The "L" word, Sex

Those of you who read this blog regularly know that I rarely use the "S" word.

That John Lennon Song, Mind Games

And yet, here we are, associating it with the "L" word, Love. Is that even politically correct?

Sex in some relationships has been described as marital glue. It is what keeps many couples together when all else fails. Sometimes, it shouldn't, keep them together. Sometimes we're glad it did.

It sells.  Boy, does sex sell. It would seem that without it, nothing sells.

Twenty-five percent of divorced couples blame sex.

People like me are called upon to treat it, to treat problems with it, problems about it (cheating, sexual assault).  You would think everybody wants it, sex, but that's certainly not true at all.

Some merely want to express love in a physical way, and that it can be, an expression.

We've discussed how to use code to signal one's willingness for it, how that can be romantic.

"Honey, come into the bedroom, I have something I want you to look at."  

Or perhaps better,

"Kids, we're taking a nap.  Keep the fighting down."  

Other posts about it have suggested that problems with the mechanics, especially, are usually problems with communication. It is also difficult to communicate about because what we want feels so . . . private. To communicate about private things we have to feel safe, we have to trust. We all have numerous reasons not to do that, not to trust. Yet trust in a relationship that is sexual is everything.

Ironically, many singles assume sex to be a natural, safe part of their relationship. They trust too much and sometimes get burned, come to therapy to talk about it. That lovely piece of themselves, the part that trusted others in relationships erodes, changes. That is something to mourn.

But it is a coming of age thing, too. We really shouldn't trust just anyone. And trust, guess what-- has to be earned-- usually over time.  Lots of time.

A sex therapy is a type of relationship therapy. Meaning it is about both, trust and communication, that old faithful of any therapy, really.  If a couple can't communicate about how to load a dishwasher, then communicating about their most sensitive desires is going to be difficult, too.

"This way!"
"NO! This way!"

Not loving, not at all.

Oh, let me segue, it's my blog. 

I am always amazed at how the Old Mighty determined the male and female anatomy to be so different. (The Old Mighty is the way my grandfather referred to the Creator of the Universe). She worked it so that we have no intuitive knowledge about how the apparatus (fine, anatomy) of the opposite sex operates, even feels.*  Here we are, so alike, and yet in this difference, and those differences in our brains, we're only able to empathize with one another if we talk pointedly about ourselves. Leave the code at home.

My hunch is that we're made differently because where there is pleasure, cheap, clean, unadulterated pleasure, we are motivated to communicate to share it.

And the beat goes on.

I want to blame television, the movies.  In the media it seems to be all about intercourse, nothing else.  Someone doing someone. Even this language, seriously.  Doing? Think of the scenes you've seen on Madmen or another show. Doesn't the emphasis seem to be on penis-vagina sex, except for an occasional on-your-knees job, a sacrifice to make someone happy.

As a young trainee at Loyola University Medical School's Sexual Dysfunction Clinic in the 80's, I almost fell off my chair when Domeena Renshaw, a pioneer in the field, pronounced,

"Only one in five couples have successful intercourse." (Meaning both partners experience orgasm.)  "We just aren't made that way." (Meaning that we will both be satisfied during intercourse.)

Then she proceeded to show us slides that clearly indicate that the clitoris isn't in a physiological position to be especially excited by the penis. Location, location, location.  During intercourse the clitoris, the female center of arousal, isn't stimulated directly by the penis. The male's sex organ is sexy, certainly unto himself, but not to the clitoris.

Now of course you will argue this, because Mr. P is sexy, and beautiful, and can be involved in the pleasuring process as a willing, delightful participant. And the more compliments he gets, the happier he is, as is his wearer, who enjoys an improved body ego. And that's an important thing, I think, for both partners, loving their bodies and communicating admiration and love for what are probably the strangest parts.

That alone is a pick me up for Mr. P, encourages him to stand up and be counted. (Fine, I'll stop).

