“I was in a record shop one day, sophomore year of high school. I heard this sound, almost like a video game score, then the piano and drums. It was Baba O’Riley. I only had enough money to buy one cd and Quad had a cool cover. One of the best decisions I ever made.”
“It is a neat little cover, isn’t it.” She admires it, no doubt reliving her own memories of a time when music was all that mattered.
In keeping with tradition, she prepares the coffee with little technology. A single pot of boiling water on the stove followed by two scoops of instant coffee in a small mug. She’s in her element as she glides gracefully from one part of the kitchen to the next, never neglecting any task long enough for it to become a fire hazard. She places bagels on the table, and I assume if I want butter, there’s a shed out back where I churn it myself.
“What made you become a therapist,” I ask, jumpstarting the conversation again.
“Part accident, part yearning to help others,” she says before plopping into her seat.
“If I have to elaborate, then you should too—unless your love for the ‘70s extends to gender equality as well.”
“You’ve got a sense of humor and it’s appreciated,” she says with a chuckle. “Well, I grew up in a broken home, and I used the thought of living in poverty as fuel to go far academically. Between bad relationships in college and having to confront my past, I found my passion working to help others that are stuck in a rut.”
“Does it ever get overwhelming?”
“Not at all,” she says, placing her coffee cup on the table. “I feel if you choose a profession, you have to accept everything that comes with it. It’s frustrating that clients sometime leave, and I never know what happened to them, or if I really helped them.”
“What do you mean? Nobody ever comes back to update you?”
She sips her coffee for a moment. “Typically, no, but it’s complicated. For example, if you leave here and I call you next week, that could plant a seed of doubt in your mind about how you’re doing. Which could foster dependency, running counter to everything we’ve done; and I think we’d both be alright with not doing this all over again. So I usually don’t call, because at some point, my work has to speak for itself.”
“So this is it for us?” I ask, my fear slowly morphing into anger.
“Miles—”
“You’re just gonna leave like everyone else, after everything you know about me—”
“I’m not going anywhere, like I said, it’s complicated.” She knew this moment was coming, I surely wasn’t the first client to panic at the idea of leaving the nest. For all the jokes I made about the house, there was something comforting about it that I would miss. “My phone is always on, Miles, but I would be doing you a disservice as my client to keep bringing you back to rehash the same memories that brought you here in the first place. At some point, you have to stop being a spectator and get in the game.”
In my heart, I knew she was right. Life was always going to move on, whether Dr. Felt was in my life or not. I came into therapy thinking it would make my problems go away, like they never existed. But it doesn’t work that way. You come into therapy enslaved to toxic behavior and coping methods. Therapy is about acknowledging them and building up a resistance, because the world will test you, and those toxic methods—so familiar—will welcome you with shelter. The rest of my life will be a daily challenge to accept that my family is gone, whether I accept that challenge and use the tools Dr. Felt has provided, is on me.
After I woke up in the hospital, I figured I would up the dosage and complete the job. I was right about completing the job, it just wasn’t the one I set out to finish. One thing for sure is the feeling of resilience inside me. Maybe there was a future. The feeling will pass, but as of right now, I’ll fight on. I owe Dr. Felt that much at least.
“You had a therapist?” I ask.
“I did. Sometimes you need someone with no connection to your life to help you get your shit straight. Friends are cool, but at some point, they think it’s about them, or just give shit advice.”
She had a point. I’ve experienced said shit advice. It’s easy for people to give you advice when they’re not invested. Like a sports fan calling their local radio station after a bad game trashing the coaches. They’re on the outside looking in, where it’s easy to say run the ball, but it’s not their livelihood on the line. While grieving, friends of mine—perhaps unknowingly—treated me like a karmic tollbooth. Stopping out of obligation to drop kind words, before briskly moving back into their own world, while patting themselves on the back.
“So, what are you gonna do?” Dr. Felt asks as she takes a bite of a bagel.
The question hung there awkwardly, like a fart on a first date in a movie theater. In all honesty, I hadn’t thought about it. I spent so long ignoring everything that no thought was given to the future.
“I don’t know,” I say, honestly.
A long silence envelopes us. I sit, eating my bagel and drinking coffee, unsure of what was about to happen.
“What you need,” she says finally, “is a break. You can’t squander your second chance in front of the television.”
“Second chances are for convicts and deadbeat parents with a terminal illness.”
She laughs a beautiful and hearty laugh, full of life. After a few seconds I’m laughing along with her.
“What if I don’t want to take a break?”
She gives me a smile to convey that she anticipated that question. “If I sent you back home only to return in two weeks, you’d sit with the same painful memories, which in turn would undo all of our progress, and end up with us back at square one.”
This is a valid observation. While I’m feeling good now, there’s four seasons of Breaking Bad sitting on the coffee table at home, itching to pull me back into the abyss. “So where do you want me to go?”
“You talked about the regret you have about not being a better spouse and father. It makes me wonder what other regrets you have?”
I lean back and ponder the question. Do I have any regrets? Sure, there were girls I had never slept with and job opportunities I had talked myself out of, but for the most part, nothing life changing enough to spend my “second chance” trying to rectify. The only thought that comes to mind is my stepsister Lily. After she came out of the closet and was disowned by our family, we lost touch. Last I heard, she was at grad school in NewYork.
“I have a sister … Lily.”
Her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree, happy that I’d picked up what she’d hinted at in her notes. “Go on,” she tells me.
“When she told our family she was gay, they flipped out on her and our relationship got lost in the shuffle.”
“It’s not a deck of cards Miles, this is one person who clearly means something to you. I think you owe it to each other to reconcile that relationship.”
“I thought this hundred bucks covered my emotions, I wasn’t aware you offered pricing in bulk.”
She can sense the apprehension and goes in for the kill. “What’s stopping you?” she asks. “You’ve got the resources, and more importantly, the time to make things right.”