Synopsis: “A country home, and unlikely “neighbor”, provide catharsis for a troubled research scientist.”
My Den
I fell in love with Joni! I was finishing my fourth and final year of my psychiatry residency, and it was recommended I audit a compelling course in “neuroscience” with a brilliant, post doctorate instructor, named Joni. Neuroscience studies the biological and chemical processes within the brain.
Joni lectured without notes, strictly from memory, as if reading from a textbook. Her poise and command of the subject were uniquely coupled with a feminine, determined persona, reminding me of my physician mother and grandmother, both trailblazers within medicine.
Like myself, Joni was a “nerd”. Her customary outfit was a long sleeve, black, leotard style, body suit covered by a simple, cotton dress, with little or no design. Her straight long hair was tied firmly into a ponytail, and she wore “cat eye” style, black glasses, distracting from her natural beauty. Her shoe of choice were sandals. She was slightly built, and her long black hair fell elegantly upon her lab coat.
Joni resonated complexity, likely inspired by an intricate past. I was too busy studying pre-med, medicine, and becoming a psychiatrist, to devote any time to cultivating romantic relationships. I was tall, lanky, boyish appearing, with a smattering of freckles, all which never attracted women. My patients often remarked, “You look young enough to be in high school!” Joni rekindled my desire to love a woman.
Joni’s enthusiasm for neuroscience captivated me. Joni’s empathy for students struggling to understand the material, and determination to teach them resonated with me. I found myself thinking about her day and night. I wanted to approach her after class to ask a made-up question just to spend a few moments alone with her. Passing by the lectern, as we took our seats, was a special opportunity to be close to Joni. She had large beautiful brown eyes and long delicate fingers. She wore no rings or jewelry denotating romantic involvement.
At the conclusion of one of the lectures, I worked up the nerve to approach Joni standing behind the lectern.
“Hello. You’re the psychiatrist in the course. Welcome to “my world”.
“Thank you, I’m William Swan. Call me Bill. How did you know I was a psychiatrist?”
“The enrollment records indicated a psychiatric resident was enrolled, and in my field, psychiatrists give off a “vibe”.
“Oh, how is that?”
“Let’s leave it for another time but thank you for showing an interest in neuroscience. I wish more psychiatrists shared your interest.”
“It would be my pleasure to learn more about your research over coffee.”
“It would be interesting to “swap notes”, but appropriate after the course is concluded.
“If you would like to follow me to my office, we can talk on our way as I’m late for a meeting”.
We walked down the hall of the neuroscience department, and, as we entered her research laboratory, she stopped in front of an empty cage, designed to house rodents. She reached inside and spun the wheel. Joni became still, silent, and contemplative. I said nothing as she was deep in thought. Seconds became minutes until I spoke,
“Where are you Joni? What are you thinking?”
Joni woke from her trance,
“Well, now, here is my office. Don’t be alarmed at its tiny size and disarray. I’ve been so busy; I’ve neglected tidying it up.”
She opened the door to her office, removed her lab coat, hung it on the hook, and sat behind a small desk.
Joni began gathering materials for her meeting and placed them within a briefcase. I scanned the office looking for clues about Joni. I saw no picture frames proudly portraying husbands, boyfriends, family or even a pet.
“How are you feeling, Joni?”
“I’m under a great deal of stress; teaching, completing a research paper, and struggling to earn a tenure track professorship, here at the university.”
“What were you thinking when you stopped at the cage?”
“I killed a family of lab mice. They’ve been with me for a couple of years, and I became emotionally attached to them. I gave each of them a name, fed, watered, and caressed them. Each morning, they were eager to see me, prancing about their cage. One day, just prior to a routine EEG examination, they huddled together in a corner of the cage, frightened. They trembled as I attached the electrodes to their heads. I found them dead the following morning. I’m normally dispassionate about research but I feel responsible for their death. It bothers me to pass by their empty home.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but stoically, and with every defense mechanism she mastered over the years, held back the tears like a dam.
“I can tell you’re under stress. Are you sleeping?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, doctor. I thank you for your interest and concern, but I will make it through, just as I have my entire life.”
“My entire life” suggested past traumas, and I feared she would be a candidate for a “panic attack”.
“Have you ever suffered a panic attack?”
“I’ve never had one.”
“Panic attacks are common in people in their late twenties to early thirties. The stress in your life may compound unresolved psychological trauma in your life. We treat panic attacks with meds and therapy. I’d like to refer you to a colleague for an examination if you’ll permit me?”