Mr. P's self-esteem (I couldn't stop, sorry) falls quickly if he feels the success of the party depends upon him, that the responsibility is all his. Ms. C. feels the same way when the circumstances are reversed.

So sex therapists will discuss this, the importance of relating lovingly, admiringly, giving as well as taking,  participating in a mutual process of pleasuring.  We suggest, too, that because of complementary anatomies, the way we are made, it is foreplay that matters most, not intercourse, no matter how it is demonstrated on television. The director of the show has no need to show the foreplay; the sponsors are waiting.

The largest organ of the body is the skin, and it needs attention in all kinds of places, not just those naughty bits that Monty Python used to tease about. Foreplay is all about that, the rest of the body.

But we can't assume that even this, touching other parts, other areas of skin, will be a good thing. We need permission, an invitation really, to touch someone, even if we're partners. It may be covert permission. We may already have it. After years, some of us merely know. Permission granted. Without permission, some people get very anxious at the very idea, being touched.

So let's say that permission is granted.  There are potential problems, however, permissions aside. In many cases Mr. P will be to blame for not cooperating. We'll talk about that case right now.

A young man, could be you, could be your brother, your son, your friend, calls a therapist for help.  Hopefully, he thinks, this is a sex therapist. The therapist, who has marketed herself with all the right Google key words, might hear that he wants sex therapy but might hedge her advice.

 If you are not in a committed relationship it is likely to be an evaluation, not sex therapy, not from me, anyway. 

Why? What's this?! It doesn't seem fair at all!  How is someone supposed to get into a committed relationship while being a failure at sex?

Excellent point, which is why we schedule the visit, not wanting to be unfair, and evaluate, maybe even suggest a treatment plan. But these recommendations are likely to have little or nothing to do with the mechanics of sex. They are relationship recommendations.

Our young man has never had real relationship problems, or problems with sex. He has had partners before his current relationship. He does not use drugs or drink. His parents are together and seem happy and he has never heard sex as a dirty word.  In his current relationship he is losing his erection because he is suddenly very anxious while putting on a condom.  He has an anxiety problem, he says, but only about performing in the sack and only in this relationship.

This is pretty common, losing an erection, or in the case of females, losing focus. Men often lose theirs in the process of putting on a condom. Getting back to the party feels like starting over.

So start over, we say. 

Whenever this happens, erections, arousal, drifting away, a couple is instructed to start over.

"And is she helping you at this point, when you both notice what you're labeling as a problem?" asks the therapist.

"What do you mean, helping?" He is lost.

"Well, either emotionally or physically. Either by loving you with words or actions.  Are you telling her what she could do to get you back into this?"

No, of course not.  She is expecting him to get it up.   After all, this is his job. Her pleasure is supposedly within his agency.

It is so backward, I feel. We used to have this expression, not popular, apparently today, not in the age of Fifty Shades of Gray, that you have to be responsible for your own orgasm.

Taking responsibility for one's own climax means many things, among them wanting to feel in the mood when we know our partner is in the mood or certainly will be, preparing mentally and physically for time together. But it is also telling a partner what we want, exactly, when we're actually making love (there's that word). We're the only ones who know the answer to that, to what makes us feel good. It is a nice process, too, a learning experience when we don't know what makes us feel good, when there are two eager learners, working with trial and error.**

The dysfunctional cycle or homeostatic feedback loop of the case:

Two partners, A and B are involved in the love making process, except that only A feels responsible for the success of a "date".  Suddenly:

A has trouble with his erection while putting on a condom, or at any other time.

B waits for A who is having trouble with Mr. P., who seems to be taking a nap.

A begins to get anxious, fiddling with the condom or worrying that this will never happen. Mr. P isn't waking up.  Wake up, damn it!  Mr. P doesn't cooperate under pressure.

B is becoming impatient, is considering what is on television.

A worries that B is going to abandon him, drop him. The two aren't committed after all. Meanwhile, Mr. P is not looking his best, is nowhere to be found, has disappeared altogether.

B looks at A, accusingly. Well?  When are we going to get back to it? (Note, not What can I do to help?)

