The Death of a President

 
In psychiatry, a great deal depends on timing, including the correct diagnosis. For instance, while you may have experienced or witnessed a traumatic event or may have had prolonged exposure to highly stressful, traumatic, or abusive conditions, you can't be diagnosed with PTSD unless your symptoms have persisted longer than six months. Under six months, we call it acute stress disorder. PTSD symptoms can persist a long time.

Looking back, I definitely think 9/11 resulted in the semblance of a nation-wide case of PTSD from which we've done a fairly good job of recovering. We're more alert to danger but less likely to shut down the entire country over an isolated, local threat. We're no longer quite so eager to send in the troops at the sound of gunfire on the far side of the world. Life has begun to approximate "normal," though we're more aware of our vulnerability and the memory of tragedy is still there and always will be. Even the extreme political right seems more intent on defeating the president's health initiative than tackling terrorism. I don't think we've done as well with November 22, 1963.

I've often thought the free love, abundant drugs, and Tune-In, Turn-On, and Drop-Out mentality of the 60s was more an expression of anger -- acting out -- than typical adolescent rebellion. For the first time in our history, almost an entire generation gave the establishment the middle finger. Its hero was dead, LBJ had taken office, the Warren Commission was established, there was a national day of mourning, and now, it was time to move on. But this generation wasn't ready yet, and we would all have to wait for Kubler-Ross (On Death and Dying, 1969) to inform us the funeral was only the beginning.

Watching the 50th anniversary of the Kennedy assassination programming the past few days, I've been struck by how often someone uttered the phrase, "People don't want to think Kennedy could have been struck down by a single individual, acting alone. The magnitude of his personality as president seems to demand much more."  I'm not certain this is accurate. I don't believe his personal magnetism or his role as the nation's leader are nearly as important as the magnitude of his loss. Ongoing conspiracy theories and the tendency of 2/3 of Americans to doubt the findings of the Warren Report symbolize the depth of grief many still feel, as well as an abiding need for it to be recognized. Mistrust of government may have burst into full flower with Watergate, but it is rooted in the mismanagement of national grief over the death of a president.  

This is likely an unfair generalization, but there is still some truth in the statement that Lyndon Johnson's generation was more accustomed to putting tragedy behind them than paying close attention to what it means and mourning its significance. Anyone who's watched the HBO presentations of Band of Brothers (2001) or The Pacific (2010), or talked at length with veterans from the Great Generation knows how exceedingly reticent they are about digging up old wounds. The idea that the country as a whole needed time and leadership in the matter of grieving was unheard of in 1963. In a very real sense, we needed a president who understood and embraced his role as nation's chaplain as well as it's chief executive. Unfortunately, this was not one of JBJ's strengths, in contrast with our current president who has been known to take hours comforting the victims of gun violence.

I was also struck by the numbers of interviewees who commented on how America had changed, subsequent to the assassination. They lamented a loss of optimism, hopefulness, and the belief anything was possible. Whether those feelings are shared by all is debatable. There were and still are, sectors of the population that make no secret of their hatred of Kennedy and the causes he and his brothers championed. Nevertheless, his loss was felt by far more and the feelings associated with it have lasted far longer than anyone might have imagined. 
 
Grief isn't resolved, if it's ever truly resolved, by assigning blame, getting even, and nursing the satisfaction gained from a moment of passion. We learn to deal with our losses, to live with them, making them part of ourselves, by refusing to play down their impact and brush them away like crumbs from the table. Grief has to be honored and mourning respected if we're ever to regain the optimism, hope, and sense of the possible that seems forever out of reach when we feel bereft. If there are lessons worth learning from the past 50 years, this is one to take to heart. 


(Creative Commons image of eternal flame at grave of John F. Kennedy by Tim Evanson via Flickr)

Remembering Where I Was, How I Felt, and Why

They say days like today, you always remember where you were when you got the news. I was in my classroom, it was lunchtime, and a fellow student rushed in, out of breath, and announced, "Kennedy's just been shot." I was too young, I suppose, to understand what that would mean, though I recall going through the rest of the afternoon with a feeling of tenuousness in my stomach and I couldn't wait to get home. 

Two years earlier, during the presidential campaign, an older teacher admonished our class that if JFK was elected, "we'll be under the Pope." Obviously, that never materialized but it reflects the mindset of some at the time. Change was difficult for them to envision and embrace, not unlike it seems now. All I knew was, my parents voted Democratic, they liked Kennedy's youth and energy, and neither cared whether he was Catholic, Baptist, or Jewish. He served in the military as had my father and we watched PT-109 (1963) with pride. 

That night, though, we watched the news all evening long. The information was mixed and we weren't certain from one minute to the next whether he'd survived or not. All I really remember was midnight and the screen flashing the American flag. The national anthem played, my mother wept, and so did I. Dad, as always, was the pillar we leaned on, but I vaguely remember him wiping his eyes as he led me down the hall to bed.

Days later, I stayed home from school and we watched the funeral. Everything and everyone moved so very slowly, to me it seemed endless. I had met death twice by then, my dog and pony both having passed away two and three years earlier. But I'd never encountered it in human form and seeing John Jr. and his sister, I was so glad it wasn't my father we were laying to rest.

In November 2000, it would be, replete with military honor guard, the firing of rifles, and a bugler playing "Taps." I wasn't thinking of John Jr. and Caroline then, nor was I thinking of their father. Not until later, when Barack Obama was running for president and I felt the same optimism and hope my parents talked about in 1963. Not until a snowy day in Portland when I met John's brother, Ted, campaigning for the president. And not until today, when I remembered where I was and how I felt and why.

 
(Creative Commons image by the smuggler via Flickr)
 

Newtown, Connecticut: The Streets of Heaven

"The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels tonight..." ~ President Josiah Bartlet, The West Wing

Following a tragedy such as took place yesterday in Newtown, Connecticut, one often hears the statement, "Let's not politicize this." But failing to recognize its political implications is as irresponsible as attempting to use them for political gain. Remaining silent on the pretense of respect, renders the needless, senseless deaths of children meaningless. Can there be anything worse?

