The Naked Lady Who Stood on Her Head (21 page)

I wondered about Bruce’s early-childhood traumas and what experiences might be contributing to his current nightmares and apparent fear of commitment. After all, he was forty-eight and had never married, although he told me he had been close to getting engaged several times. I knew that to help Bruce, I needed to explore his early memories and discover how they might be connected to his dreams.

The following week, I had my geriatric-psychiatry training-committee meeting at lunch just before Bruce’s scheduled appointment. I was in charge of recruiting and training the young psychiatrists who wanted additional experience in geriatrics. There were always challenges in finding good candidates for these much needed positions, in part because of ageism—many doctors avoid treating older patients because they’re often complicated, time-consuming, and more likely to die during treatment than younger patients. The faculty had some good ideas on how to attract candidates that year, and I was happy to have time to eat a decent lunch without ruining my tie before Bruce showed up.

I returned to my office and found Bruce sitting in the waiting area. The fact that he was early could have been a sign of his eagerness to get back into his dream work. I figured he had the afternoon off because he was dressed in country-club casual, including sweater carefully draped
around the shoulders. I opened the office door, and he went for the couch while I took my chair.

“So, how did your week go, Bruce?”

“I only took the medicine a couple of nights, when I thought I might really need it. It worked great—no hangover, nothing.”

“That’s good,” I said. “What about the other nights?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small spiral notebook. “I made some notes on my dreams.”

From what I could see, the pad looked completely filled with illegible surgeon scribbles.

Bruce continued, “You were right. When I jotted down my thoughts as soon as I woke up, I remembered more details. And the dreams don’t all end exactly the same.”

“Let’s start with last night’s dream. What do you remember?”

“It was a bit strange. I was in the operating room, but instead of being the lead surgeon, I was assisting my father, who’s not even a doctor.”

“What does, or did, your father do?” I asked.

“He’s an investment banker who just retired a couple of years ago. So it was weird that he was in the O.R. with me.”

“Anything else strange about the dream?”

“Yes. I was handing Dad a sponge, and he slapped my hand really hard.”

“How did you react?”

“I got furious. I was only doing what I was supposed to do, and he attacked me out of nowhere. And I never meant to get him angry.”

“What happened next?”

“He threw me out of the O.R., and my nose started growing.”

“What were you feeling just as your nose began growing?” I asked.

“I felt like a kid again—as if I had never been to med school and had lied my way into the O.R. My nose kept growing, and I began turning into a donkey. Then I woke up.” Bruce seemed upset as he put away his notebook.

“Have you dreamt about your father before?”

“Probably, but I don’t remember anything specific.”

“Does this dream remind you of any early experiences with your father?” I asked.

Bruce took a deep breath and settled back on the couch. After a moment he replied. “Dad only hit me once in my life. The rest of the time he really didn’t pay much attention to me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“His clients loved him—he was charming and attentive, but when he got home, he’d have a couple of drinks at dinner, then just watch TV and fall asleep.”

“So when did he hit you?” I asked.

“I must have been in kindergarten. He was supposed to pick me up from school, but it was pouring rain and he didn’t show up.” Bruce looked tense and rubbed the back of his neck. “My friend’s mother offered me a ride—she said it was silly for me to stand outside in the rain. So I got in her car and she took me home.”

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“He came home about a half hour later, furious. He had been driving around in the rain, frantic that someone had kidnapped me.” Bruce paused, somewhat choked up, then regained his composure. “I can remember him standing over me, yelling that I was an idiot. He grabbed me and threw me over his knee, pulled off his belt, and whipped the crap out of me.”

“That must have been terrifying.” Bruce didn’t seem to hear me—his mind was elsewhere. “Bruce, are you okay?” I asked.

“I just remembered something else. I don’t think I’ve ever recalled this before…”

“Go on,” I said encouraging him.

“That night, our family went to the temple for some event. My parents dropped my sister and me off at the rec room, where all the kids gathered to watch a movie.”

“Where did your parents go?”