A's anxiety rises with every passing second. Mr. P is hardly breathing.

B to A:  Call me when you've fixed this problem.

A's fears are realized. Our young man has learned that he had better fix this or he'll never have a normal relationship. He calls a sex therapist.

What do you mean, Is she helping me with this?  No! Why would she?  

The Beatles liked to sing in the song Mind Games, which I'm pretty sure is about sex, but in code,

Love is the answer.  

Work on that, we say. The rest is commentary.

therapydoc

*Our DNA is approximately 95%  alike, yet we still use the language, the opposite sex..  I think that is because that five percent weigh in when we interact in this way, in a potentially procreative, sexual way.

**This is why some of us recommend sex in the format of a committed relationship. If you assume you have until you are a hundred years old, give or take a few years, to figure it out, there is less stress. Trial and error, lots of words and audible breathing, and this falls into place rather quickly. Oh, and deserved trust, lets not forget.

P. S. John Lennon died December 8, 1980. A fan killed him, I think.  We could comment on that all day long, I suppose.

Lust and Love: Part One

I don't know if we'll ever get to Part Two, but there's a lot on the cutting floor.

On New Years Day, National Public Radio played a Best Interview of 2009 with famous sex therapist Dr. Laura Berman, who is an inspiration, seriously. But Laura had nothing of substance to say about the L-words, as far as I can remember, so somebody should. I understand her new book has pictures, by the way.

Is it possible we’ve never discussed this, lust and love?

Let's get right to it then, start with lust.

There’s a lot to be said in favor of lust, without being facetious. Twenty-five percent of all marriages dissolve due to sexual problems. So it stands to reason that lust might be factoring in there somewhere.

Maybe it's there, but not reciprocated or appreciated. Or the object of lustfulness is someone outside the dyad, a lady, a gent. And if lust is there for someone else, and it isn't there X2 in an ostensibly committed relationship, then that dyad (two-some) could be in trouble. Heaven forbid. But it happens.

Which is why I'm thinking it needs to be bi-directional, it really does. Both partners need some luster at the same time in the same place at least some of the time. And it totally gets a bad rap, lust, and maybe it shouldn't, which had to be said, because without it, without the arousal associated with lust, sexual relations can be a real pain, as in painful. And who needs that?

And there's the idea that although sexual intimacy is only one of the five intimacies,* it facilitates the others, is a metaphor of every process, every problem in the relationship. Thus it is high on the hierarchy of couple needs. Associate lust, as we've just done, with sexual intimacy, and working the lust matters. It's a good thing, not bad.

Have I lost any subscribers yet? Oh, give me time.

Sexual intimacy, which should include lustfulness, looftness, whatever it was Woody Allen used to say when he was expressing his love/lust in one of his neurotic films, feels good, and it's free. So it has to be good for marriage, can surely be the marital glue, way up there on the list of intimacies.

That said, if a couple is not married, is not legally or emotionally committed, then good sex can be glue for that couple too, making it harder to get out when intellectually, emotionally, rationally, you know it's not a good match.

Still, it's hard to say, I have to go now, when a vibrant part of you wants to stay.

Lusting for a bad boy/bad girl, just one of those things so many people lust for, or lusting for an ex, can be easier than living with one of these 'til death (or divorce) do you part. People cut bait, are capable of rational decisions, even when the lust refuses to relocate. We get out of dysfunctional or second-rate relationships and think back, sometimes years later, with a fondness and desire. You bet.

There are clergy-people who tell us to extinguish the flame. But the brain has a mind of its own. We can fight the process, crack a mental whip, control the wandering, but it's difficult. Just like any other obsessive, ego-dystonic (annoying) thoughts, these refuse to leave home.

Sex therapists suggest distraction, focus upon the body, the senses, not thoughts, if they make us feel bad or conflicted. We're supposed to get into our five senses and how they affect our internal arousal, search inward, deep into the self, beneath the skin, although skin is good, too, touching it. We focus on the body, find a wave of arousal,** and zero in on what makes the body happy, the source of stimulation that makes it so appealing, this reaching for higher heights.

