Creatures of a Day: And Other Tales of Psychotherapy by Irvin D. Yalom

rational. I grant that it doesn’t make sense.”
    “But it does make sense if we assume it is powered by some deep, not entirely conscious fear. I think that being ‘on schedule’ symbolizes, to you, marching in lockstep with everyone else toward death. Fairlawn Oaks can’t help but be connected in your mind with the end of life, and your inability—or, rather, unwillingness —to engage in the program must be a form of unconscious protest.”
    “Pretty far-fetched. Sounds like you’re really stretching. Just because I don’t want to line up, towel in hand, to do water exercises with all the other old ninnies doesn’t mean that I refuse to accept my mortality. I don’t do lines. I’m not about to get into any kind of line.”
    “I’m not getting into any kind of line because? . . .” I asked.
    “I designate lines; I don’t stand in them.”
    “In other words, I don’t get into lines because I’m special.”
    “Damn right. That’s why I told you about my nine careers.”
    “Stretching, expanding, actualizing yourself: all these endeavors seem right. They seem appropriate for a certain time of life. But perhaps they may not fit this time of life.”
    “ You’re still working.”
    “So what questions do you have for me?”
    “Well, why do you work? Are you really in step with your age?”
    “Fair enough. Let me try to answer. We all face aging in our own manner. I know I’m very old. There is no denying that eighty is old. I’m working less—I see far fewer patients now, only about three a day, but I’m still writing much of the rest of the day. I’ll tell you the truth: I love what I’m doing. I feel blessed to be of help to others, especially others who are facing the issues I’m dealing with—aging, retirement, dealing with the death of a spouse or friends, contemplating my own death.”
    For the first time Rick did not respond but silently looked at the floor.
    “Your feelings about my answer,” I asked in a softer voice.
    “I got to hand it to you. You go right into the tough stuff. Death of friends, your own death.”
    “And your thoughts of death. Is it much on your mind?”
    Rick shook his head. “I don’t think about it. Why would I? Wouldn’t do any good.”
    “Sometimes thoughts enter the mind involuntarily in daydreams, for example, or night dreams.”
    “Dreams? I don’t dream much . . . none for weeks . . . but strangely I had two doozies last night.”
    “Tell me all you remember.” I picked up my notepad. Two dreams just before our session. I had a hunch these were going to be illuminating.
    “In the first one I was at a school playground with a big chain-link fence around the field—”
    “Rick, let me interrupt. Would you mind describing the dream in the present tense—as though you’re just now seeing it.”
    “Okay. Here goes. I’m in a school playground—maybe my junior high school field—and there’s a baseball game getting organized. I look around and see that everyone there is much younger. They’re all kids—adolescents—in uniform. I want to play—I really do—but I feel strange because I’m too big. Then I see the teacher. . . . He looks familiar, but I can’t place him. I start to approach him to ask what to do, and just then I notice another area of the playground where several older people—my age—are organizing another game—maybe golf, maybe croquet—not sure which. I start to join them, but I can’t get past the fence surrounding the ball field.”
    “Hunches about this dream, Rick? Tell me anything that comes to mind.”
    “Well, baseball. I used to love playing when I was young. My favorite sport. I was good at it. Shortstop with a helluva peg. Could have played college ball, maybe even pro, but I had to go to work. My parents had no money.”
    “Keep going. Say more about the dream.”
    “Well, kids were playing, and I wanted to play. But I’m not a kid anymore.”
    “Feelings about that? Or other feelings