All Babies are Buddhists

Carl Whitaker, MD, once told me that all babies are Buddhists, because they feel they are one with the whole world.  Because of this the most important lesson we learn from children is intimacy.  They have an infinite ability to tolerate intimacy. 

It’s 4 A.M.  You are exhausted and sleepy.  Your tiredness almost hurts.  But you are willing to be up, because your baby has cried.  You are holding it in your arms.  It is a joy to have this private moment together.  This is on-demand feeding in the middle of the night.  There is a stillness at this time of night.  There are hardly any sounds in the house.  There is just the sucking, slurping sounds of your infant.  The sucking is rhythmic, but there are rest periods every few slurps.  And your baby is watching you; actually, more like studying you.  He/she is looking into your face, examining everything about you.  You are being watched and memorized.  You may look down at the cheeks as they suck away at the bottle, but your eyes are drawn back to the eyes that are watching you.  Eventually, your hands are touched by the babies little hands.  They hold onto your fingers.  You can’t help but look at the little dimples at the knuckles.  They are captivating.  

It’s just the two of you in the whole world.  There is no place to hide.  This child sees you as you have never been seen before.  This is an intimacy like none other.  Without any words, there is a communication between the two of you.  As the two of you watch each other, the bond grows.  

Sometimes the sucking starts to slow first.  Sometimes the eyes start to get heavy.  You can see them fighting sleep.  The sucking slowly stops.  Thinking they are done, you start to pull them away.  Then, the sucking starts again with renewed vigor.  The eyes open again, as if to say, “I’m not ready yet.”  

Eventually, the baby falls asleep.  These few minutes may have been the most peaceful moments you have had in your life.  Certainly, they are the most intimate you may have ever experienced.  

Did you have this experience?  If you did not, you missed out on one of the most beautiful experiences in life.  If you did, you will remember the love you shared at 4 A.M.  Children provide an unparalleled opportunity for intimacy.  It is perhaps their greatest gift.  

The Professor's Obligation

By the fall of 1975, I had completed the academic course work for my masters degree.   The thesis proposal had been approved and I had collected the data.  Subsequently, I moved to Connecticut for an internship in Psychology.  I would start my internship and write my thesis in Connecticut.  By November I sent my first draft to my major professor.  I knew she wasn’t happy with me.  She had recently divorced, had let me know she was angry at me for breaking up with my girlfriend before we left school and she was angry with men.  I was still shocked when I received her reply to my first draft.  Essentially it read like this:  “I received your paper.  I was extremely disappointed by the quality of the work.  I am now convinced that you will never be able to complete the research adequately and therefore you will not graduate.  The amount of effort that I would have to invest for this to become viable would be astronomical.  Therefore, I am quitting your committee and sending this letter to all the other faculty.”  

I was devastated.  For about three hours I felt hopeless.  Then I had the thought that this was my thesis not hers.  If I kept working on it and improving it, I would eventually graduate.  With hope renewed I wrote another professor that I respected and asked him to be my committee chair.  I sent along a copy of the paper.  

In response, Ray Wolfe, Ph.D., sent me a critique of my paper.  It contained a huge list of changes that had to be made.  I went to work.  I made the changes and sent it back to him.  My internship flew by with my sending revisions to him and Ray responding with recommendations.  

Three weeks after the internship ended, my mother was murdered.  It was a horrible time for me.  Mourning my mother dominated my life.  Over time, I again started working on the paper.  It took me 17 drafts before I was approved for my oral defense.  The defense of a thesis is an intimidating experience.  It is called a defense because it is the faculty’s job to attack the research.  I knew that I would face a hostile faculty.  Upon entering the room, I heard one professor say how this was going to be like “wolves descending on sheep.”  There were thousands of ways that my research could have been improved.  During those two hours I heard every one of them.  Eventually, it came to an end and I was asked to leave the room.  After their discussion, I walked with Ray back to his office and he told me that I had passed.  He had actually secured enough votes for me to pass before the defense.  He hadn’t told me, so that I would experience the full impact of defending my research.  He was right, I certainly felt it.    