Call it meditating with a purpose.

Then, once it is located, once that certain predictable, happy-centered neurological pathway is found, we coach the main squeeze. Instruct a partner accordingly.

So simple.

Except for the instructing a partner, and taking instruction part, difficult for some couples. Which is a problem, illustrates the salience of problem-solving intimacy, a topic for another day. For a partner who doesn't want to give instruction (too embarrassed) denies the other an opportunity to pleasure her (let's just say it's a her).

And a partner who doesn't want to take instruction (let's say it's a him) reduces the chance that his partner will feel pleasure.

It is like saying,

I want to give you a present, one that will make you really happy, but I don't want you to tell me what you want, how you want it delivered, or when.

I'm assuming that what I've got to give is what you want, because you couldn't possibly not want what I've got to give. Right? Please tell me that's so.

Without hints from the other, we're lost. This is all especially sticky for people-pleasers who go ahead and say, It's so. When it isn't.

Ah, but if there's no issue taking instruction, then once this is accomplished, the instruction, the humbled down student is very sexy indeed and will listen, follow, and soon add individual polish. Together the couple finds that variations on a theme are infinite.

And exceedingly intimate. More intimate, surely, than wandering where the brain prefers to go, along those short-cuts, the exes, the models, the movie stars. Of course, not everyone worries about the short-cuts. Indeed millions celebrate vibrant brain circuitry, grateful that it is being put to good use. We're not judging.

But for those with too much guilt to fantasize about the mail-person, the gardener, the babysitter or the boy next door, for those who wish that extra people in the psychological bed would just go away, working the lust the natural way is a prime directive.

And in this process, lust becomes a function of love. For what we've just described above is nothing, if it is not love. You can't tell just anyone what makes you happy sexually. You just can't. Some of us have to love someone to do that. It's so embarrassing. You're only going to tell someone you love, someone who is in it with you for the long haul, someone you know will move mountains so as not to disappoint, at least furniture. Working every one of the intimacies feels like moving mountains, you realize, over time. Sex is just one of those mountains.

What's all this got to do with the Pina Colada song?

I was tired of my lady
We'd been together too long
Like a worn-out recording
Of a favorite song
So while she lay there sleeping
I read the paper in bed
And in the personal columns
There was this letter I read

If you like pina coladas
And getting caught in the rain
If you're not into yoga

It's his lady who answers the ad, if you remember, and she likes pina coladas, obviously, and getting caught in the rain, just like him. But he doesn't know it, not until he meets her a second time. He's tired of his lady, he doesn't even know her, and he's stepping out on her.

You gotta' wonder what it is they talked about.

therapydoc

*Sex is only one out of the five intimacies. Tweak them and other problems disappear. Tweaking well, unfortunately, isn't always easy.

In no particular order, The Five Intimacies:

(1) emotional intimacy
(2) sexual intimacy,
(3) problems solving intimacy,
(4) work intimacy, and
(5) recreational intimacy

No particular order.
That said, I'd place sex high on the list-- emotional intimacy higher.

**This wave of arousal is what the yogis call kundalini (correct me if I'm wrong), and worth the search, the game of hide and seek. You can play it alone or with your partner. Makes it more fun. Call it a joint marital responsibility.

"Am I getting warmer?"

"Yes, and a little to the left."

Domeena Renshaw, world-renowned sex therapist, a psychiatrist, tells us that sexual arousal is one's own responsibility, whatever that means. This may not sound very romantic, but is the case for developing one's own appetite. She also says that sexual arousal is tucked somewhere between the belly and the brain. It isn't necessary to limit your research, is the truth.

Planes, trains, boats and automobiles

I don't like to work you too hard, so just a warning, this is long. But I numbered the snapshots, so read a little, go back to work, and come back later. Okay?



You know I always like to show a little wing.

That’s Atlanta. I am a jet setter.

