And so, heaving and churning with all these feelings, Julius entered the group room at four-thirty that afternoon. The members were already seated and poring over sheets of paper which were whisked out of sight when Julius entered.
Odd, he thought. Was he late? He took a quick look at his watch. Nope, four-thirty on the dot. He put it out of mind and began the recitation of his prepared statement.
"Well, let's get started. As you know, I never make a practice of starting the meeting, but today's an exception because there's something I need to get off my chest, something that's hard for me to say. So here goes.
"About a month ago I learned that I have a serious, I'll be frank, more than serious--a life-threatening form of skin cancer, malignant melanoma. I thought I was in good health; this turned up at a recent routine physical exam...."
Julius stopped. Something was off kilter: The members' facial expression and nonverbal language weren't right. Their posture was wrong. They should have been turned toward him; focusing on him; instead no one fully faced him, no one met his gaze, all eyes were averted, unfocused, except for Rebecca, who covertly studied the sheet of paper in her lap.
"What's happening?" asked Julius. "I feel like I'm not making contact. You all seem preoccupied with something else today. And, Rebecca, what is it that you're reading?"
Rebecca immediately folded the paper, buried it in her purse, and avoided Julius's gaze. Everyone sat quietly until Tony broke the silence.
"Well, I gotta talk. I can't talk for Rebecca but I'll talk for myself. My problem when you were speaking was that I already know what you're going to tell us about your...health. So it was hard to look at you and pretend I was hearing something new.
And yet I just couldn't interrupt you to tell you that I knew it already."
"How? What do you mean you knew what I was going to say? What in hell is going on today?"
"Julius, I'm sorry, let me explain," said Gill. "I mean, in a way I'm to blame. After the last meeting I was still frazzled and not clear about when or whether to go home or where to sleep that night. I really put pressure on everyone to come to the coffee shop, where we continued the meeting."
"Yeah? And?" Julius coaxed, moving his hand in a small circle as though conducting an orchestra.
"Well, Philip told us what the score was. You know--about your health and about the malignant myeloma--"
"Melanoma," Philip softly interjected.
Gill glanced at the paper in his hand. "Right, melanoma. Thanks, Philip. Keep doing that. I get mixed up."
"Multiple myeloma is a cancer of the bone," said Philip. "Melanoma is a cancer of the skin, think of melanin, pigment, skin coloring--"
"So those sheets are...," interrupted Julius, gesturing with his hands to invite Gill or Philip to explain.
"Philip downloaded information about your medical condition and prepared a summary, which he handed out just as we entered the room a few minutes ago." Gill extended his copy toward Julius, who saw the heading: Malignant Melanoma.
Staggered, Julius sat back in his chair. "I...uh...don't know how to put it...I feel preempted, I feel like I had a big news story to tell you and I've been scooped, scooped on my own life story--or death story." Turning and speaking directly to Philip, Julius said, "Had you any guesses about how I'd feel about that?"
Philip remained impassive, neither replying nor looking at Julius.
"That's not entirely fair, Julius," said Rebecca, who removed her barrette, loosened her long black hair, and twisted it into a coil on the top of her head. "He's not at fault here. First of all, Philip did not, in the worst way, want to go to the coffee shop after the meeting. Said he didn't socialize, said he had a class to prepare. We had to practically drag him there."
"Right." Gill took over. "We talked mostly about me and my wife and where I should sleep that night. Then, of course, we all asked Philip about why he was in therapy, which is only natural--every new member gets asked that--and he told us about your phone call to him which was prompted by your illness. That news jolted us, and we couldn't let it pass without pressing him to tell us what he knew. Looking back, I don't see how he could have withheld that from us."
"Philip even asked," Rebecca added, "whether it was kosher for the group to meet without you."
"Kosher? Philip said
that
?" asked Julius.
"Well, no," said Rebecca, "come to think of it,
kosher
was my term, not his. But that was his meaning, and I told him that we often had a postgroup session at the coffee shop and that you've never raised objections about it except to insist that we debrief everyone who wasn't there in the next meeting so that there be no secrets."
