Live and let die
My current therapist is rather… unique.
The best way I can describe his personality is “older Jerry Lewis.”
Remember how Lewis became pensive and a bit ornery in the later years? He’d turned into this sort of curmudgeonly wise man; “Jerry’s Kids” Jerry, no longer desperate for the laugh, but the humor would still break through, even when he was discussing serious topics.
My therapist is that kind of character.
In sessions, we rapid fire through topics that a normal therapist might spend days or weeks “examining.”
“You spending time with the kids?” He’ll ask.
“Yes, I just saw—
“They’re fine… they’re adults,” he’ll interrupt. “They probably know what’s happening better than their parents do right now.”
And… that’s the whole discussion on the topic of how my kids are handling the separation.
If I want to get a full thought across, I have to signal it by saying some version of, “I had a bit of a revelation last week…”
Then he sits back and listens and the tone will change for that topic.
It goes on like that until something new and interesting emerges.
If a couple of sessions go by and he gets the sense that I’m not moving forward, still bringing up topics we’ve covered, he’ll suggest we book our next session “a month out.”
His way of telling me to quit dwelling on shit that’s going to play out the same anyway.
One topic he’s shot down a couple of times is the concept of “dying alone.”
In the first month or so of the separation, my 3 a.m. cold sweat wake-up panics were always around the idea of spending my final years in fading cognition with no “loved one” to care for me.
It’s one part scary, and a bigger part just fucking sad.
We often hear about someone taking their final breath “surrounded by family and friends” and what a beautiful moment it was.
Jerry the therapist says that’s mostly bullshit.
“I worked in palliative care for ten years at the hospital. It’s not what you see in the movies. Usually the wife is down in the cafeteria when the guy passes,” he quips. “They have to pull her away from a tuna sandwich to finalize the paperwork.”
Damn.
“Everybody dies alone,” he says. “Focus on what you’re doing with the time you have here while all your stuff still works.”
Double damn.
Once again, the playbook for “the middle” is not answers, it’s questions.
The transition offers us a chance to decide where, why, and how we will spend our days.
Most people will fight to the death to keep those things predictable, having never asked themselves what they truly want.
Truth is, we rarely get a reliable heads up about when or how we will die.
People outlive “six week” cancer diagnosis for years… Other people slip off the roof putting up Christmas lights.
All we can control is what’s in front of us right now.
If we’re fortunate, we get to write the script for today – but, that’s it.
My work is to stop looking past the scene I’m in with the false hope of writing some imagined perfect ending.
Memento Mori.
Let’s get to living, boys.
Kevin
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