The Schopenhauer Cure (28 page)

Stuart said, "I wasn't thinking that. You know where I went as you spoke? I flashed on a movie I rented a few nights ago-- The Green Mile. There was an unforgettable scene of a condemned prisoner eating his last meal. Sounds to me that in Las Vegas you treated yourself to one last piece of freedom before marriage."

Julius nodded and said, "I agree. Sounds much like something you and I talked about a long time ago, Rebecca." To the group Julius explained, "Several years ago Rebecca and I worked together for about a year when she was wrestling with the decision of getting married." Turning back to Rebecca, he said, "I remember we spent weeks talking about your fears of giving up your freedom, your sense of your possibilities closing. Like Stuart, I think that those were the concerns that got played out in Las Vegas."

"One thing sticks out in my mind from those hours together, Julius. I remember your telling me about a novel where someone seeks a wise man who tells him that alternatives exclude, that for every yes there has to be a no."

"Hey, I know that book--John Gardner's Grendel ," interrupted Pam. "It was Grendel, the demon, who sought out the wise man."

"Endless interconnections here," said Julius. "Pam first introduced me to that novel when I was seeing her for a few months about the same time. So, Rebecca, if that comment was helpful, you owe thanks to Pam."

Rebecca, flashed Pam a big thank-you smile. "You were giving me indirect therapy. I pasted a note with that phrase on my mirror: Alternatives exclude. It explained my block in saying yes to Jack even though I believed he was the right man." Then, to Julius: "I remember your saying that to grow old gracefully I had to accept the limiting of possibilities."

"Long before Gardner," Philip interjected, "Heidegger," he turned to Tony, "an important German philosopher in the first half of last century..."

"An important Nazi, too," Pam interjected.

Philip ignored Pam's comment. "Heidegger spoke of confronting the limiting of possibility. In fact he linked it to the fear of death. Death, he suggested, was the impossibility of further possibility. "

"Death as the impossibility of further possibility," Julius repeated, "a powerful thought. Maybe I'll paste that on my mirror. Thanks, Philip. There're so many things to look at here, including your feelings, Pam, but first, one more comment to you, Rebecca. This episode in Las Vegas must have happened while you and I were meeting, and you never mentioned it to me. That tells me how much shame you must have felt."

Rebecca nodded. "Yep, I decided to deep-six the whole episode." After pausing and considering whether to say anything else, she added, "There's more, Julius. I was ashamed, but even more...this feels risky...I felt even more shame when I fantasized about it afterward: it was a fantastic high--not a sexual high, no that's not right, not just a sexual high, but the excitement of being outside the law, of being primitive. And you know," Rebecca turned toward Tony, "that's always been part of my attraction to you, Tony--your jail time, your bar fights, your flaunting of the rules. But just now you went over the top; that stunt of pulling out your money was offensive."

Before Tony could reply, Stuart jumped in. "You've got a lot of guts, Rebecca. I admire you. And you've liberated me to reveal something I've never talked about--not with Julius or my previous shrink, not with anyone." He hesitated, looked in the eyes of each member. "Just checking out the safety factor here. This is high-risk stuff. I feel safe with everyone here with the exception of you, Philip, because I don't know you well yet. I'm sure Julius has talked to you about group confidentiality?"

Silence.

"Philip, your silence jams me up. I'm asking you something," said Stuart, who turned and faced Philip more directly. "What's going on? Why don't you answer?"

Philip looked up. "I didn't know an answer was required."

"I said I was sure that Julius told you about confidentiality, and then I raised my voice at the end of the sentence. That connotes a question--right? And also, didn't the context about trust signify that I needed an answer from you?"

"I understand," said Philip. "Yes, Julius told me about confidentiality, and, yes, I made a commitment to honor all the group basic ground rules, including confidentiality."

"Good," said Stuart. "You know, Philip, I'm beginning to change my mind--I used to think of you as arrogant, but now I'm beginning to think that you're just not house-broken or people-broken. And that does not require an answer--it's optional."