“I think they went to a lecture in the chapel.”

“So what happened after your parents dropped you off?” I asked. He looked upset. “Take your time, Bruce.”

“I can remember sitting there with my sister, kind of nervous—I’d
never been to the movies before. I remember the folding chairs they had set up were uncomfortable and my butt was still sore from the beating. And the movie really scared me.”

“Do you recall what movie it was?” I asked.

“
Pinocchio
!” he blurted out.

LATER THAT EVENING AFTER THE KIDS WENT
to bed, Gigi and I were hanging out in the den. The TV news was on low, and Gigi was working on her laptop. I was ruminating about the difficulty I was having recruiting geriatric trainees. Gigi was giving me an occasional “uh-huh” or “mm-hmm.” I found myself getting annoyed because she wasn’t paying full attention to me. I immediately thought of Bruce’s father, whose clients adored him because he always gave them his full attention, but at night he tuned out and paid little or no attention to his family.

Clearly, it’s impossible to pay full attention all the time. Gigi loved me and was interested in my life, but at that moment she was focused on something else. If I had asked her to put her computer down and listen, I’m sure she would have. I tried to imagine how it would feel to live with someone who didn’t care about me or was unable to focus on my emotional life.

For some people, it’s a personality disorder such as narcissism that makes it difficult for them to experience empathy. They get so wrapped up in their own needs that they never learn to respond to the needs of those around them. For others, it can be a psychotic illness, depression, or a variety of other personal problems that keep them from getting close to other people.

After Bruce’s realization about the traumatic events surrounding his seeing the movie
Pinocchio,
his nightmares began to subside. As I continued to work with him, I learned that his father was not only a narcissistic personality but also an alcoholic, although a high-functioning one. He didn’t drink during the day, but at night the booze helped him escape from his personal demons and kept him from having to connect with his family. Although Bruce’s father only hit him that one time, he had unpredictable rages that perpetuated Bruce’s fears. In Bruce’s mind, his father
was a powerful, judgmental, and emotionally distant figure. Bruce craved the love and caring that his father seemed to give to his clients, and felt that he was a disappointment as a son, not the real boy that his father probably wanted. The fact that Bruce saw the Disney movie right after his father beat him unconsciously linked Pinocchio to this traumatic event. And the theme of the movie seemed to capture many of Bruce’s personal struggles that haunted him in his dreams—Pinocchio too wished to be a “real boy” that his father would pay attention to.

I suspected that these unresolved issues had kept Bruce from getting too close to other people and making a commitment, until now, at age forty-eight. Perhaps it was no coincidence that his fiancée had an obsession with everything Disney. Often in life we seek out what we fear the most as a way to overcome that fear and resolve our underlying conflicts.

I turned to Gigi and said, “Honey, if you can take a break, I’d like to talk to you. I need your advice.”

She smiled. “Sure,” she said, and put her computer aside.

THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY I GOT INTO THE
office early to proofread a research paper before my session with Bruce. I got so caught up in the task that I lost track of time and suddenly my assistant buzzed me—Bruce was there.

I opened the door and saw Bruce standing with a pretty woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a pink, lightweight Chanel suit and low heels. Bruce said, “This is my fiancée, Christina.”

“I’m delighted to meet you, Dr. Small,” she said, smiling.

“Nice to meet you too,” I said.

“Sweetie, meet me back here in about fifty minutes, okay? Then we’ll go shopping,” Bruce said.

“Oh, can’t I come in and just chitchat for a few minutes? I’ve never been in a psychiatrist’s office.” Before Bruce or I could say anything, she glided into the room and sat on the couch. Bruce, apprehensive, joined her. Christina’s cheerfulness was infectious, and I wasn’t sure if she was hypomanic or just had an incredibly upbeat personality. She certainly bright
ened a room. “Bruce tells me that you’re an excellent doctor,” she chirped.

“Thank you. I understand you do charity work, Christina.”

She described how she had become involved in her family’s foundation after graduating college back East and was now chairing its board. The foundation gave away about five million dollars a year to nonprofits in music and the arts. Bruce listened, his admiration apparent.