“There is nothing wrong with me!”
“It’s best to treat this condition now, before it worsens.”
“You’re not going to fill my head with meds in your vain attempt to unearth my secrets!”
“Our approach involves meds, yes, but psychotherapy with a compassionate, learned, therapist is primary. Getting to the root of your anxiety is like peeling the layers of an onion. How was your relationship with mom and dad?”
“I didn’t know my dad, and my mother is dead! I’m aware of psychotherapy, drug therapy, and don’t need it! Thank you for your interest but I won’t discuss this further!”
Joni “tuned me out.” As a psychiatrist, I was concerned about her mental well-being, but as a romantic suitor, I blew my opportunity to further a romantic involvement. It was the wrong time and place to discuss the matter. I let it go. Joni finished gathering her materials, moved to the door, and I followed. She angrily locked the door, and quickly hurried down the hallway, without saying a word. I shouted,
“I look forward to that coffee date, Joni.”
“See me after the final exam, maybe then”.
During the remaining lectures, Joni was appearing anxious; a psychiatrist can gleam even the slightest change in personality by working the many psychiatric wards and clinics over four years. I was placed within a difficult dilemma of wanting to treat her, but also remaining a dispassionate observer as I wasn’t her physician. My initial diagnosis was Joni managed stress with routine. Staying busy is often a defense mechanism to emotional trauma.
During the final lecture of the course, Joni was tense like a coiled spring. I was trained to watch the body. We call it “motor skills” of patients. Rather than lecture from memory, Joni was nervously referring to pages of notes within a three ringed binder. She appeared preoccupied with thoughts preventing her from carrying out her lecture. I assumed it may be a remorse she had buried which was coming to the surface, perhaps triggered by the death of the lab mice. Joni turned to the white board, began writing the chemical equation for “Serotonin”, a brain chemical linked to anxiety, but the numerals, and symbols quickly turned to scribbles. Her hand holding the black marker trembled, and she began pounding the white board with the marker. I feared the worse.
It’s a long and narrow highway leading to my new home and I can’t wait to arrive. Large Oak trees shade the road, and it must be pitch dark at night as there are no streetlights. I’m in the country looking for the nondescript driveway leading to my new home. It’s an older style home on many acres which needs some updating. I love the fact that my new home sits atop of a hill with a commanding view and is private. Perhaps I’ll escape painful memories, and future disappointments? I want to be alone.
It’s getting late in the day and the sun is growing lower in the sky. The large Oak trees are casting shadows over the valley, and the single yellow line is becoming harder to see. I’ve driven for many miles as the narrow road winds up and down hills, but I’ll arrive at my new home because it’s at the end of the road. Without warning, a rabbit runs across the road, and I brake, just narrowly killing it as it scampers into the woods. I slow and pull to the side of the road. My heart is racing, and I take a deep breath. That was close! I better slow down. I’m in the country now and need to adjust to these kinds of uncertainties.
I had no choice but to leave the university. When the department chair removed my name from the research paper, replacing it with his name, and won the NSF award, the treachery was the “last straw”. I was fortunate to be invited to join a pharmaceutical start up. One of my DNA clinical trials came to the attention of “big pharma” which purchased the intellectual property, enriching our company, earning me generous stock options, and enabling me to retire.
I guide my car back on to the road and resume my trek. I’m starting to get nervous with the valley growing darker. My eyesight isn’t sharp in the evening. My car begins a long descent into the valley and, as I reach the bottom, I’m chilly. I turn on the heater and begin climbing the steep road. My ear pressure reacts to the climb and, just as I reach the peak, the sun casts a warm glow, welcoming me to my new home.
I stop the car before entering the driveway, turn off the engine, roll down the window, and take in my new surroundings. I hear a myriad of birds and insects. They must be talking about their new neighbor! The fragrant aroma of the trees and the foliage is heavenly. I’ll be happy here.
I start the car and begin the ascent up my long, narrow driveway which twists and turns. The long ascent tops out and I pull on to a circular gravel driveway. My tires crush the gravel below me and make me feel rooted to my new property. There, ahead of me, is my new home.
The real estate agent said she left the keys under the mat at the front door, and confirmed the electricity is on. It’s getting dark now, so I better get inside. My doorway is dark, and I’m perturbed the real estate agent didn’t leave the porch light on, as agreed.
