The Schopenhauer Cure(86)
Julius pointed to his watch. “Sorry to say we’re out of time. But let me be teacherly and make one point. I often view a statement or act from two different points of view—from its content and from its process—and by process I mean what it tells us about the nature of the relationship between the parties involved. Like you, Stuart, I don’t immediately understand the content of Philip’s message: I’ve got to study it, and maybe the content can be a topic in another meeting. But I know something about the process. What I know, Philip, is that you, like Pam, were thinking about me, wanted to give me a gift, and you went to some lengths to do it: you memorized the passage and you made copies. And the meaning of that? It’s got to reflect your caring about me. And what do I feel about it? I’m touched, I appreciate it, and I look forward to the time when you can express your caring in your own words.”
30
* * *
Life can be compared to a piece of embroidered material of which, everyone in the first half of his time, comes to see the top side, but in the second half, the reverse side. The latter is not so beautiful, but is more instructive because it enables one to see how the threads are connected together.
* * *
When the group left, Julius watched them walk down his front stairs to the street. Rather than peel off singly to their parked cars, they continued in a clump, undoubtedly on their way to the coffee shop. Oh, how he would have liked to grab his windbreaker and go flying down the stairs to join them. But that was another day, another life, another pair of legs, he thought, as he crept down the hall heading toward his office computer to enter his notes on the meeting. Suddenly, he changed his mind, walked back into the group room, took out his pipe, and enjoyed the aroma of rich Turkish tobacco. He had no particular purpose other than simply to bask for a few minutes more in the embers of the group session.
This meeting, like the last three or four, had been riveting. His thoughts drifted back to the groups of breast cancer patients he had led so long ago. How often had those members described a golden period once they overcame the panic of realizing that they were truly going to die. Some said living with cancer had made them wiser, more self-realized, while others had reordered their priorities in life, grown stronger, learned to say no to activities they no longer valued and yes to things that really mattered—such as loving their family and friends, observing the beauty about them, savoring the changing seasons. But what a pity, so many had lamented, that it was only after their bodies were riddled with cancer that they had learned how to live.
These changes were so dramatic—indeed one patient had proclaimed, “Cancer cures psychoneurosis”—that on a couple of occasions Julius impishly described only the psychological changes to a class of students and then asked them to guess what kind of therapy was involved. How shocked students were to learn it was not therapy or medication but a confrontation with death that had made the difference. He owed a lot to those patients. What a model they were for him in his time of need. What a pity he couldn’t tell them. Live right, he reminded himself, and have faith that good things will flow from you even if you never learn of them.
And how are you doing with your cancer? he asked himself. I know a lot about the panic phase which, thank God, I’m now coming out of even though there are still those 3 A.M. times when panic grips with a nameless terror that yields to no reasoning or rhetoric—it yields to nothing except Valium, the light of breaking dawn, or a soothing hot-tub soak.
But have I changed or grown wiser? he wondered. Had my golden period? Maybe I’m closer to my feelings—maybe that’s growth. I think, no, I know I’ve become a better therapist—grown more sensitive ears. Yes, definitely I’m a different therapist. Before my melanoma I would never have said that I was in love with the group. I would never have dreamed of revealing such intimate details of my life—Miriam’s death, my sexual opportunism. And my irresistible compulsion to confess to the group today—Julius shook his head in amazement—that’s something to wonder about, he thought. I feel a push to go against the grain, against my training, my own teaching.
One thing for sure, they did not want to hear me. Talk about resistance! They wanted no part of my blemishes or my darkness. But, once I put it out, some interesting stuff emerged. Tony was something else! Acted like a skilled therapist—inquiring whether I was satisfied with the group’s response, trying to normalize my behavior, pressing about “why now.” Terrific stuff. I could almost imagine him leading the group after I’m gone—that would be something—a college drop-out therapist with jail time in his past. And others—Gill, Stuart, Pam—stepped up, took care of me, and kept the group focused. Jung had other things in mind when he said that only the wounded healer can truly heal, but maybe honing the patients’ therapeutic skills is a good enough justification for therapists to reveal their wounds.
Julius moseyed down the hall to his office and continued thinking about the meeting. And Gill—did he show up today! Calling Pam “the chief justice” was terrific—and accurate. I have to help Pam integrate that feedback. Here’s a case when Gill’s vision is sharper than mine. For a long time I’ve liked Pam so much that I overlooked her pathology—maybe that’s why I couldn’t help her with her obsession about John.