As we set down in his office, he began to disclose his experience.  When he received the draft from me, with the request to be committee chair, he didn’t know what to think.  He had received the letter from my original committee chair.  He didn’t think the paper was that bad.  But when I changed the paper in response to his critique, he knew that I was being a student.  If I was capable of being a student, he had the obligation to be a professor.  

Then he told me an interesting story.  He told me that in the history of science there was only one major contribution that had not been the result of a student, working with a mentor and then going beyond.  Evidently, there was a nobleman in England who started studying physics.  He took some classes, but generally educated himself.  He eventually wrote a paper regarding Quantum theory and sent it to Oxford and Cambridge U.  It was so deep and complicated that none of the scholars that read it knew what to do with it.  Eventually, it reached Albert Einstein at Princeton.  He responded that this man had made the next contribution to understanding Quantum physics.  They should award him a doctoral degree.  

I have been blessed with great mentors throughout my career.  They have each contributed to my career as a psychologist and psychotherapist.  But I wanted to acknowledge Ray Wolfe and what he did for me.  My career could have been derailed back there in Geneseo had Ray not lived up to his obligation to be a professor to someone who was being a student.  

Learning About Love

In the early ’60’s my family joined the golf club down the road.  My father wanted to play regularly, and the club had built a swimming pool, so it seemed like a no-brainer for my parents.  The entire family spent much of the summer at ‘the club.’  I was at the pool most days.  I hung around the pool during the summer and made some great friends.  I found and lost my first serious girlfriend at the club.  My parents also made some close friends.  I was often included in many events.  As a result, I was able to observe how couples treated their partners, interacted with others and expressed their love.  

My parents were sitting at the bar talking with Bonnie, a close friend of theirs.  They were all having a good time when Bonnie started getting a little flirty with my father.  

Bonnie put an arm on my father’s shoulder, looked at him and said, “Gene, I think you and I will have to have an affair.”  She clearly meant it as a joke.   

My mother’s entire face changed.  Her eyes narrowed.  Her face seemed to darken.  Her lips tightened.  She gazed at Bonnie.  With great sincerity she very slowly, quietly and deliberately spoke:  “Over my dead body!”  It seemed like time froze.  I know Bonnie froze.  Then she quickly made a joke of it, so that they could move on.  The moment was over.  

There was something very primal about her claiming my father.  He belonged to her and nobody would be able to get near him until she was dead and gone.  She was letting Bonnie, my father and anyone around know that she loved my father enough to fight for him.  The moment changed from fun to serious so quickly, it had a huge impact on me.  The message to me was that you have the right and a responsibility to protect your marriage.  

I saw this  again at my father’s wake.  My mother stood by my father, lying in the coffin, the entire time.  She later told me that she was going to protect my father up until the last moment.  