As I approach the front door, I hear a growl. My heart begins to pound, and I stop in my tracks. The growl intensifies. I shout,
“Go away!”
It looks like a large, malnourished, mangy canine. It won’t move and stares directly into my eyes. I’m frightened. I’m confronted with another reality of my new environment; there is no quick “911” response. I shout at the top of my lungs,
“Go on, get!”
I pick up a small stone and throw it towards the porch, causing the animal to run away into the woods.
I approach the dark, front porch, and I’m struck by a distant memory of a frightened little girl in her bedroom, wearing pajamas. She hears a man shouting and rampaging through the house as a woman pleads for him to stop. She peeks through the skeleton keyhole on the door handle, witnessing him throw about the furniture, lamps, books, and artwork, shouting,
“I know you have money hidden around here! Give it to me, I’m dying for a fix!”
Her bedroom door is thrown open, and the man is standing in her doorway with a troubled look upon his face. He’s frozen with indecision on how to approach the little girl, suggesting a bond he cannot or will not acknowledge, although the little girl can deduce a fatherly connection. She hopes the man will provide a long-awaited reunion, but he quickly closes the door.
I regain my composure, lift the mat, find the key, unlock the door, turn on the lights, and lock the door behind me.
It smells musty inside. I turn on the lights as I make my way through the house. The home is three bedrooms and two baths. It dwarfs the tiny apartment I lived in for so many years. I purchased the house furnished. The house is ranch style, but the furniture is reminiscent of vintage European nouveau riche and seems out of place. It will do. It compliments my tea set and viola.
I reach the master bedroom and I’m relieved to find the real estate agent has made the bed with the new linens which were delivered. My clothing and personal possessions were also delivered. I open the window to the bedroom to rid the room of the musty smell and take in the “country choir” of crickets and the owls. I’m exhausted. I finish a shower, jump into bed, and fall into a deep sleep.
A little girl is home alone in a small apartment within a tenement building. The traffic and shouting outside the window are excruciating. It’s hot, and a small, squeaky, fan is blowing. The girl is practicing the viola and having difficulty mastering the notes.
The door to the apartment opens, and a young woman enters. She pours a cup of tea from a vintage tea set which looks out of place in the modestly furnished apartment. She sits on the sofa, removes her shoes, and keeps time with her hand to the viola as she sips her tea. The little girl misses a note, pauses, and begins anew. A siren outside the window is growing louder, and the girl struggles to play above the screeching din. The young woman softly speaks,
“Don’t let the distractions disturb you, baby. Imagine you’re in a magnificent symphony hall, and the noises are just coughing and sneezes from the audience. Professional musicians know how to ignore distractions from the audience.”
The girl begins again.
What a dream! I sit up in bed and take a deep breath. I look around and recognize my new bedroom. It’s dark outside but becoming lighter. I might as well make the coffee and enjoy the sun rise over “my hill”.
The wood floor creaks as I walk into my kitchen, turn on the light, revealing the original knotty pine cabinets, and vintage stove.
I walk to the refrigerator hoping to find the coffee I asked the real estate agent to place inside and find my favorite roast. I’m so happy to be in my spacious new home, making my first pot of coffee!
I close the door to the refrigerator, turn, walk back to the coffee pot, and staring at me through the rear door, is the large, mangy canine I saw yesterday. It must weigh 150 pounds and might stand six feet tall if erect. It’s just sitting there and staring at me. It’s a wolf! It looks hungry but I’m afraid to open the door. I return to the refrigerator to retrieve some lunch meet stocked by the real estate agent. Maybe I can place it on the porch, and the wolf will leave with it? I close the refrigerator door, turn to the back porch, and the wolf is gone! I’m relieved the animal has left, but I’ll leave the lunch meet anyways. I place the lunchmeat on the porch and close the door. Every day will be an adventure in my new home!
It’s a beautiful sunny morning as I leave the house to survey my property for the first time. I only completed a cursory inspection of the property with satellite images and reports before deciding to purchase. The birds are chirping, and the plant life is moist from the morning dew. I start out on the trail which winds through the property.
I’ve walked for miles along the trail. The only evidence of other inhabitants on the property are a series of paw prints. It’s nice to know the trail is proving useful to the animals.
I come upon an old, abandoned well made of stone. It must be attached to the underground aquifer the geological study I ordered revealed. I investigate the well and see a dark void. The well reminds me of a gigantic microscope but it doesn’t reveal any images moving about to feed my curiosity. The darkness offers no clues, but invites me to ponder its meaning. I grab a stone and toss it into the well to judge its depth. I hear a muffled splash and know the well is very deep.
