With Feeling

See the yellow fish? He doesn't look too good.

We were talking about truth in blogging, and I felt conflicted that I have to be in this position of reminding you that when I make up an anecdote, that I'm making up an anecdote.

Ordinarily bloggers are honest. But a therapist never wants to reveal case material publicly, for fear of breaching the privilege of patient-doctor confidentiality. To avoid that, I patch together random interactions, invent stories, create personalities.

But when it's about fish, I can tell you, the stories are true.

Sometimes I wonder if fish can be empathetic. I know that dogs are, and cats, maybe. Probably those elephants we talked about have some empathy. I'm not a pet psychologist, so I'm clueless here. Feel free to help me out.

Therapists are empathetic, or they're supposed to be. But even an empathetic therapist can and should be able to detach. If a therapist doesn't intellectualize, doesn't lead with the head and not the heart, then everyone in the room is going to be an emotional wreck. People don't go to therapy for that, to increase their perception that life is basically chaos.

So I can detach when I work, detach with my friends, detach even, from my family.

But as a hopeful therapist, a person who sees improvement in just about every thing, every one (although it can take some time), and every type of situation, the thing that still throws me is death. Not leading with the heart here isn't an option.*

The Story:

FD tells me that my fish jump to attention when I walk by the tank. They swim a little faster, breathe a little harder. Of course they have eyes, you know, so it is not out of the realm of possibility that they recognize me, associate me with frozen krill and brine shrimp, Formula One and Formula Two. Who wouldn't jump, just thinking about yummy stuff like that. Mmmmmmm.

So I can relate, I guess, to fish developing relationships, in their way, with people. We just talked about elephants a few days ago, and I imagine that elephant keepers (keepers?) commune with their pachyderms, whereas if someone like me spent a week with an elephant, it's unlikely we'd have much of a relationship. The beast would sense my fear, my disrespect when it came to his bodily functions.

But pretty tropical fish that swim around in water, well, we attach emotionally to them, and it would be nice to think that they care, somehow, too. When I come home from work I go straight to the tank to say hello, to see how they're doing. When I get up in the morning I'm quiet, so as not to wake them. In exchange for this, they swim around and look pretty, try not to die.

I had Blue, just Blue (don't panic, he's fine), for over a year because having one healthy fish was fine to my liking. But as you might remember, he got a little too big for the tank, so I asked FD and Number 3 Son to move him into larger quarters. A little construction, no small task, actually, and Blue had the ocean to himself.

Such a large tank all to himself did seem silly, or so they all told me. So with the help of my son-in-law (a real fish nut, you should see his tanks), we created a community for Blue. He did pretty well, too, once he established his territory (the conch) and seemed to enjoy the company. I was really worried since Blue is a fish with really sharp teeth, and fish like that, should their appetites kick up. . . well, you just never know. But he never gnashed at the new fish.

One night about a week ago, I got home, hung up my coat, and took a hard look at the tank. The yellow tang, a little guy (you usually see humongous ones in the stores) looked sick. He had a brown spot where one would guess his heart should be, and he was leaning against a rock on the floor of the sea.

I tried to hand feed him, but he didn't look interested. He didn't even sniff at the food. I called my son and reported the symptoms. "Brown spot?" he replied with a sigh. "You may as well fish him out and put him in a plastic bag and freeze him, Mom."

Why the freezer, I don't know. But I couldn't do it. I had just watched a Boston Legal episode on euthanasia* and it made me consider the whole business of assisted suicide, even when it comes to fish. So writing this I let Little Tang gasp for life, holding onto a thread, and felt more than a little sick, myself.

When he passed on, he would go the way fish are supposed to go, downstream, I thought. And it would take me awhile to get over him.

Soon Little Tang gasped his last breath. When I discovered him he had wedged himself under the rock, making it difficult for me to fish him out with a net. I stuck an algae scraper into the water, a long stick. Usually Blue runs from it, hides. But this time, when I tried to poke the tang out from under the rock with the stick, his protexia went nuts. Blue bit at the stick, swimming around frenetically, as if to say:

Haven't you done enough damage for one day?