In Memory of Joe

         After fifteen years of working in an adolescent psychiatric hospital, I transferred to a substance abuse program.  There, I met Joe Doucette.  We became great friends.  Joe was a great person and a brilliant therapist.  He started the family program at Conn. Valley Hospital years before I arrived.  The family night program that he started eventually had a total attendance of 50,000 people, over the course of a couple decades.  I remember watching him run those meetings. As a therapist, he was an artist. It was fascinating to watch him do therapy with one hundred people at once.  He touched thousands of lives.  When I met him, I realized that we thought the same way about substance abuse treatment.  He taught me how to work with addiction and the family.  We spent lots of time working together, but we also got together outside of work to play.  I remember how excited he was when we got an article about our work, published in a professional journal.  He was a great friend to me through all those years.  He never got the credit he deserved for making that program work.  I don’t think he ever felt that he got recognized for his abilities.  He knew that I believed in him.  I will forever be grateful that we crossed paths.  I want to give one example of how I benefited from his wisdom.
         I was working with a young, intellectual drug addict.  He professed to use drugs to stimulate his thinking.  He thought the drugs took him places he might otherwise not go.  He worshiped drugs.  However, he knew they were dangerous to him.   He decided to get clean.  His family came in to help and we held several family sessions.  His mother was sure she knew the problem.  According to her, no matter how often her son got clean, there was one girl that he could not leave alone.  They would get together and use drugs. 
         The son described the girl with reverence.  He believed they were soulmates.  They understood each other.  He believed their using drugs brought them to a deeper connection.  The girl was as intelligent as he was and they were magnetized to each other.  But he heard our warnings that she would bring him down.  He found a new resolve to stay away from her and not use drugs. 
         After the holidays I got a call from his mother.  Her son remained clean for several months then he had met up with the girlfriend and they had started using together.  He had overdosed and died.  Would I see her again to help her mourn?  We met the next day.
         She brought in a picture album.  We talked as we went through the pictures.   She knew she wasn’t responsible for her son’s death but she felt responsible.  We talked about what she did and didn’t do.  I helped her get out from under some of her regrets and I gave her permission to mourn as long as she needed to.  It was a very sad meeting. 
         Several months later, a young woman was admitted that caught my attention immediately.  She was attractive and profoundly intelligent.  Her insight was deep and impressive.  Within a couple of days of seeing her in groups, I felt a strong pull to help her.  
         One day in group, she started talking about her boyfriend that had overdosed when he was with her.  She talked about trying to save him and watching him slip away.  As she talked, she provided enough details that I knew who the boyfriend was.  This was the infamous girlfriend of my previous client.  There was something about this girl and her relationship to my client that fueled a compulsion to save her.  It was as if I was caught in a spell.  I had seen this in other staff many times over the years.  It was at that point that I knew I needed more input.
         I went and talked to Joe.  In addition to being a dear friend, I respected his skills as a clinician.   He knew recovery, he knew addiction, he knew people and he knew me.  He listened quietly while I told him what I was experiencing.  When I was done, he just starred at me for a minute before he began. 
         “William, during the next week, I want you to spend more time with her.  I want you to talk to her whenever you get the opportunity and then we’ll talk again in a week.” 
         I was surprised that he didn’t tell me to stay away from her.  That would have been the standard recommendation.  But his suggestion sounded terrific.  I went about talking to her whenever there was an opportunity.  My experience was an eye opener.  The more I got to know her, the more I realized that she was crazy.  She wasn’t crazy in a psychotic way, but her logic didn’t make sense.  Her thinking was upside down.  I found it a total turnoff and realized that my delusion of saving her was gone. 
         When Joe and I again talked he just smiled.  After that we never talked about it again.  He brought me through a dangerous experience.  I’ll never forget his wisdom and guidance.    I am forever in his debt.  He touched many lives and made the world a better place for it. 
         I never got to say goodbye to him.  That was my fault and I regret it.  But I wanted to write something that would honor him while demonstrating his therapeutic wisdom.  Goodbye Joe, I miss you and will always remember you. 

My New Title

Today my oncologist referred to me as a survivor.  I can’t begin to convey the feeling that came with that label.  It is an incredible way to finish the year.  

How Aunt Dorothy Saved my Life

I was never close to my Aunt Dorothy.  She always treated me well, she seemed nice, she even gave me cool Christmas gifts; but that’s not the same as close.  I was therefore surprised at my mother’s funeral, when she walked up to me, waited until she had my full attention and then told me the wisest thing I have ever heard regarding grief.  I have read books, attended countless workshops, and talked with some noteable experts on grief.  None of them contained the brilliance of her thinking.  Her words are enshrined in my heart.

“William, hold onto her as long as you need to, then let her go.  Don’t listen to anyone who tells you to move on before you’re ready.  Don’t set a time limit on your grief.  Hold onto her as long as you need to, then and only then let her go.”  

