Where Have I Been?
I pulled up a chair, facing the client with no obstacle between us. Okay, she’s not a client. Let’s call her a ‘friend’ who’s here again for another supportive session. She’s been taking the road less traveled lately. One that’s usually unknown to those millennials and gen-Xers. It’s filled with twists and turns (I love those) through the healthcare system. I’ll do my best to limit interpretations.
She has the look of fatigue about her eyes. It’s always more apparent when she forgets her glasses.
“How are you feeling?”
“It’s difficult to stay positive. But I finished Richard Osman’s THE BULLET THAT MISSED last night, and the entire novel was therapy.” She mustered a meager smile.
“Was there any take home message?”
“Of course — encapsulated in the passage about the psychiatrist, Ibrahim, early in the book.” She took on a ‘cat-that-swallowed-the-canary’ look. “The narrator posed a question about why he became a psychiatrist.”
I could tell this was a direct comment on my circumstances. I might be retired, but I’m still oriented-times-three. Most of the time. “And why did he become a psychiatrist?”
“Because he was afraid of life.”
The silence between us allowed that plastic travel clock ticking to come to the fore. This might be the best psychiatrist joke I’ve ever heard.
“I guess he nailed it.” I’m trying to keep a straight face. “But what about you? Where have you been?”
“I’ve just completed an inventory.” She held up her journal. “On being sixty-something.”
My friend has taught me plenty. Her inventories are usually enlightening. “Was it one of those that came with an ‘ah-ha’ moment?”
She went on to summarize her campaign of endless healthcare appointments which continued after our last session. I know she hasn’t worked gainfully for several years now. It’s extremely fortunate she hasn’t had to bust her butt for wages lately. She would’ve never had time to find out what’s really wrong with her, or practice all of the health maintenance exercises necessary to keep up her search. A sixty-hours-a-week job with 24/7 email responsiveness simply prepared her, gave her the stamina for, this present chapter.
“The biggest ‘ah-ha’ was: if I want to feel differently, I have to think differently.”
I nodded. “That’s profound.”
“It’s why I keep coming back for these sessions. I’m tending to my mind.” A small, insulated flask suddenly appeared on her lap. She unscrews the lid and takes a sip. The container is opaque. “I’m counting on you to show me another way to look at things. And remember: show, don’t tell.”
I detect a tiny fragment of cynicism in her voice. Historically, this is a warning sign.
“What’s in the flask?”
“Sen Matcha green tea. It’s my new go-to.” A moderately pronounced smirk spread across her lower face. “It’s a double-bagger.”
She has been known to hide things.
“Your tone of voice is borderline.”
“I thought you’d say that I’ve simply created all these health problems from the Power of Intention. That I’ve repressed lifelong direction from my Higher Self to practice self-compassion. You’d accuse me of driving that energy down to a cellular level until the cells in my blood stream would have only one alternative: to attack my body.” She burped. Her stomach has been bothering her lately. “And wasn’t it you who said complaining about someone’s tone of voice is evidence of taking things too personally?”
I must admit, I never did read Wayne Dyer.
This is the kind of moment in a therapy session — I mean, in a supportive meeting with a friend — where the best strategy is silence. Let her do the work on her own. Never work harder than your client. I mean, friend. After nearly a minute, she went on.
“I paid for needles to be inserted in strange locations on my body, hoping that repressed energy, that repressed divine information, would be released. I’m considering ear-coning. I’m praying for rebirthing and soul retrieval to come back in vogue.”
I place my chin in my hand. This is so nineties. “Has your soul been fractured again?”
She bursts into tears. But suddenly, a steely determination enshrouds her vulnerable self. “It was that horrid gastroenterologist. Getting my colonoscopy done sooner-than-necessary was his only agenda. He had just one suggestion. A brilliant prescription. Citrucel.”
We both know, whatever you do, don’t get constipated. Those essential granules with life-sustaining force, those key ingredients to keep everything fibrous that ought to be fibrous, are crucial.
I exercise restraint of tongue. It’s certainly not tactful, much less consistent with social graces, to discuss those areas of the human earth-suit entrusted with the body’s effluences. I know she will have more to say.
“I’ve had it with the battle for dominance between western Medicine and Naturopathy. Thank god, I live in Portland Oregon — where composting and organics still reign supreme.”
We’ve had this discussion before. You can’t get better when you’re bitter.
“But there’s a silver lining in this cloud.” She can see my hesitation.
“Really?”
“I’ve discovered TRE. Well, my younger sister brought it to my attention. She’s well-schooled in how the body keeps the score.”
I let her explain her discovery of Trauma and Tension Release Exercises (TRE), and exactly what TRE entails. She loves the synchronicity of this information arriving just as her soul is fragmenting again due to her body’s elements, mentioned above, under auto-attack. She makes sure to let me know this also includes her brain and several other somatic loci. We laugh together at the ultimate irony: we must remember what we’ve forgotten. That our animal selves innately know how to shake it off. What can we say. It’s life. No one gets out alive. And there’s only one of us around here, anyway.
She launches into one anachronism after the next. It’s SIBO, it’s MCAS, it’s IBSC, it’s LMNOP. It’s probably early MCI. Likely tied to LGBTQIA+2S.
She’s desperate.
We went through this in the nineties. Then it was reactive hypoglycemia. Multiple chemical sensitivities syndrome. It was alien abduction. That was the age of the X-files. She’s a product of the New Age Movement. And pop culture has been repressed, down to a cellular level. To the point where cells in her blood stream are misfiring, are on auto-attack. She’s likely to develop Social Media Disorder next.
“I want you to know, doctor, that I’m still flossing.” Those moments of helplessness and hopelessness haven’t removed her instinct for survival. She will be going to heaven.
“I almost never forget nasal irrigation or drops for dry eyes.”
“You’ve demonstrated courage in the face of fear.” It’s the best I can come up with.
Breathing deeply, through in-depth accounts of her humiliations at the hands of physical therapists and gynecologists, I find myself waiting for her to take a breath. It’s my opportunity to steer the boat. We need to avoid taking on water or we may capsize.
As she finishes with a flourish, “I want to be sure to leave time for, …” She looks at her phone, to check the time. “I forgot what I was going to say.”
“This could be a good time to talk about your goals for the week.”
“I’m thinking about a community college course in cybersecurity.” It’s a constant struggle to keep up. “Or maybe I’ll learn how to code. Is C+ out of date?” She begins to scroll on her phone. “Hey, Google. How much does a robot dog that plays soccer cost?” Her eyes meet mine. “My little schnauzer-dog needs a companion.”
One cannot help but smile lovingly at her glaring instinct to keep it fresh. A faint ear-worm shows up in my consciousness. It’s the Bee Gees from 1977. Staylin’ Alive.
She begins to dictate a list of items into her google ToDo app. Learn accessibility features. Figure out how to get Speechify to read a library book. It’s amazing how many more books you can read if you can listen to them. After another list completed, she shoves her phone into her back pocket again, and shrugs.
Leaning forward into the mirror, I remove my glasses from my front shirt pocket and put them back on. Another round of self-integration therapy. My alter ego and I are one again. I wonder if I’ve learned how to think differently. I did have the curious notion in this round several times, “Who’s thought is that, anyway?” Perhaps it’s given me a little distance.
I am now one and the same.
Although, I am considering changing my pronouns. She / they / their / we / us / one.
