The Schopenhauer Cure

5

_________________________

Ahappy life is impossible; the

best that a man can attain is

a heroic life.

_________________________

Leaving Philip`s office, Julius felt stunned. He gripped the banister and unsteadily

descended the stairs and staggered into the sunlight. He stood in front of Philip`s building

and tried to decide whether to turn left or right. The freedom of an unscheduled afternoon

brought confusion rather than joy. Julius had always been focused. When he was not

seeing patients, other important projects and activities—writing, teaching, tennis,

research—clamored for his attention. But today nothing seemed important. He suspected

that nothing hadever been important, that his mind had arbitrarily imbued projects with

importance and then cunningly covered its traces. Today he saw through the ruse of a

lifetime. Today there was nothing important to do, and he ambled aimlessly down Union

Street.

Toward the end of the business section just past Fillmore Street, an old woman

approached him noisily pushing a walker.God, what a sight! Julius thought. He first

averted his face, then turned back to take inventory. Her clothes—several layers of

sweaters capped by a burly overcoat—were preposterous for the sunny day. Her

chipmunk cheeks churned hard, no doubt to keep dentures in place. But worst of all was

the huge excrescence of flesh that buttressed one of her nostrils—a translucent pink wart

the size of a grape, out of which sprouted several long bristles.

Stupid old ladywas Julius`s next thought, which he immediately amended: «She`s

probably no older than me. In fact, she`s my future—the wart, the walker, the wheelchair.

As she came closer, he heard her mumbling: «Now, let`s see what`s in these shops ahead.

What will it be? What will I find?»

«Lady, I have no idea, I`m just walking here,” Julius called out to her.

«I weren`t talking to you.»

«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

whizzed by. By the end of the meeting Julius felt much better. So caught up was he by

the drama of the meeting that for an hour and a half he forgot his own despair. That was

not unusual. All group therapists know about the wonderfully healing qualities inherent

in the atmosphere of the working group. Time and again Julius had entered a meeting

disquieted and left considerably better even though he had not, of course, explicitly

addressed any of his personal issues.

He had barely time for a quick dinner at We Be Sushi a short distance from his

office. He was a regular there and was greeted loudly by Mark, the sushi chef, as he took

his seat. When alone, he always preferred sitting at the counter—like all of his patients,

he was uncomfortable eating by himself at a restaurant table.

Julius ordered his usual: California rolls, broiled eel, and a variety of vegetarian

maki. He loved sushi but carefully avoided raw fish because of his fear of parasites. That

whole battle against outside marauders—now, what a joke it seemed! How ironic that, in

the end, it would be an inside job. To hell with it; Julius threw caution to the wind and

ordered some ahi sushi from the astonished chef. He ate with great relish before rushing

out to Toyon Hall and to his first meeting with Arthur Schopenhauer.