have been afraid of them.
On the other hand, if he or I had been different, or if he had lived longer, perhaps I wouldn’t have become a psychiatrist. As Goldfarb is fond of saying, “If my grandmother had wheels, she’d be a wagon. ” As I stared into the hazy sunlight trying to make some sense of Robert/prot’s life, I suddenly thought of Cassandra, our resident seer. Could she tell me what would happen if prot left or, for that matter, whether he was, in fact, departing on the twentieth?
I didn’t feel much like going in on Saturday, but Dustin’s parents had requested a meeting with me and it was the only time I could manage. I found them waiting in the lounge. We chatted for a few minutes about the weather, the hospital food, the worn spots in the carpet. I had met them before, of course. They seemed a genial couple willing to try to help their son in any way possible, visiting him often and assuring me we had their complete confidence and full support.
They had requested the meeting to discuss Dustin’s progress. I told them frankly that there hadn’t been much as yet, but we were thinking about trying some of the newer experimental drugs. As I talked with these gentle people, I found myself contemplating the possibility that despite their almost obsequious behavior, they might have abused Dustin in some way. A similar case came to mind involving a beloved minister and his wife who had, together, beaten their small boy to death. No one in the congregation seemed to have noticed the bruises and contusions, or they chose to ignore them. Could Dustin’s be a similar case? Was he harboring injuries we hadn’t yet been able to detect, presenting us with cryptic hints to the underlying cause of his problem?
Child molestation takes many forms. It can be sexual, or involve other types of physical or mental abuse. Because of the child’s fear and reluctance to tell anyone else, it is one of the most difficult aberrations to track down. A visit to a doctor will sometimes turn up evidence for such maltreatment (though physicians, too, are sometimes reticent about acting in such instances). But Dustin’s medical records indicated no such problem, and it wasn’t until he was in high school that he suddenly “snapped. ” Why it happened then is a mystery, as is the case, unfortunately, for many of our patients.
SESSION TWENTY-THREE
I was gripped, as usual, by a strong sense of deja vu as Karen and I waited for everyone to show up on a sunny, though relatively cool, Labor Day. It was here, five years ago, that I first became aware of the turmoil roiling deep inside prot’s (Robert’s) mind, and that I caught a glimpse of his ability to influence people’s lives, not only those of the patients but members of my own family as well.
Shasta and Oxeye, the dalmatians, sniffed about the yard, keeping an eye on the front gate as well as the picnic table. They were well aware that visitors were on their way.
Only half the family would be coming to this, the last cookout of the summer. Our oldest son Fred was on location shooting a film musical (he had a part in the chorus), and Jennifer, the internist, was unable to get away from the clinic in San Francisco. In fact, we hadn’t seen either of them for several months. One by one, it appears, your children separate the ties and slip away. At moments like this I begin to feel older and older, less and less relevant, as the drumbeat of time grows ever louder and harder to ignore. Though still (barely) in my fifties, I find myself wondering whether retirement might not be preferable to running down like an old grandfather clock.
Karen keeps asking me when I’m going to put away my yellow pad, and sometimes I think it would be quite wonderful to spend my days wandering leisurely around the wards, chatting with the patients, getting to know them intimately as prot does, a knack that Will, and a few of the nurses, seem to have been born with. A busman’s retirement, to
On the other hand, if he or I had been different, or if he had lived longer, perhaps I wouldn’t have become a psychiatrist. As Goldfarb is fond of saying, “If my grandmother had wheels, she’d be a wagon. ” As I stared into the hazy sunlight trying to make some sense of Robert/prot’s life, I suddenly thought of Cassandra, our resident seer. Could she tell me what would happen if prot left or, for that matter, whether he was, in fact, departing on the twentieth?
I didn’t feel much like going in on Saturday, but Dustin’s parents had requested a meeting with me and it was the only time I could manage. I found them waiting in the lounge. We chatted for a few minutes about the weather, the hospital food, the worn spots in the carpet. I had met them before, of course. They seemed a genial couple willing to try to help their son in any way possible, visiting him often and assuring me we had their complete confidence and full support.
They had requested the meeting to discuss Dustin’s progress. I told them frankly that there hadn’t been much as yet, but we were thinking about trying some of the newer experimental drugs. As I talked with these gentle people, I found myself contemplating the possibility that despite their almost obsequious behavior, they might have abused Dustin in some way. A similar case came to mind involving a beloved minister and his wife who had, together, beaten their small boy to death. No one in the congregation seemed to have noticed the bruises and contusions, or they chose to ignore them. Could Dustin’s be a similar case? Was he harboring injuries we hadn’t yet been able to detect, presenting us with cryptic hints to the underlying cause of his problem?
Child molestation takes many forms. It can be sexual, or involve other types of physical or mental abuse. Because of the child’s fear and reluctance to tell anyone else, it is one of the most difficult aberrations to track down. A visit to a doctor will sometimes turn up evidence for such maltreatment (though physicians, too, are sometimes reticent about acting in such instances). But Dustin’s medical records indicated no such problem, and it wasn’t until he was in high school that he suddenly “snapped. ” Why it happened then is a mystery, as is the case, unfortunately, for many of our patients.
SESSION TWENTY-THREE
I was gripped, as usual, by a strong sense of deja vu as Karen and I waited for everyone to show up on a sunny, though relatively cool, Labor Day. It was here, five years ago, that I first became aware of the turmoil roiling deep inside prot’s (Robert’s) mind, and that I caught a glimpse of his ability to influence people’s lives, not only those of the patients but members of my own family as well.
Shasta and Oxeye, the dalmatians, sniffed about the yard, keeping an eye on the front gate as well as the picnic table. They were well aware that visitors were on their way.
Only half the family would be coming to this, the last cookout of the summer. Our oldest son Fred was on location shooting a film musical (he had a part in the chorus), and Jennifer, the internist, was unable to get away from the clinic in San Francisco. In fact, we hadn’t seen either of them for several months. One by one, it appears, your children separate the ties and slip away. At moments like this I begin to feel older and older, less and less relevant, as the drumbeat of time grows ever louder and harder to ignore. Though still (barely) in my fifties, I find myself wondering whether retirement might not be preferable to running down like an old grandfather clock.
Karen keeps asking me when I’m going to put away my yellow pad, and sometimes I think it would be quite wonderful to spend my days wandering leisurely around the wards, chatting with the patients, getting to know them intimately as prot does, a knack that Will, and a few of the nurses, seem to have been born with. A busman’s retirement, to
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