didn’t say“I’m full of doubt,”or“I wish I were as good and generous a person as I’d like to be.”I didn’t say“I don’t know my limit, but I think it’s within range of my vision.”I didn’t.
No, I reassured her. Why? Because the reassurance was at least as true as my doubts and a whole lot truer than my fears.
She made a noise in response. Disappointment? Dismissal? Relief? I wished I knew.
The cream of reassurance that I was whipping was already in stiff peaks. I added more sugar until it tasted just right. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetie. I love you.”
It was all true. A little less than totally honest, but all true. Imperfect honesty in an imperfect world. Nobody, least of all Lauren, would have to spend the day removing anyhachasfrom theircabezas.
But the telephone was a terrible instrument for gauging the effectiveness of comfort, and I feared that my words were barely palliative.
I was packing up to go home when my pager vibrated on my hip. No message, but I recognized the number. I threw my briefcase and jacket back down on top of the desk and dialed deliberately, giving myself time to pull my thoughts together.
I wondered whether the state of Georgia was in the Central or Eastern Time zone. I guessed Eastern. It took me most of a minute to find a place where I could balance my current annoyance with my compassion and my friendship.
Sam answered. “Hey, Alan.”
I said, “Hi, Sam. What’s up?”
“I’m in Georgia.”
“Yeah.” I wanted to say I knew that already, but confidentiality rules. “What time is it there?”
“A little after eight. How pissed off are you?”
“Lauren’s sick. I don’t have enough energy to waste any of it being pissed off at you.”
“What’s going on with Lauren?”
I explained Lauren’s predicament as though I were talking to a friend, and Sam said all the right things in return. I felt better. Then I asked, “What about you. You feeling okay?”
“This-this road trip-has been kind of good for me, I think. Takes my mind off things. No chest pains so far. I’m watching my diet. Taking all my damn pills.”
“Exercise?”
“I walk when I can.”
“It’s important, Sam.”