The Chicago Cubs and Mental Health

If you're a Cub fan, about this time of year, traditionally, you're sad.

You're a member of that big extended Chicago Family of Cub fans, the Sad Family. By early August, without fail, the Cubs have bombed whatever potential they've had for winning a baseball championship. So it goes, we say, but we're still sad.

Back in the fifties, when I was a kid, we had a black and white television set. It took years before we moved up to color, but it wasn't a big deal. You didn't really need color to watch the Cubs, and the Cubs were on television every day! Those were the days when Ernie Banks, Mr. Cub, hit more homers than anyone in the majors, including Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, and Hank Aaron.

I don't follow them closely anymore, but I do follow the emotions of Chicagoans, and I can tell you that one of the problems with being a Cub fan is that the Cubs haven't won a World Series since 1908. They're forever ending the season either in the basement or a step or two above it.

It has been 63 years since the Cubs have played in a World Series (1945), one hundred years since they have won one (1908). In one hundred and one years, the Cubs have only won eight times Major League pennants (1907, 1908, 1918, 1929, 1932, 1935, 1938, and 1945.) Not a one in my lifetime.

And now there seems to be a chance.

This may be it. The curse may have lifted. North Siders are saying, THIS IS IT! WHAT A TEAM! WE'RE GOING ALL THE WAY!

It amazes me how a team represents a city, how We become the team.

The team is good? We're good. The team is bad? We're bad, too. This is irrational, but it is what it is, which is some form of blurred identity disorder.

Chicago is a city divided, which adds to the confusion. Madison at State Street, downtown, officially divides us. South of Madison Street? The South Side. North of Madison? The North Side. And our two major league ball teams represent the sides, as if the city itself is two cities. The Chicago White Sox work the South Side; the Chicago Cubs, the North Side.

Never the twain shall meet, mutual enmity on both sides of the line. You really can't be a fan of both the Cubs and the Sox or you're suspect, a politician. You have no real understanding of life, or conflict. You are in Disneyland.

Me, being in Disneyland and a North Sider, have tried very hard to like the Chicago White Sox, the Chicago South Side team. My mother told me to like everyone. And after all, the Sox are a Chicago team, and I'm from Chicago.

Surely I must cheer for the Sox over the New York Mets! But when I do, when I speak positively about the White Sox, if I say, for example, that I like the South Side team, I get looks from people, looks that say, Who are you to sing Sox praises? Who are you to cheer for them? You're a Cub fan. Your address tells us who you are. Don't be a pretender. Deal.

This year people talk about a Subway Series. The Red Line connects the North Side to the South Side, the South Side to the North Side. People use the train to get to work, school, and the ball games.

So if the S_ _ win one pennant (I'm afraid to say the name out loud, not together with the W word, for I still like both teams, I don't care what anyone says), and the C_ _ _ (ditto) win the other pennant, then the two teams could play against one another in the World Series in October.

Some of us, the more neurotic Chicago baseball fans, or just the more neurotic, are really afraid to speak this possibility out loud for fear of jinxing the teams. People reading this right now are thinking, You're already jinxing them! It will be all your fault if either the Cubs or the Sox blow the pennant!

I respect this, but recognize that this is coming from deep-seated confusion and anxiety. Chicagoans are not used to feeling good about the Cubs this time of year. Feeling good is a foreign feeling, surreal, strange to North Siders in August. We've had positive feelings like this in May, even in June or early July, in years past. But they have never lasted this long. And the team has a roster of baseball greats, gorgeous, talented young men (K"H) including Derrick Lee, Alfonse Soriano, Ryan Dempster, Carlos Zambrano.

We're freaking out! We're so scared of disappointment, we're losing weight!

Nobody's counting their chickens, but I'm telling it honest. When the Cubs have a great night, when We inch a little closer, when We sweep a double header, people come into my office, sit down, look up at me slowly with shy smiles and whisper, "Did you hear?"

And I'll go, "I know, I know. Don't say it."

We're used to the Sox winning. They just won a World Series in 2005. But not the Cubs. The Cubs don't win. Cubs don't get to the World Series, don't get that far. But this year, We might. There really doesn't appear to be another team on the horizon that can take US.

Now if this happens, if the C_ _ _ win the pennant and even, dare We even think it, go on to the World Series, Chicago will be one very mentally healthy place. I will probably be out of business. I guess that's a little bit of an exaggeration, but it's exactly the kind of thing that I want to happen. I would be okay with this, the C- - - in the World Series. We really need a respite from chronic loss, our hearts can't take it anymore.

We need the unbeatable plus column, that reason for cheers and celebration, fireworks.

