visit with the doctor when you suspect you have cancer. “You’ve been in great turmoil—so frightened that you’ve put this visit off time and again. The doctor confirms that you do have cancer, and all your turmoil about not knowing is ended—but what are you left with?”
As I tried to sort out my feelings, I realized that one of my first responses clamoring for attention was, “How can you do this to me?” Though, no doubt, my outrage derived in part from my own frustration, I was also certain I was responding to Thelma’s feeling toward me. I was the person responsible for all three losses. The three-way meeting had been my idea and I had been the one who stripped her of her illusions, I was the disillusioner. It occurred to me that I was performing a thankless task. Even the word disillusion, with its negative, nihilistic connotation, should have warned me. I thought of O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh and the fate of Hickey, the disillusioner. Those whom he tries to restore to reality ultimately turn against him and re-enter the life of illusion.
I remembered my discovery a few weeks before that Thelma knew how to punish and didn’t need my help. I think her suicide try was a murder attempt, and I now believed that her decision to stop therapy was also a form of double homicide. She considered termination to be an attack upon me—and she was right! She had perceived how critically important it was to me to succeed, to satisfy my intellectual curiosity, to follow everything through until the very end.
Her revenge upon me was to frustrate each of these aims. No matter that the cataclysm she meant for me would engulf her as well: in fact, her sadomasochistic trends were so pronounced that she was attracted by the idea of dual immolation. I noted wryly that my resorting to professional diagnostic jargon meant I must really be angry with her.
I tried to explore these ideas with Thelma. “I hear your anger toward Matthew, but I’m also wondering if you’re not upset with me, too. It would make a lot of sense if you were angry—very angry, indeed—with me. After all, in some ways you must feel that I got you into the fix you are in now. It was my idea to invite Matthew, my idea to ask him the questions you did.” I thought I saw her nod her head.
“If that’s so, Thelma, what better place to work on it than right here and now in therapy?”
Thelma nodded her head more vigorously. “My head tells me that you’re right. But sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. I promised myself not to be a patient any more, and I’m going to keep that promise.”
I gave up. I was facing a stone wall. Our hour was long over, and I had yet to see Harry, to whom I had promised ten minutes. Before parting, I extracted some commitments from Thelma: she agreed to think more about her decision and to meet with me again in three weeks, and she promised to honor her commitment to the research project by meeting, six months hence, with the research psychologist and completing the battery of questionnaires. I ended the session thinking that, though she might fulfill her research commitment, there was little chance she would resume therapy.
Her pyrrhic victory safely in her grasp, she could afford a little generosity and, as she was leaving my office, she thanked me for my efforts and said that if she ever went back into therapy, I would be her first choice as a therapist.
I escorted Thelma to the waiting room and Harry to my office. He was brisk and direct: “I know what it is to run a tight ship, Doc—I did it in the army for thirty years—and I see that you’re running late. That means you’ll be running late all day, doesn’t it?”
I nodded but assured him that I had time to meet with him.
“Well, I can keep it very brief. I’m not like Thelma. I never beat around the bush. I’ll come right to the point. Give me back my wife, Doctor, the old Thelma—just the way she used to be.”
Harry’s
As I tried to sort out my feelings, I realized that one of my first responses clamoring for attention was, “How can you do this to me?” Though, no doubt, my outrage derived in part from my own frustration, I was also certain I was responding to Thelma’s feeling toward me. I was the person responsible for all three losses. The three-way meeting had been my idea and I had been the one who stripped her of her illusions, I was the disillusioner. It occurred to me that I was performing a thankless task. Even the word disillusion, with its negative, nihilistic connotation, should have warned me. I thought of O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh and the fate of Hickey, the disillusioner. Those whom he tries to restore to reality ultimately turn against him and re-enter the life of illusion.
I remembered my discovery a few weeks before that Thelma knew how to punish and didn’t need my help. I think her suicide try was a murder attempt, and I now believed that her decision to stop therapy was also a form of double homicide. She considered termination to be an attack upon me—and she was right! She had perceived how critically important it was to me to succeed, to satisfy my intellectual curiosity, to follow everything through until the very end.
Her revenge upon me was to frustrate each of these aims. No matter that the cataclysm she meant for me would engulf her as well: in fact, her sadomasochistic trends were so pronounced that she was attracted by the idea of dual immolation. I noted wryly that my resorting to professional diagnostic jargon meant I must really be angry with her.
I tried to explore these ideas with Thelma. “I hear your anger toward Matthew, but I’m also wondering if you’re not upset with me, too. It would make a lot of sense if you were angry—very angry, indeed—with me. After all, in some ways you must feel that I got you into the fix you are in now. It was my idea to invite Matthew, my idea to ask him the questions you did.” I thought I saw her nod her head.
“If that’s so, Thelma, what better place to work on it than right here and now in therapy?”
Thelma nodded her head more vigorously. “My head tells me that you’re right. But sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. I promised myself not to be a patient any more, and I’m going to keep that promise.”
I gave up. I was facing a stone wall. Our hour was long over, and I had yet to see Harry, to whom I had promised ten minutes. Before parting, I extracted some commitments from Thelma: she agreed to think more about her decision and to meet with me again in three weeks, and she promised to honor her commitment to the research project by meeting, six months hence, with the research psychologist and completing the battery of questionnaires. I ended the session thinking that, though she might fulfill her research commitment, there was little chance she would resume therapy.
Her pyrrhic victory safely in her grasp, she could afford a little generosity and, as she was leaving my office, she thanked me for my efforts and said that if she ever went back into therapy, I would be her first choice as a therapist.
I escorted Thelma to the waiting room and Harry to my office. He was brisk and direct: “I know what it is to run a tight ship, Doc—I did it in the army for thirty years—and I see that you’re running late. That means you’ll be running late all day, doesn’t it?”
I nodded but assured him that I had time to meet with him.
“Well, I can keep it very brief. I’m not like Thelma. I never beat around the bush. I’ll come right to the point. Give me back my wife, Doctor, the old Thelma—just the way she used to be.”
Harry’s
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