In the latter days of the war in Iraq, when it had become clear there were no weapons of mass destruction, when the Bush administration determined a "war of liberation" would play better in the media, families of soldiers killed in action relied on those three words to assuage a loss no parent should ever have to face. The alternative was a sacrifice without meaning, and that was unthinkable.

We flirt with meaninglessness, however, when a murderer rips our loved ones from us and from the public stage we hear, "I hope no one uses this as an excuse to talk about gun control." What we've witnessed in Connecticut is neither an excuse, nor is it evidence we need an armed electorate to take the place of those we've empowered to protect us against violence and mayhem. What is is, is evidence of our national refusal to listen to the voices of victims at Columbine High School and a theater in Aurora, Colorado.

If we could tune down the noise of our own convictions, we'd hear a voice shouting from the periphery of those convictions, "For the love of God, please, don't let this happen again." But we do. The gun lobby argues, "guns don't kill people, people kill people," and there's an element of truth in that. I've never seen an M-16 walking down the street, creating havoc. Not without a person at the butt end, pulling the trigger. Then again, what if they couldn't get hold of a semi-automatic weapon with a 30 round magazine in the first place? Would that really impinge on anyone's Second Amendment rights?

We treat gun ownership like pornography. We put up with Hustler because we want to be free to purchase a copy of The New Yorker or Road and Track at the grocery. We also regulate Hustler to keep it from falling into the hands of children. We presume the right to own an assault weapon secures our right to own the 12 gauge we take bird hunting in the fall. Maybe it does, but that doesn't mean anyone who wants one should have one. Mutual responsibility in a free society requires us, at key times, to limit the exercise of our freedoms for the sake of the common good. 

We regulate pornography better than we regulate guns. If we're going to honor the memory of those who've died tragically, we've got to change and we've got to start now.

(The West Wing citation from 20 Hours in America, (2002); GNU free documentation image of the Columbine High School Memorial via Wikipedia)

Taps

Today, I'm reprising a post from 2009 -- I hope you don't mind -- honestly, it's hard for me to say it any better, on Memorial Day, than this.

Memorial Day used to be less personal for me. Often, it was an opportunity to make the trek over the high mountain passes from Denver to the Western Slope and visit family in late May and early June when the peaks are still snow-covered and marmots (woodchucks to Mainers) are just starting to creep out of their burrows, rub their eyes and yawn, muttering one to another, "You snored all winter."

But Viet Nam altered the holiday's innocence, and once you start down a road you may not be able to turn back quite so easily. It's that way with a lot of things but, thankfully, though difficult -- damn difficult -- it doesn't have to be impossible. My cousin's husband was a decorated helicopter pilot, killed in the boundary-less jungle somewhere between South Viet Nam and Laos. He's buried at Ft. Logan National Cemetery in Denver and I found his name on the traveling Viet Nam memorial last year.

I was in my early teens at the time and had only met him once but the reality of his death and its impact on my immediate family was even more acutely felt when it came my turn to register for the draft. My friends and I watched the drawing that year with held breath. I thought I had a fairly high number, but my margin of safety vanished quickly. Finally, like a roulette wheel ticking down, the ball dropped into place three spaces beneath me.

Uncle Sam apparently decided this nephew needed an education rather than military service, and I was given a deferment to  finish high school and attend college. Over the years, however, because my father was a Disabled American Veteran (it was an injury rather than a wound incurred in the final days of WW-II), I spent quite a bit of time on one base or another, learning the ins and outs of Veteran's healthcare.

Memorial day came home to me in 2001 and I'm not talking about 9/11. My father passed away the previous late autumn and like my cousin's husband and now, my dear friend and coauthor, Dr. Lynn Smith, he is buried at Ft. Logan. They say a man never truly becomes a man until his father dies. I believe that's true. Until then, if he's fortunate enough to have a father who loves him, dad is always there. We make decisions on our own, we're responsible, we may even raise a family, but there's a change that occurs when a father dies and it's not until then that we finally begin to grow up. It's universal in my experience; I've never had a man who has gone through the loss of his father disagree with me.

So, there I was, on a cold day in November, with my father's flag-draped coffin immediately in front of me, while an honor guard showed him honor in slow motion. I thought I knew my father, but witnessing this, I felt as though I was seeing him for the first time. I'll never forget the moment one of them placed the carefully folded flag in my hands and saluted. I met his gaze and nodded. Seven rifles fired three times and a buglar sounded Taps. I looked over my shoulder at the rifles stacked as though at bivouac and realized I'd brought my father to rest among those with whom he'd served. Since then, I've never been able to hear Taps or see a military funeral, even depicted on television, without tears.

Memorial Day isn't a holiday for picnics, games, and visiting family -- not for me at least, not anymore. Wherever I am, whatever I'm doing, on this Day I'm really standing among thousands of white marble gravestones with the mountains to the west, wind blowing over the grass, and Taps being played somewhere in the distance.


(Creative Commons image of Ft. Logan National Cemetery via Wikipedia)

Lessons from Lance

If I'd had my druthers, as they say in Texas, Lance would have been on the podium in yellow today. I would have dearly loved to see that, just one more time. Not because winning is everything and I perceive this particular Tour de France as representing some kind of loss. It's because I wanted to see him overcome the odds once again. The funny thing is, he's already done that, by surviving cancer and winning the Tour seven years running. How many "A's" do you have to get before you no longer need to prove to the world you're a good student?

Commentators and sports writers have noted how relaxed and congenial Lance has seemed this year. I think he'd loved to have lead the Tour all the way to Paris but the falls and delays early on interfered. What I find interesting is the way he took it all in stride and ultimately refused to allow bad luck to create a bad attitude. One could say, being at the top of the pyramid he can afford the luxury of being a good sport, but frankly, I think he's matured to the point where he can put things in perspective.

I recall a conversation in which a fellow student and I were chatting about exams and I mentioned something about how good it felt to secure a passing grade. He said that was fine for a person "my age," but he was young and still had to live up to certain expectations. I explained the academic pressures were similar for us both and prior life achievements did not secure anyone a free ride in medical school. He agreed but also pointed out that, at this stage in life, grades were his primary means of demonstrating his capability.