Of course, should there be a Subway Series, I'm predicting violence and insanity, mayhem on the Red Line, gangbangers shooting guns into the outfield.

Civil War.

Someone get me tickets.

therapydoc

The Kingpin

We'll just go right to the story.

A few years ago I got a call from a colleague who wanted to refer me a patient. Not just any patient, of course. A really, really difficult patient, a complicated patient (like there are people who aren't difficult, who aren't complicated).

The details and demographics in this post have all been changed, so no, this isn't about you or anyone else that you know; it's fiction, and even if you think you're the colleague, believe me, you're not.

We'll make the identified patient a teenager, a girl of 14 who acts more like a 4-year old with an advanced vocabulary. She's physically violent, verbally abusive, self-centered, infantile, and ALD, A Little Different, although I think my friend's exact words were,

"She's very weird."

Some kids can be a little weird. They're kids. I don't like diagnosing them or making them into outliers* because they're just kids. A little different is much better than a little weird, but we're colleagues, and when we get to talking we might get a little loose, may not always be so p.c.

But we like different. Or we should. Why go into this field if not to meet all kinds of people? Don't tell me it's to help. Help is the process, that's what we do. It's not necessarily our motivation for doing it.

I get these kinds of consults on occasion. The colleague will say,

I've never met anyone like her in my life!

Code for,

Surely you want to take her off my hands!

Sometimes, when I listen to the details of the case, I'll whisper under my breath, Marvelous. I'm not saying the case is marvelous or happy, or good. I'm saying: This is so interesting. And it is.

So I'll listen and then I'll make some suggestions, tell the doc what to try to do differently, maybe even take the case. But I try to avoid kids who are reputedly violent, unless they're under a medical doctor's care, as in a psychiatrist. And I need to know that the kid's been quiet for awhile, has moments of wellness, as this little girl, the one my colleague wants to refer to me, has when she's in school. And I need to know that the family is willing to pop the kid into the hospital if necessary.

Why would I be abused? One lamp flying at a person in a lifetime (by a nine year old, I ducked) in a career is enough. Kids can do that, beat up therapists, both physically and verbally. And they come in with weapons. We live in a violent world. Kids have showed me their weapons. I say, Leave your knives at the door, and they smile, take out knives, leave them at the door.

"Tell me about the case," I say.

The 14 year old has always been different, socially inappropriate, Asperger's-like, angry, sad. Whatever it is, the emotion that's expressed is always extreme. But that's only with family, rarely with peers, and it's escalated, her anger, her mood swings, her attention seeking, her non-stop dependent behavior and whining around her parents.

But in school she's under control. The girls in her class aren't mashugee** for her, but they don't socially ostracize her, either.

Let's say, to make it interesting, that she has four or five other siblings, two with severe developmental delays. One aunt has schizophrenia; her mother OCD, an uncle has bi-polar disorder, and her father has ADHD and depression. It's a vegetable soup of diagnoses, and this is just a phone consult. I've yet to ask a question.

My colleague has seen the patient and her parents in various combinations for over a year. The symptoms have escalated in the past few months. Parents get along with one another well, but they're both overwhelmed with their lot, their children.

"Any recent changes, deaths, perhaps?" I ask.

"No."

"Separations?"

"Uh, uh."

"Who pays for all the therapy?"

"Grandpa. He's loaded."

"And where does Grandpa live?"

She names a wealthy suburb.

"Is he involved in the patient's life?"

"He used to be, but since the kid got really bad, and since he read the psychological tests, he's distanced himself. The tests are packed with ugly diagnoses, a negative prognosis. And the kid insulted Grandpa, literally kicked him. Gramps can't take the disrespect. I understand the two of them were really close when she was a little younger."

"You have to get Grandpa into the therapy."

"They're afraid to stress him, afraid he'll stop paying the bills."

"They are? Or you are?"

"They're afraid of rocking the boat."

"So the kid does it for them. She won't get better without him. And with him, it's likely she will. There's your missing relationship. She needs him. Her parents are busy with the other kids. Sometimes if it looks like a duck, it's a duck. And they already love one another. Include another sib if you can, too. Maybe all of them in different combinations. People spend money on lesser things."

End of consult. I gotta' go.

It's funny. My father-in-law (OBS)*** believed that if you paid the bills, you called the shots. It's not true, though, when you have a sick kid, is it? When your kid or grandkid is sick, you can't will things to get better. You can't make a sick kid behave, make a kid show respect. You can't buy the cure.

But in a case like this one, the person who is paying the bills has some power, some leverage. He's left, he can come back. How hard is this?

