«I don`t see anyone else here.»
«That still don`t mean I`m talking to you.»
«If not me, who?» Julius put his hands above his eyes and pantomimed looking up
and down the empty street.
«What`s it your business? Goddamn street freaks,” she muttered as she clanked her
walker past him.
Julius froze for a moment. He looked about him to make certain that no one had
witnessed that interaction. My God, he thought, I`m losing it—what the fuck am I doing?
Good thing I have no patients this afternoon. No doubt about it: spending time with Philip
Slate is not good for my disposition.
Turning toward the intoxicating aroma emanating from Starbucks, Julius decided
that an hour with Philip called for indulgence with a double espresso. He settled into a
window seat and watched the passing show. No gray heads to be seen, inside or outside.
At sixty–five he was the oldest person around, the oldest of the old, and rapidly growing
older inside as his melanoma continued its silent invasion.
Two pert counter clerks flirted with some of the male customers. These were the
girls that had never looked his way, never flirted with him when he was young nor caught
his gaze as he aged. Time to realize that his time would never come, that those nubile,
breasty girls with the Snow White faces would never turn his way with a coy smile and
say, «Hey, haven`t seen you here for a while. How`s it going?» It was not going to
happen. Life was seriously linear and not reversible.
Enough. Enough self–pity. He knew what to say to whiners: find a way to turn your
gaze outward, stretch beyond yourself. Yes, that was the way—find the route to turn this
shit into gold. Why not write about it? Perhaps as a personal journal or blog. Then
something more visible—who knows what?—maybe an article for theJournal of the
American Psychiatric Association on «The Psychiatrist Confronting Mortality.» Or
maybe something commercial for theSunday Times Magazine. He could do it. Or why not
a book? Something likeAutobiography of a Demise. Not bad! Sometimes when you find a
dynamite title, the piece just writes itself. Julius ordered an espresso, took out his pen and
unfolded a paper bag he found on the floor. As he began to scribble, his lips curled into a
slight smile at the humble origins of his powerful book.
Friday November 2, 1990. DDD (death–discovery day) + 16
No doubt about it: searching out Philip Slate was a bad idea. A bad idea to think I could
get something from him. A bad idea to meet with him. Never again. Philip a therapist?
Unbelievable—a therapist sans empathy, sensitivity, caring. He heard me say on the
phone that I had health problems and that these problems were part of the reason I
wanted to meet with him. Yet not one personal question about how I was doing. Not even
a handshake. Frigid. Inhuman. Kept ten feet away from me. I worked like hell for that guy
for three years. Gave him everything. Gave him my best stuff. Ungrateful bastard.
Oh yes, I know what he would say. I can hear that disembodied precise voice of
his: «You and I had a commercial transaction: I gave you money and you provided your
expert services. I paid promptly for every hour of your consultation. Transaction over.
We`re even; I owe you nothing.»
Then he`d add, «Less than nothing, Dr. Hertzfeld, you had the best of our bargain.
You received your full fee, whereas I received nothing of value in return.»
The worst thing is, he`s right. He owes me nothing. I crow about psychotherapy
being a life of service. Service lovingly given. I have no lien on him. Why expect
something from him? And, anyway, whatever it is I crave, he does not have it to give.
«He does not have it to give»—how many times have I said that to how many
patients—about husbands or wives or fathers. Yet I can`t let Philip go, this unrelenting,
callous, ungiving man. Shall I write an ode about the obligation patients owe in later
years to their therapists?
And why does it matter so much? And why, of all my patients, choose to contact
him? I still don`t know. I found a clue in my case notes—the feeling that I was talking to a
young phantasm of myself. Perhaps there`s more than a trace of Philip in me, in the me
who in my teens and twenties and thirties was whipped around by hormones. I thought I
knew what he was going through, I thought that I had an inside track to healing him. Is
that why I tried so hard? Why he got more attention and energy from me than most of my
other patients combined? In every therapist`s practice, there is always some patient who
consumes a disproportionate amount of the therapist`s energy and attention—Philip was
that person for me for three years.
Julius returned home that evening to a cold dark house. His son, Larry, had spent
the last three days with him but that morning had returned to Baltimore, where he did
neurobiological research at Johns Hopkins. Julius was almost relieved that Larry had
left—the anguished look on his face and his loving but clumsy efforts to comfort his
father had brought more sorrow than serenity. He started to phone Marty, one of his
colleagues in his support group, but felt too despondent, hung up the phone, and instead
turned on his computer to enter the notes scribbled on the crumpled Starbucks paper bag.
«You have e–mail,” greeted him, and, to his surprise, there was a message from Philip. He
read it eagerly:
At the end of our discussion today you asked about Schopenhauer and how I was
helped by his philosophy. You also indicated that you might want to learn more about
him. It occurs to me that you might be interested in my lecture at Coastal College
next Monday evening at 7P.M. (Toyon Hall, 340 Fulton St.). I am teaching a survey
course on European philosophy, and on Monday I will give a brief overview of
Schopenhauer (I must cover two thousand years in twelve weeks). Perhaps we can
chat a bit after the lecture. Philip Slate
Without hesitation Julius e–mailed Philip:Thanks. I`ll be there. He opened his
appointment book to the following Monday and penciled in «Toyon Hall, 340 Fulton
7P.M. ”
On Mondays Julius led a therapy group from four–thirty till six. Earlier in the day he had
pondered whether to tell the group about his diagnosis. Though he had decided to
postpone telling his individual patients until he regained his equilibrium, the group posed
a different problem: group members often focused upon him, and the chances of someone
spotting some change in his mood and commenting upon it were much greater.
But his concerns were unfounded. The members had readily accepted his excuse of
the flu for having canceled the two previous meetings and then moved on to catch up on
the last two weeks of each other`s lives. Stuart, a short, pudgy pediatrician who
perpetually seemed distracted, as though he were in a rush to get to his next patient,
seemed pressured and asked for time from the group. This was a most unusual
occurrence; in Stuart`s year in the group he had rarely asked for help. He had originally
entered the group under duress: his wife informed him by e–mail that unless he entered
therapy and made some significant changes she was going to leave him. She added that
she had conveyed this via e–mail because he paid more attention to electronic
communication than anything said to him directly. During the past week his wife had
upped the ante by moving out of their bedroom, and much of the meeting was spent on
helping Stuart explore his feelings about her withdrawal.
Julius loved this group. Often the courage of the members took his breath away as
they regularly broke new ground and took great risks. Today`s meeting was no exception.
Everyone supported Stuart for his willingness to show his vulnerability, and the time