I found it difficult to argue with him without seeming callous or insensitive, and as time has gone along, our common experiences have drawn us closer, erasing differences and highlighting similarities. We've gained a greater appreciation for the kinds of contributions each of us can make as well as for the "falls and delays" we've both encountered. I'm always amazed to see how we change and adapt, how finding ourselves toward the rear of the peloton, so to speak, and struggling our way to the finish -- forget about the sprint -- have created mutual respect.

I know, it's not the Tour, but we're gotten a few "lessons from Lance," just the same.


(GNU Free Documentation image via Wikipedia)

To Have Loved and Lost

"She said she was leaving because I loved myself more than her. How could she do this to me? She's the one who's selfish."

"It sounds like you're angry; anger is part of our normal response to loss and the experience of grief," I told him.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. I'm not nearly as angry as I am disappointed. I chose her carefully, thinking she could appreciate being treated like someone 'special.' Obviously, I made a mistake, and it's one I won't make again."

"You feel let down by the breakup, naturally. Surely, this must hurt a great deal."

"Not really. It's mostly that she refused to live up to my expectations. I really thought I'd picked the right one this time."

This is an imaginary dialogue that reflects conversations I've had with narcissistic persons of both genders, who've gone through the breakup of a relationship. What has baffled me, consistently, is the way they respond. While most persons feel sad, heartbroken, or become emotionally distraught, they seem to be offended. It's as though a breakup is perceived by them more as an insult than a loss.

I've wondered if their anger isn't defensive, an attempt to protect themselves from the emotional impact of the breakup. It certainly functions like that for most people to some extent. Lately, however, I've begun thinking the problem isn't that they don't wish to feel pain, but rather that they can't. For a loss to be painful, one has to have a sense of attachment to something or someone else. If an individual is unable to form emotional bonds with another, however they describe the experience of loss, it's not going to be painful in the same way most of us conceptualize it.

Depending on the role of the significant other -- a decoration or a resource -- their absence will be experienced, more or less severely, as a blow to the narcissist's self-esteem, suggesting s/he is somehow unworthy of undying adulation or unlimited support. And their response is, how dare someone deprive them of that to which they feel entitled? The inability to put themselves in the place of another, renders them unable to imagine how that individual might think of them differently from how they think of themselves.

This is not to say narcissistic types are unfeeling, but they do appear to feel differently about interpersonal losses. In a sense, one could say, it's not that they don't hurt, but they hurt for reasons that have less to do with being deprived of love than experiencing a wounded self image. Reflecting on this, it occurs to me how much more fortunate one can be, to have loved and known the distress of loss, than to never have realized what was before them. Perhaps, not even after it's gone.

Kim Yu-Na: Great Expectations

Image via Wikipedia

Yesterday I wrote about the my admiration for Joannie Rochette, skating through grief, her performance expressing her depth of feeling. I've also come to admire South Korea's Kim Yu-Na, whose Olympic struggle hasn't focused on the real presence of loss as much as its potential. Young, beautiful, famous and financially secure, she is a hero whose accomplishments have been incorporated into her country's sense of national pride. The pressure to win has to have been dizzying.

For us medical students, meeting the expectations of family, peers, or ourselves is difficult enough. We spend long hours in the lab, library, and exchange the warm embrace of lovers for late nights with warmed-over coffee, trying to learn what seems like ten thousand details for each exam. Forget the honors grade, sometimes a simple "pass" is cause for celebration.

It's no where near that easy for Kim. In a recent volume of essays, she wrote, ""If my performance falters, not only people around me but the whole nation might turn their back on me.(1)" Under normal circumstances, one might be tempted to ask if it could get that serious, but her own experience says otherwise. When she only received second place at an event in 2008, she said, "I got a flurry of text messages, but I felt sad and disappointed after checking them. Not a single message congratulated me.(2)"

I don't know about you, but I've never experienced anything quite like that. To say there was a lot riding on her performance this year is putting it so lightly as to be embarrassing. A personal best was out of the question; she had to be the best. And, thankfully, she was.

A recurring theme in my posts this week has been the meaning of Olympic participation aside from actually winning a medal. In a situation like Kim's, where the investment in one's performance is almost immeasurable, I'm in awe of her ability to cope and find courage and strength in what must have seemed at times, like a very dark place. For me, that's what the Olympics are all about. Life is too, sometimes, come to think of it.


(GNU Free Documentation image of Kim Yu-Na at the 2008 World Skating Championships via Wikipedia)

(Citations: (1) "Korean Skater Copes With Nation's Hopes," by Evan Ramstad, The Wall Street Journal, 2/22/20. (2) "Figure Skater Bears Weight of S. Korea's Expectations," by Nick McMaster, Newser.com.)

Chris Del Bosco: It's About Perseverance

When I was a kid, my favorite parts of a movie were typically the action sequences. I still feel that way, though to a lesser extent. I've grown to appreciate the stories behind the characters and therefore, what it means to them to be participants in the action. Their passion gives it significance. I feel the same way about the Olympics. The personal interest segments that interrupted my childhood absorption in the events, are now the very things I want to hear about most.

Ordinarily, these involve a family member with a chronic illness, the loss of one or both parents, a family overcoming financial difficulties and making sacrifices to drive hundreds of miles one way so a child can practice their sport. They're about people you'd like to have for neighbors, relatives, and best friends. People you talk about over dinner and wonder how they manage to do it all. Chris Del Bosco's, however, is one you don't generally talk about. Chris Del Bosco's story is about addiction.

He was fourteen when he had his first drink. At 17, he was kicked off the U.S. Ski Team for testing positive for marijuana. Over the next few years, he was arrested three times for driving under the influence and might have died one evening when he fell into an icy stream in his hometown of Vail, Colorado. A passing stranger saw him, called emergency services, and he awoke in the hospital with no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there.

Eventually, he got into treatment and has been sober the past three years. A chance encounter between his cousin's wife and a representative of the Canadian Ski-Cross team led to an offer and now, at 27, he's at the Olympics, his life beginning again, one day at a time. Keep in mind, there is no "ed" at the end of recovery, only an "ing." The process is ongoing with the end never in sight. But don't feel sorry for Chris; recovery isn't a burden, it's freedom. For the first time in a long time, he's in a position to address life on his own terms, not those dictated by alcohol.