She was right.  You can’t put a time limit on grief.  It ebbs and flows throughout your life.  While you may not feel anything at a gravesite, a tune on the radio can trigger tears.  You may not feel anything for a long time, then a holiday or anniversary may unleash a wave of sadness.   

Grief is an unavoidable part of life.  I do believe that avoiding grief can physically hurt the body.  Keeping that kind of pain within you will damage your body over time.  With that one little comment my Aunt Dorothy may have saved my life.  

The Letter

No matter how much you work on some issues, they will still come back to haunt you.   Sometimes current events will trigger you.  Sometimes an anniversary or a holiday will trigger you.  Sometimes divine providence interrupts the tranquility.  The result is that you have to work through issues that you have worked through before.  Such is the reason I haven’t been writing for the past couple of months.  I have had to wrestle with an old issue yet again.  

Fall has always been a delicate time for me.  My mother died on September 25th, my parents anniversary was October 25th, my Mother’s birthday was November 25th and Christmas was always the big holiday in our house.  In succession, these events would emerge each year to require that I feel the loss.  Early in our marriage, my wife pointed out that if I didn’t allow myself to feel the sadness during Autumn, I would get sick by Christmas.  

One of the complications of my mother’s death was that just prior to her getting killed she visited Connecticut.  I was finishing my internship, the only thing that was holding me here.  During her visit she asked me if I would return to the family home after my training.  I could complete writing my Masters Thesis from the farmhouse in Rochester as well as I could in Connecticut.  I knew she was lonely and wanted my companionship, but I wasn’t about to move home at the age of 26.  I declined and I knew it hurt her.  I think she took it personally.  It was only a few weeks later that she was killed.  Along with all the other emotions that accompanied her death, I was overwhelmed with guilt that I had not moved home.  I reasoned that if I had been there, maybe she wouldn’t have died.  Maybe I could have saved her.  

This question has haunted me over the years.  I knew I wasn’t responsible for her death, but did my absence contribute to her demise?  I also became angry with my father who had died 6 years earlier.  Maybe if he hadn’t have smoked those damn Camel straights, he would have been there to protect mom.  Then during my grief I realized that if I had been there I might have died also.  Murderers don’t like to leave witnesses.  I rationalized my decision, while also acknowledging that moving home at my age, would not have been healthy.  But the feeling that I had let her down by not moving home had stayed with me.  For 39 years I have carried this small guilt.  

We have been in the process of cleaning out all kinds of stuff that has accumulated over the years.  It was on Sunday September 20, 2015 that I pulled out another box, from under the stairs to go through and see what could be tossed.  In the box, I found my mother’s purse.  I don’t know if I had ever looked in it.  It still had her car keys and lipstick.  Mostly it was filled with bank deposit slips for accounts long gone.  Then I came across a letter.  It was a letter from me dated September 20, 1976.  I had written the letter exactly 39 years to the day that it was returned to me.  I opened it and read.  

The letter described the work on my thesis.  It described my plans to seek employment.  But it also told her how much I loved her and that she shouldn’t take it personally that I didn’t want to live with her.  I needed my independence and to find my own way.  My not returning home was about me, not about her.  

She would have received this letter only hours before she was killed.  Before she died, she knew that I loved her dearly and that my not moving home was about my trying to grow up.  Reading the letter, finally after 39 years, absolved me of the guilt I had been carrying.  While it totally let me off the hook, it also triggered my grief again.  At times, during the next few weeks, I felt the devastating pain just as strongly as when she first left me.  For several weeks, I had to return to mourning the loss of my mother.  

I no longer avoid these feelings.  Over several weeks, I let the pain roll over me and through me.  It slowly ebbed away and I again feel grounded.  It took some time for me to recognize this experience as a “great gift” as my son called it.  The fact that the letter came back to me exactly 39 years later impressed me that the Gods wanted me to pay attention and work through another piece of my grief.