"Hey, Stuart--good!" said Tony, smirking. "You're showing up, man. I like it."

Stuart nodded. "I didn't mean that negatively, Philip, but I've got a story to tell and I need to make sure it's entirely safe here. So," he took a deep breath, "let's go. About thirteen or fourteen years ago--it was when I was just finishing my residency and was about to enter practice--I went to a pediatrics convention in Jamaica. The purpose of such conventions is to keep up with the latest in medical research, but you know many physicians go for other reasons: to look for a practice opportunity or an academic job...or just to have a good time and get laid. I struck out on all counts, and then, to make things worse, my plane back to Miami was late and I missed my connection to California. I had to spend the night in the airport hotel and was in a miserable mood."

There was rapt attention from the group members--this was a new side of Stuart.

"I checked into the hotel around eleven-thirty at night, took the elevator up to the seventh floor--funny how clear the details are--and was walking down a long silent corridor to my room when suddenly a door opened and a distraught, disheveled woman in a nightgown stepped out into the hallway--attractive, great body, about ten or fifteen years older than me. She grabbed my arm--her breath reeked of alcohol--and asked whether I had just seen anyone in the hall.

"'No one, why?' I answered. Then she told me a long, rambling story about a delivery man who had just swindled her out of six thousand dollars. I suggested she call the front desk or the police, but she seemed strangely uninterested in taking any action. Then she motioned me to come into her room. We talked, and I tried to calm her about her belief--obviously a delusion--that she had been robbed. One thing led to another, and we soon ended up in bed. I asked several times whether she wanted me there, whether she wanted me to make love to her.

She did, and we did, and an hour or two later while she was sleeping I went to my room, got a few hours' sleep, and caught an early morning flight. Just before I got on the plane I made an anonymous phone call to the hotel telling them that they had a guest in room seven-twelve who might need medical attention."

After a few moments of silence, Stuart added, "That's it."

"That's it? " asked Tony. "A well-soused, good-looking broad invites you into her hotel room, and you give her what she's asking for? Man, no way I'd pass that up."

"No, that's not it !" said Stuart. "It is that I was a physician and someone sick, someone probably with incipient or full-blown alcoholic hallucinosis, crossed my path, and I end up screwing her. That's a violation of the Hippocratic oath, a grievous offense, and I've never forgiven myself for it. I can't let go of that evening--it's seared into my mind."

"You're too hard on yourself, Stuart," said Bonnie. "This woman's lonely, in her cups, steps out in the hallway, sees an attractive younger man, and invites him into her bed. She got just what she wanted, maybe what she needed. Probably you did her a world of good. She probably considers that a lucky night."

Others--Gill, Rebecca, Pam--were poised to speak, but Stuart preempted them: "I appreciate what you guys are saying--I can't tell you how many times I've said similar things to myself--but I'm really, truly, not asking for reassurance. What I wanted to do is just tell you about it, take this sordid act out of so many years of darkness and into the light--that's enough."

Bonnie responded, "That's good. It's good you told us, Stuart, but this ties in with something we've talked about before: your reluctance to accept help from us. You're terrific about giving help, not so good at letting us help you."

"Maybe just doctor reflexes," replied Stuart. "I had no med school courses on being a patient."

"Don't you ever get to go off duty?" asked Tony. "I think you were off duty that night in the Miami hotel. Midnight with a tipsy, horny broad--go for it, man, get laid, enjoy yourself."

Stuart shook his head. "A while ago I listened to a tape of the Dalai Lama speaking to Buddhist teachers. One of them asked him about burnout and whether they shouldn't have some regularly scheduled off-duty time. The Dalai Lama's reply was priceless: Off duty? The Buddha says, 'Sorry, I'm off duty!' Jesus is approached by a sufferer and replies, 'Sorry, I'm off duty today!' The Dalai Lama giggles all the time, but he found this particular idea absolutely hilarious and couldn't stop laughing."

