himself with a rainbow of flavors.
It was only after Miriam`s death that the reversal must have occurred. In the ten
years since the car crash took her from him, he had cherished her more than while she
was alive. Julius sometimes heaved with despair when he thought of how his lush
contentment with Miriam, the true idyllic soaring moments of life, had come and gone
without his fully grasping them. Even now, after a decade, he could not speak her name
quickly but had to pause after each syllable. He knew also that no other woman would
ever really matter to him. Several women temporarily dispelled his loneliness, but it
didn`t take long for him, and for them, to realize they would never replace Miriam. More
recently, his loneliness was attenuated by a large circle of male friends, several of whom
belonged to his psychiatric support group, and by his two children. For the past few years
he had taken all his vacationsen famille with his two children and five grandchildren.
But all these thoughts and reminiscences had been only nocturnal trailers and short
subjects—the main feature of the night`s mentation had been a rehearsal of the speech he
would deliver to the therapy group later that afternoon.
He had already gone public about his cancer to many of his friends and his
individual therapy patients, yet, curiously, he was painfully preoccupied with his «coming
out» in the group. Julius thought it had something to do with his being in love with his
therapy group. For twenty–five years he had looked forward eagerly to every meeting.
The group was more than a clump of people; it had a life of its own, an enduring
personality. Though none of the original members (except, of course, he himself) was
still in the group, it had a stable persisting self, a core culture (in the jargon, a unique set
of «norms»—unwritten rules) that seemed immortal. No one member could recite the
group norms, but everyone could agree whether a certain piece of behavior was
appropriate or inappropriate.
The group demanded more energy than any other event of his week, and Julius had
labored mightily to keep it afloat. A venerable mercy ship, it had transported a horde of
tormented people into safer, happier harbors. How many? Well, since the average stay
was between two and three years, Julius figured at least a hundred passengers. From time
to time, memories of departed members wafted through his mind, snippets of an
interchange, a fleeting visual image of a face or incident. Sad to think that these wisps of
memory were all that remained of rich vibrant times, of events bursting with so much
life, meaning, and poignancy.
Many years ago Julius had experimented with videotaping the group and playing
back some particularly problematic interchanges at the next meeting. These old tapes
were in an archaic format no longer compatible with contemporary video playback
equipment. Sometimes he fancied retrieving them from his basement storage room,
having them converted, and bringing departed patients back to life again. But he never
did; he couldn`t bear exposing himself to proof of the illusory nature of life, how it was
warehoused on shiny tape and how quickly the present moment and every moment to
come will fade into the nothingness of electromagnetic wavelets.
Groups require time to develop stability and trust. Often a new group will spin off
members who are unable, for reasons of either motivation or ability, to engage in the
group task (that is, interacting with other members and analyzing that interaction). Then
it may go through weeks of uneasy conflict as members jockey for position of power,
centrality, and influence, but eventually, as trust develops, the healing atmosphere grows
in strength. His colleague, Scott, had once likened a therapy group to a bridge built in
battle. Many casualties (that is, dropouts) had to be taken during the early formative
stage, but once the bridge was built it conveyed many people—the remaining original
members and all those who subsequently joined the group—to a better place.
Julius had written professional articles about the various ways that therapy groups
helped patients, but he always had difficulty in finding the language to describe the truly
crucial ingredient: the group`s healing ambience. In one article he likened it to
dermatological treatments of severe skin lesions in which the patient was immersed into
soothing oatmeal baths.
One of the major side benefits of leading a group—a fact never stated in the
professional literature—is that a potent therapy group often heals the therapist as well as
the patients. Though Julius had often experienced personal relief after a meeting, he
never was certain of the precise mechanism. Was it simply a result of forgetting himself
for ninety minutes, or of the altruistic act of therapy, or of enjoying his own expertise,
feeling proud of his abilities, and enjoying the high regard of others? All of the above?
Julius gave up trying to be precise and for the past few years accepted the folksy
explanation of simply dipping into the healing waters of the group.
Going public with his melanoma to his therapy group seemed a momentous act. It
was one thing, he thought, to be open with family, friends, and all the other folks residing
backstage, but quite another to unmask himself to his primary audience, to that select
group for whom he had been healer, doctor, priest, and shaman. It was an irreversible
step, an admission that he was superannuated, a public confession that his life no longer
spiraled upward toward a bigger, brighter future.
Julius had been thinking a good bit of the missing member, Pam, now traveling
and not due to return for a month. He regretted she would not be there today for his
disclosure. For him, she was the key member of the group, always a comforting, healing
presence for others—and for him as well. And he felt chagrined by the fact that the group
had not been able to help with her extreme rage and obsessional thinking about her
husband and an ex–lover and that Pam, in desperation, had sought help at a Buddhist
meditation retreat in India.
And so, heaving and churning with all these feelings, Julius entered the group
room at four–thirty that afternoon. The members were already seated and poring over
sheets of paper which were whisked out of sight when Julius entered.
Odd, he thought. Was he late? He took a quick look at his watch. Nope, four–thirty
on the dot. He put it out of mind and began the recitation of his prepared statement.
«Well, let`s get started. As you know, I never make a practice of starting the
meeting, but today`s an exception because there`s something I need to get off my chest,
something that`s hard for me to say. So here goes.
«About a month ago I learned that I have a serious, I`ll be frank, more than
serious—a life–threatening form of skin cancer, malignant melanoma. I thought I was in
good health; this turned up at a recent routine physical exam....»
Julius stopped. Something was off kilter: The members` facial expression and
nonverbal language weren`t right. Their posture was wrong. They should have been
turned toward him; focusing on him; instead no one fully faced him, no one met his gaze,
all eyes were averted, unfocused, except for Rebecca, who covertly studied the sheet of
paper in her lap.
«What`s happening?» asked Julius. «I feel like I`m not making contact. You all
seem preoccupied with something else today. And, Rebecca, what is it that you`re
