he’s regressed to the point of pursuing Ms. Pascoe surreptitiously. 1 The possibility must be explored that he is projecting onto Grundison his own regrettable behaviour with regard to Sally. He has had odd and frightening dreams relating to her imminent departure for Munich.
Aside from several minutes of tape, these clinical notes are transcribed from memory, though I jotted a few reminders while we sat on a park bench. I wasn’t functioning in top form, for reasons the excerpt below will make clear.
I’m sorry, Allis, about yesterday, barging in.
That’s fine. If you like, we can take a little extra time today, I had a hole open up. That’s a terrible way to put it. My next appointment had to be cancelled …
You aren’t looking well. What happened? Did you lose a patient?
I’m afraid so.
Oh, my God, I’m sorry. Suicide?
His faculties of observation are so well tuned that he seemed able to read this from my distracted manner and slumped posture
.
Carbon monoxide, he locked himself in his car. He couldn’t live with awakened memories. Parental sexual abuse.
That’s terrible.
He was coming along, his energy level had improved, he was no longer talking about the worthlessness of life. Though that should have put me on alert, that’s when one suddenly has the energy to implement a suicide plan.
Whatever you do, don’t take on the responsibility.
I know I shouldn’t. It’s hard to put that aside, though.
Look, maybe you need to take the rest of the day off. I’ll come back next week.
No. I can use some company.
It feels ominous that I’m filling the space of a dead man. Let’s not waste a summer day – how about a walk in Stanley Park?
As we strolled from your Denman Street office to the mowed margins of Vancouver’s great park, we traded roles; I listened and counselled. I hope I was of some help to you in this, a therapist’s worst horror: the catharsis with morbid consequences. Just remember: Things happen. Don’t listen to the whispered seductions of Self-reproach and her evil sister, Guilt. Confront them, unmask them, send them fleeing.
But yes, be sad, don’t be afraid of that. It’s to your credit that you cared so much for this religious, trustful, and troubled young man – too young to have been toughened in the trenches of life. One can’t be a therapist without empathy. One can’t be empathic and not be hurt. Is there another profession so emotionally exhausting? And doesn’t that speak to the fact that the suicide toll is so high among our own colleagues?
When you said it felt good to be able to talk to someone, I wondered about your husband, the media consultant – isn’t he someone? I suspect Richard is a busy man with all his public relating.
I could see your shoulders lift, your tension ease as I launched into stories from the Kafkaesque world of TimothyDare. I was pleased, finally, as we picked our way among the goose droppings by Lost Lagoon, to make you laugh. I play the sad clown well with my tales of seeding the town with coats, caps, and scarves. Not to mention the occasional file. It is as a result of one such lapse, and its awkward consequences, that I’m up on charges. They’re seeking a scapegoat over a boondoggle caused by my losing a patient’s file – but we’ll get to that.
As for Grundy Grundison, maybe I am inventing a spectre. Dotty Chung had a casual chat with the babysitter, Lyall DeWitt, who said Grundy was home on the evenings I thought I spotted him. He told my sleuth Grundy faithfully attends classes at SFU and rarely makes trips into the city, and never alone. Dotty suggested I take a little holiday.
I’ve decided I’m making too much of that note,
You are next
. You’re right: what therapist has not, now and then, received garbled, menacing letters? I’ve persuaded the courts to sentence many wrongdoers to penal or mental institutions. Any one of them could be my correspondent.
So am I not showing progress? Note that I took the
Aside from several minutes of tape, these clinical notes are transcribed from memory, though I jotted a few reminders while we sat on a park bench. I wasn’t functioning in top form, for reasons the excerpt below will make clear.
I’m sorry, Allis, about yesterday, barging in.
That’s fine. If you like, we can take a little extra time today, I had a hole open up. That’s a terrible way to put it. My next appointment had to be cancelled …
You aren’t looking well. What happened? Did you lose a patient?
I’m afraid so.
Oh, my God, I’m sorry. Suicide?
His faculties of observation are so well tuned that he seemed able to read this from my distracted manner and slumped posture
.
Carbon monoxide, he locked himself in his car. He couldn’t live with awakened memories. Parental sexual abuse.
That’s terrible.
He was coming along, his energy level had improved, he was no longer talking about the worthlessness of life. Though that should have put me on alert, that’s when one suddenly has the energy to implement a suicide plan.
Whatever you do, don’t take on the responsibility.
I know I shouldn’t. It’s hard to put that aside, though.
Look, maybe you need to take the rest of the day off. I’ll come back next week.
No. I can use some company.
It feels ominous that I’m filling the space of a dead man. Let’s not waste a summer day – how about a walk in Stanley Park?
As we strolled from your Denman Street office to the mowed margins of Vancouver’s great park, we traded roles; I listened and counselled. I hope I was of some help to you in this, a therapist’s worst horror: the catharsis with morbid consequences. Just remember: Things happen. Don’t listen to the whispered seductions of Self-reproach and her evil sister, Guilt. Confront them, unmask them, send them fleeing.
But yes, be sad, don’t be afraid of that. It’s to your credit that you cared so much for this religious, trustful, and troubled young man – too young to have been toughened in the trenches of life. One can’t be a therapist without empathy. One can’t be empathic and not be hurt. Is there another profession so emotionally exhausting? And doesn’t that speak to the fact that the suicide toll is so high among our own colleagues?
When you said it felt good to be able to talk to someone, I wondered about your husband, the media consultant – isn’t he someone? I suspect Richard is a busy man with all his public relating.
I could see your shoulders lift, your tension ease as I launched into stories from the Kafkaesque world of TimothyDare. I was pleased, finally, as we picked our way among the goose droppings by Lost Lagoon, to make you laugh. I play the sad clown well with my tales of seeding the town with coats, caps, and scarves. Not to mention the occasional file. It is as a result of one such lapse, and its awkward consequences, that I’m up on charges. They’re seeking a scapegoat over a boondoggle caused by my losing a patient’s file – but we’ll get to that.
As for Grundy Grundison, maybe I am inventing a spectre. Dotty Chung had a casual chat with the babysitter, Lyall DeWitt, who said Grundy was home on the evenings I thought I spotted him. He told my sleuth Grundy faithfully attends classes at SFU and rarely makes trips into the city, and never alone. Dotty suggested I take a little holiday.
I’ve decided I’m making too much of that note,
You are next
. You’re right: what therapist has not, now and then, received garbled, menacing letters? I’ve persuaded the courts to sentence many wrongdoers to penal or mental institutions. Any one of them could be my correspondent.
So am I not showing progress? Note that I took the
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