He may have to change the way he is with his granddaughter, may have to change the way he talks to her, lower his expectations, add new ones. You're only a family therapist; he's the kid's grandfather. That's what you tell him on the phone. Who knows the kid better than him?

He's pumped up, respected. You tell him you're very sure that he knows how to work this kid, and you're interested in his opinions. People will obviously have to change the way they respond to her behavior, you suggest. Then you ask, Who should change what? How?

He has so much to tell you. He starts the ball rolling. You stop him somewhere in the middle. You say you have another patient. When can he come in? Soon, of course, he wants to continue to help. He makes an appointment.

Then the two of you strategize. He is the kingpin. You are a shlepper,**** a professional who knows nothing about this family system. We professionals are nothing without family input. The family has the answers. He, Grandpa, is your man.

More than likely you'll come up with this plan, or a variation of it.

He should expect to be called names. He should respond with kindness. "I won't reject you if you don't reject me," is his best response. He will need to say this over and over again, say it in different ways.

Everything, everything, depends upon his love. He can't give up on his granddaughter when she needs him the most.

You bring him into the therapy. You yourself, as a therapist, give him the respect he deserves. You engage that person who's paying the bills, who wants to call the shots, and you work the angles you know have to be worked, the relationship angles, the sweetness, the love.

You pull Grampa in and the kid has half a chance.

All that and a nickel, my father-in-law would have said, will get me a cup of coffee, which she owes me, come to think of it, my colleague.

therapydoc

*an outlier in a data set is a score that's Way higher or Way lower than the rest of the distribution.

**mashugee* is Yiddish for out there, but in this case it means, head over heels excited about, or wild about

***OBS is something like, Up in Heaven, or he should go up in peace

****Shlepper literally means someone who shleps, carries things, but here a shlepper is someone who is clearly not an executive.

July Back 'Acha

Your monthly recap of bloggers who linked over here, t'anks. If I forgot you, or didn't see your link, let me know and I'll catch your act at the end of August.

And the winner is. . .drum roll, please Shadchan Shadchan (Matchmaker), a must if you're in the mood for a good anecdote.

How about a new family therapy blogger? We need as many as we can get. Family thinking.

And if you just love corn, Amazing Love Stories. You can post your own, I think.

Isle Dance is putting up love videos. Islands, love. Sheesh.

Or stories from the field, the mental health field, I mean, Trench Warfare.

On the same turf is AntiSocial Social Worker who suggests,

every single person voted into office should have to spend AT LEAST a month working at a minimum wage job and living solely off their income

Honey, no one would go into politics, and you know it.

Blue Jean Social Worker won't dress up the part. Love it, BJ.

Nashbabe's world can be grueling, too, but she gets by with a little help from her friends.

Another personal blogger, Shea, can't complain about her guy. So boring, S., no complaining? Well, not today.

The Rebbetzin's Husband likes his denial. To which I say, We never take away the umbrella until it stops raining. He'll also link you to a place that rates your blog for objectionable content. We rate, peeps, over here, very objectionable, thank you, for using words like rape. Sigh. Rape, rape, rape, sex, sex, sex. Just driving up my ratings.

And just in case you've ever been just a little jealous of people who have hot tubs? Read day by glorious day on the jacuzzi. Or should that be, in the jacuzzi.

Talk about personal. If you've ever wanted to nurse a baby you'll have to deal with people staring while feeding (assuming you don't live in a cave), check this blogger.

On media we have A Record. Erin talks books and music, the finer things in life.

And over there in Highland Park, NJ, you can learn how a real photographer works her art.

Jack hosted a carnival . More Jewish, political/Israel stuff. Do we get tiresome? Do we run the media? Anyone see that one on Law and Order? Jack's great as a carnival host. Jack. You must see Cirque.

Chaos Theory says that my post on the matchmaking system makes a person want to drink heavily. I havet to tell you that for a Jew, drinking heavily means more than one shot, one beer, or one glass of wine.

For a more sobering look on life, read my old friend Marcella, who says that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. She's talking about abuse, rape, stuff people don't want to hear about but should (her rating must be awesome for objectionable). Speaking of which, did anyone read that CNN story about the rapes of Muslims in Bosnia? How do people live with themselves?

Consent of the Governed has all kinds of links, but if you liked being a boy scouts or a girl scout (even if you hated it) you'll love the way Consent organizes them.

Oh, You're a Feminist tells us how to put our blab into action. And here you thought you could just blab, but no.

Crackers and Juice Boxes (remember those?) is in recovery from child abuse. It takes time, but there is no end in sight when you start with juice boxes. Pretty soon it's Slurpies, and Dairy Star, all kinds of recovery coping strategies. Great blog, CJB.