Endurance measures how much we can take. Perseverance, how many times we get back up after we've been knocked down. Chris fell during his final run in the ski cross last night. As John Lennon said, "Life is what happens when you're making other plans." Not so very long ago, he might have resorted to drinking. That's no longer an option, not if he wants to live, and it looks to me like he does.

Recently, he said, "People were there when I needed help and told their stories. I'm in a place where I can help." Considering how far he's had to come, simply being in the Olympics is huge. Winning can be inspirational and falling at the critical moment heartbreaking, but that experience gives him just one more opportunity to get back up and show us we can do the same. It's another way of helping.

Perseverance. That's what he's about now. Go, Chris.



"For ski cross racer Del Bosco, new sport offered a fresh start," by Vicki Michaelis, USA Today, January 14, 2010, www.facesandvoicesofrecovery.org)

Lindsey Jacobellis: In the Public Eye

"I make my living off the evening news, just give me something -- something I can use, people love it when you lose, they love dirty laundry." ~ Don Henley

My heart goes out to Lindsey Jacobellis, the snowboarder who, the media tells us, was seeking gold in this year's Olympic Women's Snowboard Cross in order to redeem her failure in the same event in Torino. According to one commentator, she's had to endure four years of questions about why she celebrated her apparent victory too soon, slipped, and came in second, instead. As if the experience itself wasn't enough, she's called upon to relive and then explain or justify it to one reporter after another who believes they're going to uncover something we don't already know.

Following her accident yesterday when she struck a gate in the same event and was disqualified, the announcer said, in effect, there goes her opportunity for redemption. And now she'll have to cope with questions about that loss as well. I suppose it's the price one pays for being in the public eye, but that's often said by those who never take such risks to begin with. It takes a lot of nerve to put yourself forward, especially when you might fail and the whole world is watching.

I imagine there must have been times recently, when she wished there was a witness protection program for people who make simple mistakes. I've not only felt that way, I've been grateful no one from NBC or CNN was around to chronicle some of the one's I've made. It's bad enough wishing the ground would open up beneath you without having to dig for explanations you're not sure you can even give yourself.

I don't know what Lindsey wanted out of this year's Games, but it only seems reasonable that she might have liked to compete, do her best, and enjoy herself. I hope she's back in 2014 and able to forget the medals, the questions, and the expectations that don't matter anyway, and for a few shining seconds, sail down the mountain at break-neck speed, doing what she loves, with hope in her heart and wings on her heals. That would be sweet to see.


(Image of Lindsey Jacobellis at Vancouver by Getty Images via Daylife)

The Fisher King: Finding One's Center

Holy Grail in Valencia, Spain (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When we left him in yesterday's post, the Fisher King was doing the only thing that gave him relief from suffering -- fishing. As it turns out, he lives in the Grail Castle of Arthurian legend, wherein resides the Holy Grail. Every night, a procession takes place in the castle and the Grail, along with the lance that pierced the side of Christ, are brought forth. Anyone who is served from the Grail receives whatever s/he wishes, even if their desire has never been put into words. Anyone that is, except the king.

Unfortunately, there are some wounds that are unresponsive to simple solutions. A few weeks of cognitive-behavioral therapy might be sufficient to learn basic skills for coping with depression, but some things take time and deep cultivation to overcome. Wounds to the feeling function such as the king received as a youth are like that. Even a sip from the Cup of Christ cannot touch his pain.

Legend has it a young man will come, view the procession, and ask a question that has the power to alleviate the king's suffering and its effect on the kingdom. In other words, instead of focusing on the king's symptoms, he will direct attention to the core issue. The time for symptom management is long past; we need to find the cure.

Enter Parsifal, the innocent "fool" (see 1/24/09), who has been traveling the country, engaged in knight errantry much as the young king, years before. Seeking shelter one evening, he encounters an old man fishing in a lake who informs him there is no inn for miles. Should Parsifal wish, he may ride down the road a little further, take a left turn and cross the drawbridge, and stay the night in the castle. In order to fulfill his destiny and open the way for the king's healing, he will have to "turn left" and enter the realm of the unconscious mind (see 1/16/09).

Parsifal accepts the offer, witnesses the procession, but fails to ask the question. Why does he hold back at the critical moment? It may be because he does not know the question. He is still a youth and hasn't experienced the kinds of things that keep us awake at night, wondering what if? But there is something else, something beneath his armor, that works against him as well. Parsifal wears a garment of homespun made by his mother to protect him against the wiles of the world. Though he wishes to appear a man, the homespun signifies a desire to be nurtured and cared for by mother that is more appropriate to a younger age. He is not yet ready to ask the deepest questions of life.

Twenty years later, Parsifal once again finds himself in the woods near the Grail Castle, seeking shelter. He has spent his life rescuing maidens, slaying dragons, and living out the Knight's Tale. Now grown, he has finally put off his mother's homespun and learned to meet the world on its own terms. Once again, he is encouraged by a curious old man fishing in a lake, to ride down the road, turn left, cross the drawbridge, and spend the night in his castle. This time, however, he possesses the maturity to ask, "Whom does the Grail Serve?" At that moment, the king is healed of his wound and the kingdom is restored to vitality. Three days later, the king dies.

Boyishness is a wonderful quality and its spontaneity, exuberance, and delight in living can be vivifying in a man. But it needs to be coupled with depth and experience to be effective in dealing with such things as a wounded feeling function. Some men are never quite able to shed their homespun. There have a quality of indecision or uncertainty about them, especially in the clinches, that seems to say, "Life is too much for me." Having never let go of reliance on mother or mother figures, they are virtual boys in a man's body.

For most men, however, mid-life arrives carrying the baggage of loss -- perhaps a divorce or the death of a parent. Loss can be a gift that drags a man out of self-absorption, showing him how he may have wasted precious time, or missed important opportunities. He begins asking what has motivated him and how does he wish to spend the rest of his life. Questions like these place him in a position to ask whom the Grail serves. The answer, as you might have guessed, is something or someone greater than oneself.

When the young prince took a piece of salmon his thinking was ego-centered: "I'm hungry, there's no one around, why not?" He was untrue to his own sense of what was right -- in the grandiosity of youth, we often do things we come to regret, that wound us for years. Healing comes about with the recognition that living for ourselves, to appease the demands of our own appetites, isn't a sufficient basis for a meaningful approach to life. There has to be something more, something that transcends us, and gives life significance, savor, and meaning. The mature Parsifal could ask the question because he'd gained confidence, learned to provide for and care for himself, and knew what it meant to have his own questions.