I had my first airplane ride at 16, a sweet sixteen present from my parents. In lieu of a party, I visited family, traveled on my own, and haven't looked back.

That's not entirely true. Flying scared me for quite awhile back there, after having the kids. Maybe it was some big plane crash or another that threw me. You couldn't get me on an airplane though, not for a couple of years when they were little.

But at some point I wanted to go to Israel, had to go for some reason or another, and had to go it alone. FD packed me some Zanax, but I didn't want to take it. The one time I did take Zanax I didn't sleep for an entire trans-Atlantic flight. The idea of taking it made me anxious.

There at the gate I'm pacing, nervously. But I see a revered teacher from my hood, a female version of a rabbi, obviously taking the same plane to Tel Aviv. She's a well-known speaker, teaches far and near, makes learning a privilege, a delight. My anxiety disappears.

Forever, somehow. Irrational.

I wish all of you the same with your neuroses.

So it's been okay, flying, for years, and I go into this Southern dip in a good mood, a good place. I'm seeing my kids, my parents. It's a big chunk of stimulation in a small chunk of time, and it is exciting.

Except nobody's warned me about certain airplanes, that there are big airplanes, and there are small airplanes, and you want to make sure, when you fly, to get one of the bigger ones.

We won’t obsess or complain, and I think,

Remember, this is meritorious and unbelievable, if you think about it, that one day you’re on the ground, and then. . . in the sky. So it's a small plane. So what?

A few snapshots of my trip.

1. My son picks me up, my granddaughter, all rosy-cheeked and smiles, almost three, is strapped tightly in her car seat behind me. She sings, "Hi Bubbie!"

We talk a minute and wouldn’t you know, my phone rings. “Excuse me, Sweetie.”

The call lasts a couple of minutes, I put away the phone, properly greet my son, the driver, look back and she’s out, sound asleep. Tough day at school.

2. It’s my brother on the phone. He thinks I’m in Miami visiting our parents. I do this every January, visit for my mother’s birthday, usually for a day or so, but to warm up, too.

My brother tells me that when I do get to Miami, for this is the plan, Miami is my next stop on the jet set tour, I’m going to be in for a rough ride. My father’s not doing very well. And we know our father, he's not a complainer, so he probably won't tell me what is wrong. His is a stoic guy from a real man's generation, which is fine.*

I reassure my brother that I'll be there soon and will be in touch with him. He should keep his cell phone handy.

But I have 22 hours, yet, in Atlanta.



3. I pull a multi-colored yoyo from my pocket and my granddaughter is duly impressed. She takes it from me and begins to swing it wildly in the kitchen.

I say, “Let’s take it outside.” She disappears and comes back wearing a shirt that matches the yoyo. Exactly.

We spend the next two hours running around in the front yard. The yards are hilly in Atlanta, so it's fun. At one point we come in because she's not wearing a jacket, which little children don't need, apparently, when the weather is in the fifty degree Fahrenheit range in Atlanta. Not according to her.

I heat her up some warm milk and honey and she and I sit down at the kitchen table and catch up on old times. Then we're back outside until the sun goes down.



4. The baby twins, her new brother and sister, are not speaking to me, but they do give me an occasional grin after they've eaten. They’re mainly into whatever it is that is just over my shoulder. They do appreciate a good jiggle or bounce, and I feel I'm getting exercise rearranging their equilibrium. They fall asleep just when we’re really getting to know one another.

5. The next morning I’m up early, no surprise and tiptoe around to find my computer. I’ve plugged it in somewhere. It’s dark and I don’t want to turn on the lights because to accommodate my visit, several people seem to have played musical beds and there’s a very large man on the sofa near my computer. I tiptoe past him, however. You have to do what you have to do.

6. I fall back asleep and am awakened by a knock on the door.
“Bubbie?! You said we could play!”

7. I get up and throw on a bathrobe, begin the search for coffee. Yesterday my hosts had a party, so there's a cardboard container of Starbucks. I decant some of it and reheat it in a microwave. When I'm finished I heat up the milk and honey for my granddaughter.