I become overwhelmed by an abstract memory of delivering a lecture, facing the white board with a black marker in my hand. It’s hard to concentrate, and my hands are perspiring and trembling. I lose concentration, except to pound the marker over and over, creating a dark circle on the white board. I black out.
I’ll return to the well and ponder its significance. It’s my well and will always be here waiting for me.
As I continue walking down the trail, I’m amazed at the variety of plant life throughout the property. Most trees appear to be ancient Oak’s. One of the Oak’s stands out amongst the rest, and I walk towards it. The tree could be hundreds of years old. It has many branches, but one branch, is striking. The branch is long, narrow, and protrudes out from the trunk for many feet. It looks like the tree is shaking hands with somebody. What a natural “swing set” this branch would make.
I become anxious and imagine the tree limb secures a rope, and a woman, wearing a noose, is hanging, dead from suicide.
I’m distracted by a flock of birds fleeing the tree as a distant howl is heard. I was hoping to find the lake view which was highlighted within the real estate brochure. The day has gotten away from me, but I have my entire life to enjoy my property. I’ll find the lake view another day.
Its late afternoon and the sun will set soon. I continue down the trail, pass a hillside with an opening between boulders, and paw prints leading inside. I know it’s a living space for animals; not a good idea to explore it or dawdle.
As I approach the house, I’m faced with a new decision. Do I enter through the front door or rear kitchen door? I’ll choose the kitchen door since it’s close to the refrigerator and I’m hungry. I fetch the key from my pants, place it into the lock, and open the door. The musty smell has gone away. I turn and close the door, remembering I placed the lunch meet on the back porch for the wolf. The lunch meat is gone!
I have a stone fireplace in my living room. The real estate agent remembered to stock it with firewood. I’ll light the fire now so that I can enjoy it after a bath. The master bathroom is rustically styled with natural stone counters quarried from the mountains surrounding the property. The best feature of the bathroom is the vintage “claw foot” bathtub. As I slide down into the warm, scented, sudsy water with a glass of wine, I wonder who and how many have enjoyed this magnificent bath before me. The flames from the scented candles flicker and cast shadow images against the walls. I’ve only been in my new home for twenty-four hours, and I’m beginning to live completely in the moment, savoring the new reality I created for myself. I dry myself, wrap my hair with a towel, and slide into my soft bathrobe. The scented candles have worn down and stop flickering.
I prepare a pot of tea and sit before the warm fireplace. The tea comforts me. I gently take my viola and begin to play. I select Joseph Joachim’s “Variations Op 10” and play from memory. I lose myself in the melancholy notes; the soothing tea and flickering images from the fire dancing about the room, bring gifts of intensity to my fingers I haven’t experienced before. My new home has brought me an unintended “bonus” of a newfound appreciation of the viola. I’ll devote my spare time to more study. The tea and wine have made me sleepy. I stop playing and carefully place the viola back in its case. I wrap myself in a throw blanket, position my head on a plush pillow, and close my eyes.
A teenage girl is lying on a bed within a tiny bedroom with the door closed. Posters of rock n roll idols adorn the bedroom walls. She hears violas outside the door and her mother instructing students. The excruciating din created by the students failed attempts at mastering the viola have finally stopped, and the students say goodbye to their teacher.
The girl leaves her bedroom. Her mother is standing in a small kitchen, her hand is shaking as she opens the kitchen cabinet, grasping a bottle of vodka, and pours a large glassful. The girl places her hand on mom’s shoulder. The mother brushes the girl’s hand away, takes a long sip of vodka, and begins to cry. The glass falls from her hand and shatters on the floor. The mother turns to her daughter and they hug each other tightly.
I wake to find the fire has become just a smolder. The early morning light is peeking through the living room windows. I fell asleep on the couch. I remember dreaming but can’t make out the details. I’ve never been one to record my dreams. My eyes are teary. I need a cup of coffee and retreat to the kitchen. I open the refrigerator, grab the coffee, close the refrigerator door, turn, and staring at me through the kitchen door is the wolf from yesterday. It’s sitting and has an expression as if it’s been impatiently waiting for me. There is no longer a menacing look about it. I realize I should never have left the lunch meat out. Now, I have another mouth to feed! I think I’ll name him “Big Ben” for his punctuality and size.
