I finished the book, entranced by the personal meaning I gathered from the story. He wrote with passion, and I understood why he had become successful, if not why that success led him to feel guilty for his loss. He sought treatment for grief, but what he perceived of as grief, seemed to me to be his muse. The book gave no direct detail of his personal journey. The setting may have been local, but also could have taken place in any harbor town.
In the morning, I ordered his first book online and then checked email to see if Lenore had provided anything useful. When I opened the notes, I understood why she was reminded of Gary. Her documentation sketched an outline of my session with Callum. Gary had also married an Italian he had met online. They could not conceive and had arranged an adoption with an Italian birthmother they found through an online service. The mother lost the baby late in the pregnancy, after Gary and his wife had paid a considerable sum in support and medical payments. After the loss, Gary’s wife left him and moved back to Italy, where she had the marriage annulled.
Lenore treated Gary for depression and anxiety. He was quite a bit older than Callum and had come to the practice shortly after the separation, less than a year ago. He had attended some of our group therapy sessions, but I had no recollection of him. He was a shipbuilder, and I could not see immediate ties to Callum. It had been weeks since Callum’s session, and I decided reluctantly it was time to let go and focus my attention on the patients who needed me.
I was leading the group session that night. Veronica, a ‘regular’ we no longer billed, was bringing the dough from the Tandoor oven flatbread recipe we started the previous week. Lacking the Tandoor, we planned to attempt baking the bread on pizza stones. I heated the ovens before the patients arrived, and opened a few windows to get the air flowing comfortably. Veronica unwrapped the dough she had shaped for us and we began to talk as people straggled in.
It was crowded, but only a few faces were new. We eased them into the rhythm of conversation with smiles and nods of encouragement. People seldom spoke of deep, personal troubles in these sessions, preferring, instead, to tell stories and relax. I noted those who seemed to feel release. We encouraged symbolic acts, carving initials in dough, shaping forms into totems or carefully blending ingredients to balance personal pain and suffering.
Our first offerings to the pizza stone were disastrous, but it didn’t take long to discover the proper timing for success. Our best group sessions included some degree of failure. I had found that most adults I treated, no matter how highly educated, did not possess natural or learned ability to cope with failure. As children, we are persistent. At some point, the urge to persist turns to feelings of shame at failure and the lack of desire to face rejection. I believed it was cultural and generational, but my practice lacked diversity, and my theories remained untested.
After the last client had gone, I cleaned up the remaining debris and took a glass of wine up to my office to compose my notes. One of the participants had shared a story of his childhood dream and the sense of loss he felt once he had achieved it. The listeners were cautiously sympathetic. I knew most had never reached the top of their mountains, let alone come close to going down the other side. I wondered at the folly of dreams. I preferred experiences. If my life had depended upon dreams, my spirit would have been crushed long before. Instead, I clung to events, seasons and moments, nurturing my soul after each, and hoping with longing for the next.
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