It's like the flight attendant tells you in that safety demonstration. First get on your own oxygen mask, then help the child next to you with hers. First make the coffee, then pour the milk and honey.

Milk and honey,

That's the one thing we've got

goes the song.

I tell her the story of a dream I had but never had, the one where the little girl rides a giraffe and her grandmother rides an elephant to the park. You know that one.

8. And in about an hour it’s off to the Marta, the train to the airport, because for me, taking a train to an airport is about as good as it gets.



9. Then on the plane, even better, pretzels. Life does not get any better, and you know this. I compliment the flight attendant for the touch. She asks if I want more water and I think, surely this is heaven. Two cups of water. My daughter-in-law's mother has packed me a bagel with a thick shmear of cream cheese. I quietly praise Judy for the sandwich and down two-thirds of it.



10. That's Fort Lauderdale.

11. But first, let's flash back three weeks. My father has declared that he will pick me up from the airport at Fort Lauderdale. He is 88 but has better vision than I, if not a better heart, and he's still driving. Two cataract surgeries later (they give you contact lenses) he can see.

Logically, I argue, "I'll rent a car for twenty dollars."

He insists, "If you can rent a car for twenty dollars, do it. But you can't."

But I do. I reserve a car for $20 a day. Meanwhile, he's called me to say, "Take a cab. I'm a little tired lately. I'll pay for your taxi."

So I rent the car and find out hat he's right. They say it will be twenty dollars but the fees in Florida more than double that per day.



But it's a cute car, isn't it? Even if it doesn't start every time.

12. My mother meets me in front of the high rise and we go inside to pay for parking. She tells me that my dad is depressed. "I don't know if he'll admit it," she says. "He's proud."

And I'm thinking, he doesn't have to say boo.

But I say, "Great! If that's all it is, we can fix it."

I don't remember if I've told you, but when I worked under the great psychiatrist Domeena Renshaw's supervision** she told us,

"If I have to have something wrong with me, let it be depression. We know we can fix depression 99% of the time. Just give us a chance."

Mom looks a bit doubtful.

We park the car and walk slowly back to the condo, wait at the elevator, cherishing our new moments together. She's been here since Thanksgiving, and although there are people all around, I know she's a little lonely, wants to go home.

13. Inside the apartment my father jumps up to greet me. We hug and I say, "What's up?"

"Well," he says, going right to the heart of the matter, "I think I'm not so good. I just don't feel right."

"Did you get to the cardiologist?"

"Yes, and my pacemaker is fine."

"And the CBC?"

"Fine." (pause) "I think it's depression." He looks up at me as if to say, Do you believe that?!?

"Tell me why you think it's depression."

He tells me his symptoms.

"Well, sounds like you're right; pretty common in your age group. But so not like you. Must feel weird, huh?"

Uh huh.

I suggest we call FD. Maybe it's his heart that's slowing things down, too. He's always a little winded.

"Maybe you're not breathing so well. The brain needs oxygen to feel good." He admits he is not.

He is suffering from something FD calls heart depression.

On the phone FD explains that this can happen, that maybe there's water that's not getting pumped out of my father's lungs so he's slowing down and that slowing thing is virtually depression.

Mom pulls out the long list of medicines and rattles them off to FD who also asks about things like swollen feet. And indeed, my father's feet are too large. They go over all of the medicines, make sure his potassium is protected, and fiddle with the Lasix.

Meanwhile, my father tells me he knows it's depression because it's been coming on awhile and he's reading things about depression in magazines. He's talking about real feelings, and that fog, that weight on the head that I am very familiar with, hear about probably every day of my life.

"Maybe we should call your doctor," I suggest, "see if you should be taking some medication for the depression, just a tiny bit." (I'm thinking my father will never go for this.)

"Sure. I think I need it. This feels bad."

I love it when people surprise me.

"It's all in the brain, depression," he tells me. "But it affects the body."

Did I know that?