I felt blamed. Yet it did seem that Blue cared about his little buddy. And he wasn't going to let me show any disrespect for the dead, or as someone insensitively suggested, steal his midnight snack.

I gave it a rest, came back and fished out the dead fish. Again Blue objected. But he was powerless.

I knew it would be hard for me to sleep. FD came home and I told him the story and shared that the other fish might be at risk. When one fish goes. . .He said, "Maybe you need to syphon some of the water. Aren't you supposed to change some of the water every couple of weeks?"

When the kids lived at home, it did seem that they made a huge mess syphoning water relatively frequently. But since it's been just me and Blue for so long, we had it so that once a month was just fine. And miraculously, it never got messy.

So I got a little defensive, but FD put the bug in me. Although it was late, after midnight, I started a water change, just 10 gallons, but enough to keep everybody safe. And the next morning, no question, the three remaining fish seemed healthier.

So.

(a) I was right to feel guilty,
(b) taking responsibility made everyone feel better,
and
(c) whether or not fish have feelings is still anyone's guess.

therapydoc

**You can argue that every type of loss feel a like a death, and you would be right.

**The Boston Legal episode I'm talking about has the best treatment of parents cutting off an addicted child I've ever seen. Episode listed on the ION station as WCPX 13, it's about Shirley Schmidt being best man at her ex-husband's sixth wedding, assisted suicide, and an amazing treatment of addiction in family relationships.

I think it's the episode responsible for hooking me on this show, which, by the way, is awfully preachy this year. And for Republicans, insulting. I posted on the cut-off in families with addictions, if you're interested in this at The Second Road.

Send in the Clowns

Do you know what it's like to take a look at your kid and find that he's grown another two inches?

Maybe not, but it's unsettling, thrilling and strange at the same time.

See, about a month and a half ago I was looking at Blue and he seemed bigger to me. A lot bigger.

Well, you know how we are, Jewish mothers, what was I thinking, all that food.

I took a good look and his tank looked too small. He seemed unhappy. Granted, the marine tank was perfect for the room, and the rocks just right for the tank, but poor Blue no longer fit.

I mentioned to #3 son that Blue had to move on, had to graduate, leave home so to speak. I said, "Son. While you're cruising CraigsList for fish, call one of your fish salespeople and ask about a bigger tank for Blue."

This is like asking a little kid if he wants ice cream, or wants to go swimming on a hot day. My son, who has much better things to do with his time, jumped to the task. I had my tank in 2 days.

FD sees the boys bringing in Blue's future home and becomes the Doom Sayer. He's not happy with the plan. The new tank sticks out too far. People will bump into a corner and want to sue for damages, or simply won't like us.

"I'll have to do a lot of construction," he says, "including figuring out what to do about that supporting beam, the one that holds up the house. Who do we know in steel?"

We live in a big city. He has the piece that he needs made for $54.00.

My son sets up the new tank up in another room and buys those baby clowns we discussed in Water, Water, Everywhere, and we wait. Patiently.

In a matter of weeks FD has done an amazing job and #3 has moved Blue (not a simple procedure) and Blue seems very pleased. The two new clowns are clowning around.

Friends and family are all excited. I would have rolled the credits* on the video, but didn't have time. What you see is Blue acclimating to the temperature of his new sea in the safety of a large Ziplock, and the clowns are welcoming him in.

This is really why Stephen Sondheim wrote that song, Send in the Clowns. They're friendly.

But Blue. Who knew if he would be friendly or not? He had yet to meet them.

After a fitful night's sleep (Will Blue survive the shock of the move? He's sleeping upside down! Will he eat the clowns?) I wake up and all is well; the fish are swimming along famously.

Except the clowns are wondering, "Is that guy staying longer than three days? Whaddaya' think? He's huge! And how much will it take to feed him? And where did the big guy go, the one who arranged all of this, the one with the connections, and where is his wife? I like her, too."

therapydoc

*Thanks #3 son, and thanks FD, too, Y. for ideas on caves, C. for her support, and Little One, of course, who shlepped.