“Is there anything you wanted to talk about in particular?” I asked Christina.

“First, I wanted to tell you how thrilled I am that Bruce is in therapy,” she said. “It’s wonderful—he’s sleeping better, and he’s been in such a good mood.”

“It’s true,” Bruce injected. “It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep can do for you.”

“So, how are the wedding plans going?” I asked.

Christina brightened. “We’re so excited! It’s going to be a fairy-tale wedding. Has Bruce filled you in on the details?”

Bruce leaned forward and clasped his hands, “Of course I’ve told Gary about the Disneyland thing.”

She politely turned to him. “What do you mean by ‘Disneyland
thing’
?”

“You know, the Snow White thing, the Sleeping Beauty Castle, all of it,” Bruce said.

Christina looked hurt. “You said you were fine with it.”

“I am, sort of, but there’re so many other options we haven’t even considered,” he said.

“So you’re not pleased with how I’m planning this wedding, Bruce?”

He hesitated, then said with trepidation. “I just think my parents were hoping for something a little more traditional…maybe more Jewish?”

She was surprised. “You never mentioned a word of this before.”

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” he said. “I know how important this wedding is to you.”

“And it’s not important to you?” she snapped.

He took her hand. “Of course it is. I love you.”

I spoke up. “It’s clear that the wedding is important to both of you, but it’s also important to be able to discuss your feelings about the details.”

“Dr. Small, since I was a little girl, I’ve always wished for a perfect Snow White wedding.”

“Why do you think that is?” I asked.

“I guess because it was so special to go to Disneyland with my father. I can remember him walking me through the Sleeping Beauty Castle and holding my hand. It was magical. I know he would want this for me.”

“Did your father pass away?” I asked.

Christina looked away sadly. “When I was ten he got pancreatic cancer and was gone in three months.” Bruce leaned over and wrapped her in his arms to comfort her.

“That’s a young age to lose your father,” I said.

She pulled herself together. “Yes, it was hard, but Mom remarried, and he’s a wonderful man. And I’ve got my Bruce.” She smiled at Bruce and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

I wondered if Christina had become emotionally stuck at age ten when her father took her to Disneyland for the last time. Her attempt to create the perfect fairy-tale wedding could be an expression of an unfulfilled wish to reexperience the closeness she felt with her father. It also could partly explain why she was marrying a man nearly fifteen years her senior.

“I can see why getting married at Disneyland might be important to you,” I said.

“It was just a dream of mine; my life doesn’t depend on it. I’m more concerned that Bruce never told me he was unhappy about the idea.”

I looked at Bruce. “What about sharing some of your dreams with Christina?”

“Yeah. How about it?” she asked him, growing annoyed.

Bruce stood and looked out the window. “Sweetie, one of the things I’ve been discussing with Gary is a recurring nightmare I keep having.”

She softened as soon as she sensed him starting to open up. “Really, sweetheart? Tell me about it.”

“They’re kind of crazy and embarrassing,” Bruce said.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed with me. I love you.”

“I know…Well, at the end of every dream, no matter how it starts,
I become Pinocchio and I’m turning into a donkey. Then I wake up and can’t get back to sleep.”

“Wow,” Christina said. “I had no idea…I’m so sorry, darling. No wonder you hate my den.” They both laughed.

Bruce went on, “The whole thing is complicated and has to do with my father.”

“What happened with your father?” she asked.

“It’s sort of a long story, but the one day that he hit me when I was a kid happened to be the day I saw the movie
Pinocchio.
The movie scared the hell out of me. But now thanks to therapy I can see that somehow in my mind, there’s a weird connection between these events.”

“Bruce, getting married at Disneyland has been a dream of mine since I was little, but you know what?” she paused and sat forward, “I’m grown-up now, and you mean much more to me than some Fantasyland Castle or Snow White dress. All you had to do was tell me how you really felt.” Bruce moved next to her on the couch and they hugged.