It was good that Rebecca and Gill gave Julius time to calm himself. His mind churned with negativity:
That ungrateful prick, that undercutting bastard. I try to do something for him, and this is what I get for it--no good deed goes unpunished. And I can just imagine how little he told the group about himself and why he had been in therapy with me in the first place.... I'd lay big money that he conveniently forgot to tell the group that he had screwed about a thousand women without an ounce of care or compassion for a single one of them.
But he kept all these thoughts to himself and gradually cleansed his mind of rancor by considering the events following the last meeting. He realized that
of course
the group would have pressured Philip to attend a postgroup coffee and that Philip would have been swayed by the group pressure to attend--indeed he himself was at fault for not having informed Philip about these periodic postgroup get-togethers. And,
of course,
the group would have questioned Philip about why he was in therapy--Gill was right--the group never failed to pose this question to a new member, and
of course
Philip would have to reveal the story of their unusual history and subsequent contract for therapy--what choice did he have? As for his distributing medical information on malignant melanoma--that was Philip's own idea, no doubt his way of ingratiating himself with the group.
Julius felt wobbly, couldn't pull off a smile, but braced himself and continued.
"Well, I'll do my best to talk about this. Rebecca, let me take a good look at that sheet."
Julius quickly scanned it. "These medical facts seem accurate so I won't repeat them, but I'll just fill you in on my experience. It started with my doctor spotting an unusual mole on my back, which a biopsy confirmed was a malignant melanoma. Of course that's why I canceled the group--had a rough couple of weeks, really rough, letting it sink in."
Julius's voice quavered. "As you see, it's still rough." He paused, took a deep breath, and continued. "My doctors can't predict my future, but what is important here is they feel strongly that I have at least a year of good health ahead. So this group will be open for business as usual for the twelve months. No, wait, let me put it this way: health permitting, I commit myself to meet with you for one more year, at which time the group will terminate. Sorry to be clumsy about it, but I've had no practice at this."
"Julius, is this seriously life threatening?" asked Bonnie. "Philip's Internet information...all these statistics based on stages of the melanoma."
"Straight question and the straight answer is 'yes'--definitely life threatening. The chances are good that this thing will get me in the future. I know that wasn't an easy question to ask, but I appreciate your straightforwardness, Bonnie, because I'm like most people with major illness--I hate everyone to be pussyfooting around. That would just isolate and frighten me. I've got to get used to my new reality. I don't like it, but life as a healthy carefree person--well,
that
life is definitely coming to an end."
"I'm thinking of what Philip said to Gill last week. I wonder--is there something of value in there for you, Julius? asked Rebecca. "I'm not sure if it was in the coffee shop or here in the group--but it had to do with defining yourself or your life by your attachments. Do I have it right, Philip?"
"When I spoke to Gill last week," said Philip, speaking in a measured tone and avoiding eye contact, "I pointed out that the more attachments one has, the more burdensome life becomes and the more suffering one experiences when one is separated from these attachments. Schopenhauer and Buddhism both hold that one must release oneself from attachments and--"
"I don't think that is helpful to me," interrupted Julius, "and I'm also not sure if this is where this meeting should be going." He noted a quick pregnant glance passing between Rebecca and Gill but continued, "I come in on that in the opposite way: attachments, and plenty of them, are the indispensable ingredients of a full life, and to avoid attachments because of anticipated suffering is a sure recipe for being only partially alive. I don't mean to cut you off, Rebecca, but I think it more to the point to go back to your reactions, everyone's reactions, to the announcement I've made. Obviously, learning of my cancer has got to stir up strong feelings. I've known many of you for a long time."
Julius stopped talking and looked around at his patients.