I retrieve some lunch meat and I’m reticent to open the door with the massive beast just outside. Ben’s teeth and claws look sharp; I can’t take any chances. As I approach the door, Ben backs away, leaving me just enough room to open the door slightly, place the lunch meet on the porch, and close the door. Ben approaches the door, grabs the lunch meet with his mouth, turns, and heads towards the woods, but stops. He turns towards me and sits with the lunch meet in his mouth. Ben turns again and runs but stops, looking back at me as if inviting me out from the safety of the kitchen. I slowly open the door and stand on the porch. Ben is still. I step off the porch and walk a few steps in Ben’s direction. Ben sits still. I walk closer, Ben sits up, and begins to walk slowly towards the trail as if he wants me to follow. There is something trustworthy about Ben and I no longer fear him. Maybe I’ll get a chance to see the lake view as Ben and I walk the trail together. I return to the kitchen, grab my coat, and follow Ben.
I love the early morning dew which clings to the plants and trees. Everything is fresh and eager to greet the new day. I want to stop and examine the sights along the way but Ben presses ahead. I remain about ten yards behind him. From time to time, Ben turns his head to make certain he hasn’t lost me.
I’m becoming winded by Ben’s pace and stop,
“Slow down, Ben!”
Ben stops, sits for a few moments, and we begin again. The trail is familiar. I see my footprints from the previous morning. Ahead is the hillside with the entrance to the cave. Ben stops, sits, and turns to me just before entering the dark entrance to the cave. Every instinct in my body is telling me not to follow Ben into the cave. It’s a den for the wolves and it will be dangerous for me to enter. Ben is staring at me longingly, reminiscent of a distant memory of the man in the doorway. I can succumb to the fear, walk away, or trust Ben. It’s time to confront my fear.
I walk into the cave, following Ben. It’s dark inside. I must keep my head down as I traverse the narrow, twisting, tunnel. I’m amazed at how cool, still, and silent the cave has become. I left my cell phone with the flashlight app in the kitchen, and have nothing to guide me, except Ben. We’re deep into the tunnel, the twists and turns cause me to lose my sense of direction. I feel like a pilot in a storm who has lost her instruments. I begin to panic. My heart rate is increasing, and my palms are clammy. I’m breathing heavily. Suddenly, Ben’s warm, wet nose brushes my hand. I can barely see the whites of Ben’s eyes but hear him breathing. I grasp his tail and follow him. Surely, Ben will know the “way out”.
We’re deep into the side of the hill. My property has engulfed me as if taking me into its bosom. We make a sharp turn, I see a ray of sunlight peeking through a crack in the ceiling of the cave, and we drop down into a small, cavern where Ben’s family awaits. There’s a pack of wolves lying about. I’m fearful to approach, but none of the pack appears threatened. I release Ben’s tail and he takes his place alongside his family after dropping the lunch meet for the pack to enjoy. Small wolves are lying close to their mothers who are tongue bathing the youngsters. Others are sleeping peacefully. I’m a fortunate scientist to have been extended an invitation to enter the home of these remarkable ancestors to modern day canines.
It’s still in the den. The only sound is the breathing of the wolves and shuffling of pups as they cuddle next to their mothers. A ray of sunlight peeking through the crack in the ceiling provides a warm hue to the room but is also a reminder that I’m still connected to the world outside. The tight, twisting turns of the tunnel, leading me into the den, resembled a tour of the intricate chemical and nerve connections within my mind. I’m envious of the loving wolf family. Why didn’t I have a similar family?
My mother became a virtuoso at the viola and was awarded “first viola” position within the symphony which was an extraordinary accomplishment for a female musician in those days. My mother was beautiful. Her long, wavy, black hair complimented her symphony attire. The money was good, but the symphony practice and travel schedule were rigorous. The growing fetus in her belly was demanding as much attention as the symphony schedule. Eventually, the conductor noticed my mother was pregnant, and maternity leave wasn’t an option for women in those days, and she was fired.
Mom never spoke of my father. She never dated, and didn’t wish to remarry, although a working husband would have made our life easier. Mom was a hard worker and took on viola pupils referred from symphony members, which grew into a full-time business. The demanding schedule began to take a toll on my mother. In addition to being exhausted, she was slipping into a depression and began drinking. I knew mom was disappointed ending up a viola teacher, but she never burdened me with any of her hardships. Instead, she asked me to devote myself to my schoolwork, and, if I wanted to take up the viola, to treat the viola with respect and practice. Mom’s drinking was beginning to interfere with teaching viola, and, one by one, the number of students and referrals were decreasing.