When a woman or man finds a center outside themselves, whatever they choose that to be, they are in a position to gain the perspective to help identify what is truly important for them. Misplaced priorities can be clarified and the regrets associated with what is beyond recovery can be addressed, mourned and let go. The consequence of this curative process is a feeling function that can actually serve, rather than oppose us by generating weariness, anxiety, and depression. Uncovering and befriending our capacity for feeling enables us to become more human, more humane, more the persons we'd like to believe we are.

Or have always wanted to be.

The Fisher King: The Nature of the Problem

When The Fisher King is mentioned, most people think you're referring to the 1991 film starring Robin Williams and Jeff Bridges. Williams portrays a delusional derelict, tormented by the memory of his wife's death and Bridges is a former disc jockey struggling with guilt over a terrible mistake. Together, they work toward healing. The fairy tale, however, taks us in a different direction, albeit to the same goal. It is a powerful tale of masculine growth, wounding, and the attainment of maturity.

Once upon a time, there was a young prince riding about, doing deeds of knight errantry. One day he stumbled across a camp in the woods where a fire was burning with salmon on a spit. Seeing no one around, he was hungry, the salmon smelled wonderful, so he reached for a piece. It was so hot, it burnt his fingers and he dropped it. Putting his fingers in his mouth, as anyone might do, he got a taste of the salmon. This wounded him so badly that he was in agony the rest of his life, up to his final three days. Eventually, he became king of the realm, but his suffering was so great that he could not govern and the kingdom languished. The only time his pain became bearable was when he went fishing, so that's how he spent his days, fishing in a boat in the castle moat. Hence, the name, Fisher King.

In some way, the young prince was stricken at the point of his masculinity. Other versions of the story have him wounded by an arrow in the testicle or injured in the thigh when the campers return. In any case, his ability to be generative was affected and the wound left him feeling cold throughout the remainder of his life. The German version describes him as too ill to live and yet, unable to die. The King's wound represents impairment in his feeling function. 

Feeling is what gives life meaning, joy, and creates a sense of purpose and fulfillment. When feeling is wounded, it is as though the flavor has gone out of life and no amount of achievement, material success, or extravagance will restore it. Furthermore, a man's "kingdom," i.e. his family, job performance, and overall well-being suffer along with him. His wife may describe him as emotionally unavailable, his children complain dad is never home. Although this kind of wounding affects men at any age, it shows up most often from the mid-30s onwards.

Recent reports suggest men are more satisfied in mid-life than ever before. This makes sense from the perspective that we're generally established in a career, the kids are either in or soon will be in college, and we have new possibilities ahead of us. However, men I know and have known -- doctors, attorneys, corporate officers, teachers, ministers, and blue collar workers -- all admit, when the news media has gone home and we're being completely honest, to an inner sense of emptiness despite all they possess. There just doesn't seem to be enough doing to fill up what's missing. They know they have opportunities or feel they should, and they're mystified over the fact that attaining the American Dream has left them wondering, "Is this all there is?"

We'll get to the cure tomorrow; for now, we have to address symptoms. Just as for the young king, fishing is our treatment of choice, speaking metaphorically. Whatever puts a man in touch with his inner self will do. It may be writing, music, running, or walking the dog. It doesn't matter what form it takes as long as it permits a man to get a feeling for what's going on under the surface of all his activity.

For some men, awareness of the interior self is more accessible by noticing how their bodies feel. It may be a tightness in the gut, persistent muscle aches, disrupted sleep, loss of sex drive, or an ongoing sense that something isn't right. What the mind can't express, the body will. However we approach it, healing the feeling function begins with the knowledge that something is wrong and gain that insight by paying attention to ourselves. Men can be resistant: at times it takes a crisis to get us off the dime, but once we're listening, there's hope.



(Creative Commons image by Jeff Kubina via Flickr)

The Handless Maiden

"Do yourself a favor: put aside logic and do what feels right." ~ Mr. Spock (Star Trek 2009)

Depth psychologists such as Robert A. Johnson have long lamented the wounding of the feeling function in contemporary society. Fairy tale imagery provides a vivid way of envisioning how readily we may abandon our capacity for feeling, leaving ourselves diminished and unfulfilled. The story of The Handless Maiden reveals how this may occur among women and also men.

Once upon a time there was a miller who, with his wife and daughter, owned a mill. One day the devil appeared and offered the miller increased production and wealth in exchange for what lay behind the mill. The miller agreed and things went very well. Three years later, the devil appeared again, wishing his due. The miller thought an old tree stood behind the mill and he'd get away with the best part of the deal. In fact, it was his daughter. Unwilling to give up his now more profitable mill, he turns over his daughter and the devil takes her hands in payment.

Although cared for by her family, she becomes depressed and one day, wanders into the forest where she grows hungry. Coming upon a pear orchard, she manages to eat, but is discovered. The king is summoned and when he sees who has been eating his pears, he is moved with compassion for her missing hands. They fall in love, wed, and he orders silver hands to be made for her, so great is his affection.
 
Now the wonder of the kingdom, people come from far and wide to see her lovely hands. Eventually, she has a child whom she yearns to hold and care for, but of course, she is unable. The king, a good but typical husband, tries to solve the problem by reassuring her that servants can perform this task for her. Even in fairy tales, we men want to fix things. 

One day, while picnicking near a river, her child falls in the water. In great distress, she calls for help but there is no one near. Without thinking, she thrusts her silver hands into the water and lo! they are changed magically into real ones. She saves her child and coincidentally, herself as well.

The devil's offer is deceptive. Thinking he might get something for nothing, the miller accepts only to find himself having to choose between she who should have been his greatest treasure and his pocketbook. From the outset, The Handless Maiden presents us with conflicting values. By choosing profit over his daughter, the miller represents the sacrifice of feeling for material gain. His sense of values is twisted, misplaced, and his daughter pays the price. 