We reach his doctor (a miracle) and my father is settled down medically, and Mom has prepared a snack. Then I'm off to take a walk on the beach. We all have our routines.

14.

There's a vehicle I would not take if you paid me. There are sharks out there, and jelly fish.

I take my beach shoes and a sweatshirt in a plastic bag to change from my sneakers to my beach shoes at the beach. It's warm, so rather than wear the sweatshirt, I stuff it together with my sneakers and hide the bag unassumingly under a bench.

An hour later the shoes and the sweatshirt are gone. I get to be like the rabbi in that previous post. "Take my shoes, take my sweatshirt! They're yours!" I shout.



15. Back in the condo my father is humming.

"Did you know," he tells me, "that if you hum for 15 seconds, then count for 15 seconds, that you are alternating sides of the brain and you reset it, balance it out? You feel better."

Hadn't heard that one, I admit.

"It works!" he cries. "It doesn't last, but for awhile, it works! And it takes your mind off of the things you're thinking about."

"Sure. I believe it. It makes sense. I'm all for sensory distraction, Dad."

He looks at me funny, but nods, gets it.

"Do it a lot. And keep talking to Mom about the things that bother you. Negative thoughts are like pregnancy. Better out than in."

And he does, he keeps humming and talking. It's as if he's got a whole new perspective on life. He's a member of this sea of humanity that has suffered from depression, has to work to get out of their chairs, then can't get comfortable and pace, find loud noises unbearable, bad news impossible, even idle chatter screeching, annoying. He gets it, and he doesn't like it, but it's an awakening of sorts.

I'm only there for 48 hours and he seems to have picked up a bit. Out on the balcony, overlooking the ocean, I call my brother. "Please," I tell his voice mail. "You have to come and check up on them soon. I have to get back to work."

He calls me back, tells me he has already booked a short trip for next weekend. He had wanted to say hello, to get out of the cold, anyway. It's not as if visiting parents in Miami is some kind of terrible inconvenience. He's excited about it.

16. The next morning my father asks me what I want to do today. It's my only full day in Miami. No plans, I tell him. Point me in the right direction. Looks like we're all free.

"They say that for depression you should do what feels good. So the boys asked me if I wanted to go out with them. Would you mind? I think if I shop with you and your mother and go out for lunch, it will make me worse. Please don't be offended."

He's never said anything like this before, not in my life.

"Sure!" I say. "I need new shoes and didn't buy Mom a birthday present. We'll shop."

"Have fun."

And we do, we have a wonderful day. We're all pretty wiped out by dinnertime.

17. The next day, as I'm about to leave he says, "Maybe you should stay a little longer. It's awfully cold in Chicago."

"Believe me, I'd love to stay," I say honestly. "But I took off three and a half work days for this trip and I just have to get back. I have people scheduled this afternoon and teach this evening. And I miss FD and he's alone in the cold and these luxury vacations, well, they're expensive."

"Make sure," Dad says, "when you write about this, that you give her credit, that lady, the one who did the research on humming and counting. You could get sued if you claim it as yours."

Lawyers are my friends, I tell him, always always asking for records and depositions and such, but I say, "Sure, sure. I will. I'll give her credit.*** I already ripped the article out of the magazine, like you told me to do."

"You know, all my life I haven't had this, depression."

"Isn't that amazing, when you think about it?"

"It's just not me."

"Well," I say, "You don't want to get too used to it. Let's fight it. I'll call you every day."

"You don't have to do that," he says, brushing away my offer with his hand, as in, ridiculous.

"Then keep humming, counting."

And he does.

He tells me he's feeling better.

therapydoc

*You don't take away the umbrella until it stops raining in my world.

**Domeena founded the Loyola University Sexual Dysfunction Clinic in Maywood, Illinois

***He found the intervention in Kiplinger's Personal Finance, 2/2009, What You Need to Know about Financial Stress, Laura Cohn. Ms. Cohn recommends the following as well:

1.This too will pass.
2. Exercise
3. Don't watch the news
4. Curb your spending
5. Go outside and play