Mom and I cried, holding each other tightly, when I left for college on a full scholarship. She confessed,
“I’m sorry you never knew your father. You were born out of wedlock. He was a brilliant flutist in the symphony, but his heart was in jazz, and played every jazz gig offered. His passion for jazz couldn’t pay the bills, and his frustration, coupled with the abundance of hard drugs found within the jazz club scene, led him to a heroin addiction. When I told him I was pregnant, he deserted me. I had nobody to turn to. I never spoke to my parents after winning a scholarship to Julliard at sixteen, releasing me from the alcoholic hellhole your grandparents created.
“After you were born, your father resurfaced, and came around begging for money to feed his addiction, never wanting to visit with you. He leveraged his fatherhood to convince me to succumb to his begging,
“Just one more fix, and I’ll get clean. We’ll become a family. Give me money!”
“One evening, he came to the apartment with his drug dealer. They smoked, drank, and I begged them to leave so you could sleep, but your father passed out after his fix. The pusher remained, eager to develop a new “customer”,
“Baby, I can see you’re hurting. Let me hit you up with a fix of heroin. It’ll provide the relief you’re seeking.”
“I desperately needed an escape from my worries and succumbed to his “offer”. As I was falling into my heroin induced coma, he raped me. I awoke to an empty refrigerator, a teenage daughter expecting dinner, and I wanted “relief”. I became a junky. The drug dealer demanded I do “tricks” in return for free heroin and provided me enough money to pay the bills. Please forgive me, I did what was necessary for us to survive!”
I studied hard in college to impress mom, but wanting to avoid the debauchery of her lifestyle, I never returned home to visit her. The letters from mom began to drop off, and, in my sophomore year, I stopped hearing from mom altogether. Word arrived from the Dean’s office, my mother “hanged herself, and the personal possessions, consisting of a tea set, and viola, would be delivered to me”. Her colleagues from the symphony provided mom with a respectable burial. The funeral was scheduled during final examinations, and I chose not to attend. I carry the guilt of missing the opportunity to say, “I love you mom, goodbye.”
Ben’s nose brushed my cheek. Ben is on all fours and ready to venture out from the cave for his evening “constitutional”. I follow him out of the cave clutching his tail for guidance. As we make one, final, twisting turn, we exit the tunnel, and witness a magnificent lake view. The view is blurred by tears which are streaming down my face,
“Come on Ben. Let’s go home. I’ll get you food to bring back to your family”.
I begin to walk but Ben remains seated at the entrance to the cave. He has brought me as far as he believes necessary. It’s up to me to find “home”.
I run down the trail, but the tears are flowing down my cheeks, and blurring my vision. Every muscle in my body is tense. I stop to cry uncontrollably, wipe the tears from my eyes, and begin running again, only to stop, and sob. I see my house in the distance, but my muscles are frozen and I can’t move. I throw myself upon a thick layer of grass, and cry, remembering mom trembling for her heroin fix, and retreating into the bathroom to shoot up. As the “tricks” came and left our apartment, I shut my bedroom door, and practiced the viola, intently, trying to muffle the sounds of the moans and groans emanating mom’s bedroom.
I hear a howl coming from the direction of the cave.
Perhaps Ben is sending me a message to press on? I feel my muscles relax, the tears subside, and the tension I have been carrying within me my entire life is lifted. As I gaze towards my home, I realize I’m not alone in the world. I have loved ones who care for me. I’m grateful for my wolf family, but it’s not enough. I want to find romance, understanding, and love from another human being.
Bill was cute, and for most women, a physician finishing a psychiatry residency, would be a “catch”. I don’t know why he was attracted to me.
He wanted to find a way into my heart, but my heart was closed to anybody except my research. Bill was correct, my inability to confront my past was holding be back. I regret becoming angry at him during our office meeting. He tried to help me.
It was selfish of me to think Bill would be single and waiting for me.
When I awoke, I was cradled within somebody’s arms. I leaned back, opened my eyes, and saw Bill’s face. Behind Bill, I could see the white board marred with a large, black dot, and remembered looking deep into the well, seeing only blackness.
“You’re back! How do you feel?”
I had a long, cathartic dream, Bill. It’s time for that coffee date if you’re available?”