Tony, who had been slumped in his chair, stirred himself. "Well, I had a jolt when you said earlier that what should be important to us was how long you could continue to lead this group--that comment got under my skin, thick-skinned as I've been accused of being. Now, I don't deny that crossed my mind, but, Julius, I'm mostly upset at what this means for
you.
...I mean, let's face it, you've been pretty, I mean...
really,
important to me, helped me get over some really bad stuff.... I mean, is there something I, we, can do for you? This has gotta be terrible for you."
"Ditto for me," said Gill, and all the others (save Philip) joined in assent.
"I'm going to respond, Tony, but first say how touched I am and how impossible it would have been for you, a couple of years ago, to be so direct and to reach out so generously. But to answer your question, it's been terrible. My feelings come in waves. I hit bottom the first couple of weeks when I canceled the group. Did a lot of nonstop talking to my friends, my whole support network. Right now, at this moment, I'm doing better. You get used to everything, even mortal illness. Last night the refrain 'Life is just one goddamned loss after another' kept passing through my mind."
Julius stopped. No one spoke. Everyone stared at the floor. Julius added, "I want to deal with it openly...willing to discuss everything...I won't shy away from anything...but unless you ask something specific, I'm talked out now plus I don't feel I need the whole meeting to be given to me today. I want to say I have energy to work with you here in my usual way. In fact it's important to me that we go on as we always have."
After a short silence Bonnie said, "I'll be honest, Julius, there's something I could work on, but I don't know...my problems seem insignificant compared to what you're going through."
Gill looked up and added, "Me, too. My stuff--whether or not I learn to talk to my wife, stay with her, or leave the sinking ship--all that seems trivial in comparison."
Philip took that as his cue. "Spinoza was fond of using a Latin phrase,
sub specie aeternitatis,
meaning 'from the aspect of eternity.' He suggested that disturbing quotidian events become less unsettling if they are viewed from the aspect of eternity. I believe that concept may be an underappreciated tool in psychotherapy. Perhaps," and here Philip turned and addressed Julius directly, "it may offer a form of solace to even the kind of serious assault you're facing."
"I can see you're trying to offer me something, Philip, and I appreciate that. But right now the idea of taking a cosmic-eye view of life is the wrong flavor of medicine.
Let me tell you why. Last night I didn't sleep well and got to feeling sad for not having appreciated what I had at the very moment it was happening. When I was young, I always regarded the present as a prelude to something better that was going to occur. And then, the years passed, I suddenly found myself doing the opposite--I was bathing myself in nostalgia. What I've not done enough of is to treasure each moment, and that's the problem with your solution of detachment. I think it faces life through the wrong end of the telescope."
"I gotta come in here, Julius," said Gill, "with an observation: I don't think there's much chance you're going to accept anything that Philip says."
"An observation I'll always pay attention to, Gill. But that's an opinion. Where's the observation?"
"Well, the observation is that you're just not respecting anything he offers."
"I know what Julius would say about that, Gill," said Rebecca. "It's still not an observation; it's a guess about his feelings. What I observe"--she turned to Julius--"is that this is the first time you and Philip have addressed one another even halfway directly and that you have interrupted Philip a few times today, something I never see you do with anyone else."
"Touche, Rebecca," answered Julius. "Right on--a direct and accurate observation."
"Julius," said Tony, "I'm not getting the picture at all. You and Philip--what's going on?--I don't get it. Is he right when he says you phoned him out of the blue?"
Julius sat with his head bowed for a few minutes and then said, "Yes, I can see how confusing this must be for all of you. Okay, here it is straight. Or as straight as my memory permits. After my diagnosis, I fell into real despair. I felt I had gotten a death sentence, and I was staggered by it. Among other dark thoughts I began to question whether anything I had done in my life had any enduring meaning whatsoever. I slogged around in that question for a day or two, and, since my life is so intertwined with my work, I began thinking of patients I'd seen in the past. Had I really, permanently, affected anyone's life? I felt I had no time to waste, and so, on the spot, I decided to contact some of my old patients. Philip was the first person, and so far the only one, I reached."