The miller's daughter possesses dual significance. Taking the story more literally, she represents those who are vulnerable, who may become victims of outdated social customs or the unscrupulous. On a deeper level, she represents the feeling function, i.e. our capacity for knowing and preserving our values and making decisions based upon them. When women do not receive equal pay for equal work, it is because they and their contributions are considered of lesser value than those of a man in the same position. When we fail to do what we think is right because of what others might think, when we fail to stand up for the disadvantaged, when we fail to speak out against prejudice and ignorance, we handicap our feeling function.

For men, the sacrifice of the young feminine produces a sense of worthlessness, loneliness, and malaise. We know something important has been given up and the exchange leaves us cold. For women, it represents frustration and helplessness over being treated as second-rate outside the realms of courting and child-bearing. Even when the maiden finds the right man, one who recognizes her woundedness and does all in his power to help, she is still powerless to act on her own. Her silver hands, signifying wealth and beauty, result in her being on display.

Her healing or redemption comes about only when she takes action on her own behalf. Unable to summon help in time to save her child, she does what she alone could do, and that act is transforming. When society and culture collude to deprive women and men of their capabilities in the name of profit or convenience, it is the feeling function that suffers.

Being cared for, being on display, is an inadequate basis for self-worth. As a queen, the maiden had all the assistance she could ask for, but it still wasn't enough. She wanted to touch and feel for herself. The values of her culture, though acceptable in the beginning (she does not object to the loss of her hands), have become far too restrictive. She needs to be free to define herself on her own terms. Reclaiming the feeling function, for both women and men, is a place to begin.

It's Not About Explanations

For the portion of my career when I was a graduate student, I spent a lot of time writing about what other people thought. I guess that's to be expected, since graduate school is supposed to develop expertise in a particular subject and what better way to do that than become familiar with what other experts have said. In what often seemed like an ocean of term papers, I learned to amass references and synthesize arguments.
In retrospect, it was like being a minor character in Ayn Rand's novel, The Fountainhead. Without going into detail, Rand's hero, Howard Roark, is an architect who wished to design and build following his own ideas. The prevailing opinion, however, insists Greek and Roman architecture represents the pinnacle of architectural achievement and the best we can do is learn and imitate their principles.

My Howard Roark was a professor I met at Southern Methodist University who said of my first seminar paper, "This is fine, now what's your argument?" I was at a loss because, frankly, not only did I not have one, I had no idea how to begin making one. I was good at cataloging but as far as having an original idea and using the reading material to support it, in the immortal words of my father, I was up the creek without a paddle.

It took several years, in fact, for Dr. Roark's wisdom to sink in. It's very easy to feel inadequate and fall back to the safe position of being "just a student." But throwing ideas onto the table is how we transition from being a gatherer of information to a participant in the argumentative process.

And that brings us back to my topic of the past two days. When it comes to explaining and resolving the presence of evil in the world, I don't have a definitive solution. Or let's put it this way, I don't have one that covers every point in a logically consistent manner. But neither does anyone else, as far as I can see, so I'm in good company.

What I've learned in some thirty years of pastoral ministry, psychotherapy, and dealing with people in daily life is, most of the time such solutions don't really matter. When an avalanche sweeps a husband against the side of a mountain, burying him in literally tons of snow and ice (see post of 11/12/09), no one cares how you solve the problem of evil. They ask why does this happen, how could God let it happen, what have we done to deserve this. Even if you or I were God-like enough to know, that's not what they want to hear.

What they want -- what we all want -- is for suffering to be meaningful. Where meaning is not readily apparent, we have to find it for ourselves by wrestling with suffering and draining every ounce of significance from the experience. Whether individually or collectively, it's really not about explanations, especially in those situations where there are none to be found. Instead, we want to feel our suffering is worthwhile and something good will come of it. There's nothing theoretical about that.


Rodrigo Paoletti via Flickr)

The Girl with the Auburn Hair

Image by Linds :) via Flickr

For years it never really crossed his mind. Life had moved on and so had he. First, junior high, then high school, and college after that. Only when he tried and failed at love did the memory surface and then with the peculiar sadness that accompanies the losses of childhood. Her note had read, "I like you, do you like me?" There were spaces where he might check yes or no and despite feeling he was making a big mistake, he checked "no." He'd had a crush on another girl since first grade and even though it was one-way, he still cared and didn't want to lie.

It was the first time a girl had even so much as hinted that she liked him. Interestingly, just days before, she'd tackled him and rubbed his face in the dirt while playing a game of "girls against boys." He, in turn, once free, had slugged her. The ways of the heart are inscrutable. Maybe she liked him for standing up for himself. He never found out because, of course, he had checked "no," and then school was over and life moved on.

In his second year of college, one warm spring Saturday evening, he was invited to a student gathering -- more than a party, less than a convention. A vocal ensemble performed, someone spoke, and there was time for socializing. During the music portion, he thought he recognized one of the singers. It had been a long time but she looked like a grown up version of someone he'd known, once upon a time.

Curiosity overcoming his natural shyness, he approached her afterward and asked if she had been the girl who surreptitiously passed him that third grade note. She admitted it was and said she'd recognized him as well. Far prettier than he remembered, she was tall and slender, with auburn hair that fell just short of the collar of her blouse. Their conversation was brief and he was left feeling he had been right, checking "no" was a mistake, but how could he have known? Back to the Future was still in Spielberg's imagination and there was no Doc Brown to remind him the past is not set, so he said something nondescript like, "It's been great seeing you," and turned to leave.

Getting into his car, however, what is clear to you and me, finally hit him like a ton of bricks. As he had never quite forgotten her, neither had she forgotten him. This is crazy, he thought, as he reached into the glove box and taking a piece of paper, quickly scribbled, "Is it too late?" with a blank for "yes" and one for "no."

Back inside, he walked over to where she stood, chatting with friends, and silently slipped the note into her hand. She looked down and read, smiled at the memory, then at him. "Do you have a pen?" she asked. He pulled one from his pocket and watched while she firmly checked "no" and added the words, "We're going for pizza. Would you like to come?" with the familiar blanks.

And this time, he checked, "Yes."

9/11 -- The Morning After

The morning after 9/11 was slightly different from the morning of. The initial shock wearing off, anger was beginning to plaster over the cracks that appeared in my emotional foundation from the previous day's earthquake. Students at my college appeared oddly normal as they went from class to coffee bar -- the conversation was anything but. Overnight everyone seemed more subdued, more serious, more adult.