"I'm not buying it," said Tony. "I think you're using your M.D. to avoid life."

"What I did in that hotel was wrong. No one will ever convince me otherwise."

Julius said, "Fourteen years ago and you can't let it go. What about the repercussions of this incident?"

"You mean besides self-excoriation and disgust?" said Stuart.

Julius nodded.

"I can tell you that I've been a damn good doctor, that I've never, not for an instant, ever again violated the ethics of my profession."

"Stuart, I decree that you've paid your debt," said Julius. "Case closed."

"Amen," echoed several others.

Stuart smiled and crossed himself. "This takes me back to Sunday Mass during my childhood. I feel like I've just come out of the confession booth absolved."

"Let me tell you a story," said Julius. "Years ago in Shanghai I visited a deserted cathedral. I'm an atheist, but I like visiting religious places--go figure.

Well, I walked around and then sat down in the confession booth, on the priest's side, and found myself envying the father confessor. What power he had! I tried to mouth the words, 'You are forgiven, my son, my daughter.' I imagined the supreme confidence he enjoyed because he believed himself a vessel carrying the cargo of forgiveness straight from the man upstairs. And how puny my own techniques seemed in comparison. But later, after leaving the church, I came out of it by reassuring myself that at least I was living according to principles of reason and not infantilizing my patients by representing mythology as reality."

After a short silence, Pam said to Julius, "You know what, Julius?

Something's changed. You're different from the way you were before I left.

Telling stories about your life, stating opinions on religious belief, whereas you always avoided such things in the past. I gather it's the effect of your illness, but, nonetheless, I like it. I really like your being more personal."

Julius nodded. "Thanks. That silence gave me a sinking feeling that I had offended some religious sensibilities here."

"Not mine, Julius, if you're worried about me," said Stuart. "Those polls that say that ninety percent of Americans believe in God leave me bewildered. I left the church in my teens, and if I hadn't then, I would leave now after what's come out about priests and pedophilia."

"Nor mine," said Philip. "You and Schopenhauer have something in common regarding religion. He believed the church leaders exploited man's ineradicable need for the metaphysical and that they infantilized the public and dwelled themselves in a state of perpetual deception by refusing to confess they had deliberately cloaked their truths in allegory."

Philip's comment interested Julius, but, noticing that only a few minutes remained, he steered the group back to process. "A lot happened today. A lot of risks were taken. Feelings? Some of you have been very quiet--Pam? Philip?"

"It hasn't escaped me," Philip said quickly, "that what has been revealed here today, what has caused so much needless torment, for me, for others, flows from the supreme and universal power of sex, which my other therapist, Schopenhauer, taught me is absolutely inbuilt, or, as we would say today, hardwired into us.

"I know many of Schopenhauer's words about this since I've often cited them in lectures. Let me quote a few: '[Sex is] the strongest and most active of all motives.... It is the ultimate goal of almost all human effort. It...interrupts every hour the most serious occupations, and sometimes perplexes...the greatest human minds.' 'Sex does not hesitate to intrude with its trash, and to interfere with...the investigations of the learned--'"

"Philip, this is important stuff, but, before we stop today, try to speak about your feelings rather than Schopenhauer's," interrupted Julius.

"I'll try, but let me continue--just one more last sentence: 'Every day it destroys the most valuable relationships. Indeed it robs of all conscience those who were previously honorable and upright.'" Philip stopped. "That's what I wanted to say; I'm finished."

"Haven't heard feelings, Philip," said Tony, grinning at the opportunity to confront Philip.

Philip nodded. "Just dismay about how we poor mortals, we fellow sufferers, are such victims of biology that we fill our lives with guilt about natural acts as Stuart and Rebecca have done. And that we all have the goal of extricating ourselves from the thralldom of sex."

After a few moments of the customary silence following one of Philip's pronouncements, Stuart turned to Pam: "I'd sure like to hear from you today.