While standing in line to pay for my usual wheat bagel and French Roast, a student I'd never met turned and said, "I guess it won't be long before we're not doing this, huh?" I looked quizzical and he responded, "Military food, we're all going to be in a chow line." Looking at me a little closer, he went on, "Yeah, man, even you -- they'll have a place for older guys. We're all in this together."

I took a deep breath and thought about what he'd said. I was about a year short of completing premedical studies but I thought I might be lucky enough to get into the medical corps as a medic. I had a cousin with some influence in the Marines -- he might put in a good word. Then I thought about family, my dogs, and putting my house in order.

None of this ever came to fruition, but it doesn't alter the fact that this is h

Image via Wikipedia

ow it was. The course of life didn't change for most of us, at least not in the way we anticipated. I finished my program, got a job as a psychotherapist, wrote a book, and my cousin went on to be awarded a Bronze Star for bravery in Iraq. He's home now, thankfully, with his wife and four children, that part of his life logged in memory.

It seems like it's taken us a long time to work through the grief process over 9/11. We acted out our national rage in a war that remains unresolved. Instead of experiencing catharsis, the release of pent up emotion, we've cooked up a recipe that leaves us feeling nauseated. Healing can be a messy business. Scar formation takes time and the more serious the wound, the longer it takes. I think we're still working at it, but we'll get there -- eventually.


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Grief and Loss: "Signs" and "Knowing"

Image by jasonsewell via Flickr

I've never played roulette. Truth be told, the closest I've come to the inside of a casino is a James Bond movie. Well, we could also include Oceans Eleven. I'm bringing this up because, in the films Signs and Knowing, the lead character (Mel Gibson and Nicholas Cage, respectively), determines at some point that life is kind of like existential roulette. People get lucky or they don't.

As the stories unfold, Gibson and Cage have lost their wives in auto accidents and neither one is handling his grief well. Gibson has left the ministry and withdrawn to his farm; Cage is drinking. Each has made up his mind that life is more or less the result of random events and neither is very happy about it. It's not that they've thought through the arguments and arrived at a conclusion -- this isn't about philosophy. Their wives have died unexpectedly, they felt helpless to do anything about it, and they're just plain angry.

Grief makes everyone angry -- or rather, everyone gets angry when they're grieving. Angry at themselves, angry over the circumstances, angry at whoever has died (or left, if that's the case), angry at God, or anyone who happens to be in the way. It's partly how we cope.

What I like about these two films is the manner in which resolution is depicted. There's nothing miraculous; no bright light, no heavenly choir, no overt sentimentality telling us they're going to be fine. Instead, each character is drawn out of his private hell by circumstances that lead him to rely on those he loves (who, incidentally also grieve to some extent). For whatever reason, both characters had been keeping their grief to themselves and it was killing the hope out of them. By sharing it, they found the resources to face life and whatever comes along with it. It's a good message, one well worth taking to heart.

Taps

Memorial Day used to be less personal for me. Often, it was an opportunity to make the trek over the high mountain passes from Denver to the Western Slope and visit family in late May and early June when the peaks are still snow-covered and marmots (woodchucks to Mainers) are just starting to creep out of their burrows, rub their eyes, and yawn, muttering one to another, "You snored all winter."

But Viet Nam altered the holiday's innocence, and once you start down a road you may not be able to turn back quite so easily. It's that way with a lot of things but, thankfully, though difficult -- damn difficult -- it doesn't have to be impossible. My cousin's husband was a helicopter pilot who was killed in the boundary-less jungle somewhere between South Viet Nam and Laos. He's buried at Ft. Logan National Cemetery in Denver and I found his name on the traveling Viet Nam memorial last year.

I was in my early teens at the time and had only met him once but the reality of his death and its impact on my family became more acute when it was my turn to register for the draft. My friends and I watched the drawing that year with held breath. I thought I had a fairly high number, but my margin of safety vanished quickly. Finally, like a roulette wheel ticking down, the ball dropped into place three spaces beneath me.

Uncle Sam apparently decided this nephew needed an education rather than military service, and I was given a deferment to finish high school and attend college. Over the years, however, because my father was a Disabled American Veteran (it was an injury rather than a wound incurred in the final days of WW-II), I spent quite a bit of time on one base or another, learning the ins and outs of Veteran's healthcare.

Memorial day came home to me in 2001 and I'm not talking about 9/11. My father passed away the previous late autumn and like my cousin's husband and now, my dear friend and coauthor, Dr. Lynn Smith, he was buried at Ft. Logan. They say a man never truly becomes a man until his father dies. I believe that's true. Until then, if he's fortunate enough to have a father who loves him, dad is always there. We make decisions on our own, we're responsible, we may even raise a family, but there's a change that occurs when a father dies and it's not until then that we finally begin to grow up. It's universal in my experience; I've never had a man who has gone through the loss of his father disagree with me.

So, there I was, on a cold day in November, with my father's flag-draped coffin immediately in front of me, while an honor guard showed him honor in slow motion. I'll never forget the moment one of them placed the carefully folded flag in my hands and saluted. I met his gaze and nodded. Seven rifles fired three times and a buglar sounded Taps. I looked over my shoulder at the rifles stacked as though at bivouac and realized I'd brought my father to rest among those with whom he'd served. Since then, I've never been able to hear Taps or see a military funeral, even depicted on television, without tears.

Memorial Day isn't a holiday for picnics, games, and visiting family -- not for me at least, not anymore. Wherever I am, whatever I'm doing, on this Day I'm really standing among thousands of white marble gravestones, the mountains to the west, with wind blowing over the grass.

And Taps is being played somewhere in the distance.



(Creative Commons image of Ft. Logan National Cemetery via Wikipedia)

To Blame or Not to Blame, That Is the Question

Sometimes we just can't seem to help ourselves. You know what I mean. You're going along, minding your own business, and then you do something that you swore you'd never do again. It doesn't have to be anything "big" and it usually isn't. The things that trip us up are most often the things we take for granted.

So, we kick ourselves for falling victim to the wiles of human nature and swear one more time, things are going to be different. And, guess what? They're not. We do whatever it is again. Now some folks would say this is typical of everyone, it should be expected, and why worry about it? Well, anytime we're concerned about something we're doing, it's generally because it causes some discomfort or it has the potential to do so. My psychologist friend, the late John P. Smith used to describe pain as the universal motivator. We might like to think we'll change because of some anticipated benefit but more often than not, it's because we're tired of doing something that's painful.

But you'd think we'd eventually start to get some things right. Surely, after enough experience, hours in therapy or whatever, we'd figure out what we need to do in order to alter our behavior once and for all. Just be done with it. And then, without realizing it, there we go again.

Is this addiction? Do we just like to suffer? Perhaps some are and some do, but I don't think that applies to most of us. I think most of us are genuinely distressed when we find ourselves subject to what classical writers might call the "weakness of the flesh." And we'd honestly like to do something about it. So, we proceed to beat ourselves up and promise to be more disciplined in the future.

I'm starting to think all that self-recrimination really does is strengthen whatever it is we're trying to overcome. The more we blame ourselves the more blameworthy we feel. It's hard to do better when you feel badly. So, what if we try forgiving ourselves instead? There's a lot of power in forgiveness. For one thing, when we forgive, we move toward reconcilliation and reconcilliation is one more step toward healing.

It's easier to blame, that's for sure, and moral outrage seems to demand it. But forgiveness brings renewal and my guess is, most of us could use a good dose of it, having administered ourselves more than one bitter teaspoon of blame. Anyhow, it's a place to start.

Seven Pounds, Guilt, and Suicide

Now and then, writing is as easy as watching the golden eagles sail over the hayfield. Lately, four of them have stopped by for a visit and they are incredible guests. Tip to tip, their wing span must be five feet and the shadows they cast on the ground make me feel like I've stepped into a scene from Jurassic Park with the pterodactyls in flight. Then there are times when writing is simply hard work. Today's post is one of those; I've been struggling with it for nearly three days.

It all started Sunday evening when I watched the 2008 Will Smith film Seven Pounds on DVD. I like Will Smith a great deal and particularly enjoyed his portrayal of the off-beat super hero Hancock. He is incredible in Seven Pounds but I can't talk about his role without referring to an earlier one that featured the late Bobby Darin. Darin was a popular singer in the 1960s and the subject of the 2004 Kevin Spacey biopic, Beyond the Sea.
 
Darin co-stars in the 1963 film, Captain Newman, MD with Gregory Peck, a story about an army psychiatrist in the closing days of World War II. Darin's character was a gunner on a B-17 shot down over Europe and he is dominated by a tremendous sense of guilt for having abandoned his best friend to die in the crash. In truth, there was nothing he could have done -- the plane exploded soon after impact, but instead of turning back at his friend's cry for help, he ran for his life.

At one point in their psychotherapy, Newman (Peck) suggests his guilt demands penance and perhaps cutting off a foot or hand would be sufficient. "That's crazy, Doc," says Darin, "You're nuts! That won't bring Big Jim back."

"Neither will all the things you're doing to torture yourself," replies Newman.

Perhaps it's because Darin had someone who was willing to face the pain with him, but he found a way to see it for what it was. In Seven Pounds, Will Smith's character never takes the time to look. A tragic accident, the result of a moment his eyes left the road to focus on his cell phone, claimed the life of his wife and seven others. Throughout the remainder of the film, Smith searches for individuals whom he deems worthy of life and systematically, he gives one his home and to the rest, a portion of his lung, a kidney, part of his liver, and following his suicide, his corneas and heart. Quite literally, Smith tries to pay off his guilt piece by piece.

The filmmakers describe the movie as a redemption story and I suspect Smith's character was intended to appear incredibly generous. But this isn't redemption: it's punishment and Smith's character acts as judge, jury, and executioner.

What concerns me about this film is the way it romanticizes suicide, and maybe in Hollywood, suicide is romantic. Maybe in that place where reality is replaced by fantasy, things don't hurt that badly. But in the real world, suicide is far from romantic. I've had to make the phone call and inform someone their son-daughter-wife-husband has killed themselves. All the king's horses and all the king's men are never quite able to put Humpty Dumpty together again, just so. Suicide leaves scars and those who are left behind have to live with them.

If there is anything redemptive about Seven Pounds it's this: when someone has experienced a loss, when they appear sad and irritable all at once, and begin giving treasures away, don't hesitate to be nosy. Don't hesitate to call for help, especially if they tell you everything's fine and you aren't convinced. They may become angry and accuse you of "meddling," and you may not think they'll get over it, but at least they'll be alive and the potential for reconcilliation will be there. Yes, Smith's character made a contribution to the lives of persons in the film, but we'll never know how many more he could have helped had he lived. 

The Time Machine

For years, one of my favorite films has been The Time Machine (1960) with Rod Taylor. I'm grateful to Turner Classic Movies for showing the wide-screen version periodically and giving me the opportunity to feel nine years old again. A remake was done in 2002 with more advanced special effects and a different twist on the story. 

In the 1960 version, the hero yearns to discover a world where war and pestilence have been overcome. Instead, he finds people are the same whether they're from his time or the distant future. The film also makes a strong anti-nuclear war statement. In the 2002 version, the hero witnesses the death of his fiance and attempts to use his time machine to save her life. Unsuccessful, he sets course for the future wondering why he can't change the past.

The film answers his question to some extent by implying that some events are beyond alteration. When the hero manages to prevent his fiance's death by one means, another takes its place. It's as though history has predetermined her death at that moment, by hook or by crook. Eighty thousand years down the road he discovers the only influence he has at all is on the course of the future.

Now the truth is, I'm not so sure we can't change the past. Certainly, I would admit we can't materially alter the events that constitute history, but when we change who we are, do we not change the past in some way? When we detoxify the elements of a personal or cultural history and behave differently, is it possible the effects extend backwards as well as forwards? I think they do. If I can look back and reinterpret what has taken place in the light of who I am now, I give my history new meaning and significance. As a result, instead of it being a lead weight around my neck, the past becomes the impetus for living well.

There is a wonderful line carved into the facade of the National Archives: "What is Past is Prologue." I'm beginning to think what is past is also perception, and if history is an organic unity that combines what has been with what is and what is yet to come, then inherent in my perceptions is the power to remake history. And that's pretty incredible.