CoffeeYogurt likes a guy in a cowboy hat. Mmmmm

A Room of Mama's Own fills us in on autism, parenting, sex addiction, and lots more.

MoriTherapy is always worth a look, a good critical eye, forever looking around for campy intellectual stuff.

And for FOOD, it's gotta' be IlanaDavita.

Don't forget:
Dr. Sanity (whaddaya think?)

NadNedNadNed (you have to read her to see what she means)

Okay. Back to work. I'm running late because of you. Joking, joking. Here are just a couple more then it's heet (see ya') for back 'acha til next month.

DC Boms

In the Pink

FitBuff

MizFit

and

I've Got a Little Space to Fill

And I'm all out of space. Have a great weekend.

therapydoc

The Shiva

I always get a little paralyzed here. Probably most people do.

You might know that shiva refers to the seven days of mourning that follow a close relative's funeral. Such a mourner, in Jewish tradition, sits at home, refrains from work and withdraws from the usual affairs of life; but takes visitors, dozens, sometimes, at a time.

Friends and relatives in a community come to visit during the week, even if they're not particularly close to the mourners. Sometimes the shiva is shorter than the traditional seven days. It may last only three days, maybe only one, depending upon the custom. But no matter how long, visitors serve to soften the intensity of the loss; the presence of visitors fills the void. For a little while.

It should be easy to make a visit like this one. A person isn't really required to say anything. All a person has to do is be there, take a seat and listen. In the more observant homes, the people sitting shiva are seated on low chairs, their blouse torn just a little; they face others, those who are not in mourning, who are seated across from them.

Usually someone's talking, not necessarily about the person who passed away, either. It's not unusual to hear people talk about anything but the person who has passed away. And that's okay if that's okay with the person(s) in mourning. Sometimes, as a mourner, you just know that it's going to be a very long week, so you're fine with the light motif, the banter that gives you a break.

It happens to be the three weeks,* an unlucky time for the Jewish people, so when someone passes away during this season we sort of look at one another and say, It's a three weeks thing, and everyone gets it.

But when it's cancer that takes a life during the three weeks, I always go, Nah, it's cancer. And everyone gets that, too. We know that many presentations of the disease are curable, and the survivors, the soldiers, are our heroes. But occasionally, it's not a winning battle, and the fallen become our sacrifice and we respect them even more.

So today I wanted to make a condolence call, but did everything in my power not to go, did an admirable job of sabotaging my time. I found an old chandelier in the basement and since I had a couple of hours to spare, decided that this would be a good time to wash the crystals, even though the thing has so many broken pieces it should probably go to Salvation Army and will.

After about an hour, though, I took the walk over to the shiva house. Slowly. I felt terrible that I hadn't visited her when she was sick. I've known she was sick for almost a decade. I'd walk by her house on any given day and sometimes she'd be sitting outside on a chair and we'd talk for awhile, maybe ten, fifteen minutes, just chew the fat about nonsense. She would ask about my kids; she remembered them, had taught them some twenty years ago.

But I never went in. You know what I mean. I never took that second step of going inside when she wasn't well enough to sit outside.

And boy, I'm so sorry about this. I feel so badly.

Earlier this morning I caught FD for just a second before he went to work, took him by surprise, made him face me as I shouted, "I just hate myself for not visiting her when she was sick!"

He totally understood and shook his head. "I know, I know, me, too. What was wrong with us?"

"We'll you're always visiting sick people. You're in the hospital and they're sick, or they manage to find you if you don't find them. It has to be a lesson for me, is all. This sort of thing just makes me feel like garbage. Had the chance. Let it pass. It'll never be there again. Gone."

I had ten years to do that, visit.

When my daughter heard about the death she said, "How could that happen? Wait a minute! You don't mean this! She was so young! She couldn't be much older than you, right?"

She was sick a long time, dear. Age has nothing to do with it.

So I shuffle along, finally walk through her door. Immediately I sense the atmosphere is light. My neighbor/friend's mother, the woman who has just lost her daughter, looks up at me, catches my eye as I get my bearings. She smiles a smile of confused recognition, one that says,

I'm sure we've met. Who are you?

We have never met. She has other people sitting with her, talking to her. I can see the mourner I know the best, my neighbor's husband, with a chair open right in front of him. He smiles, happy to see me. I sit with him and we talk awhile about how things used to be.

It's funny. We, the visitors, are only there because a person used to be there. A person used to be a part of the way things used to be, but isn't any more. And yet we're talking about grocery stores that are no longer, toy stores that have relocated, and how people used to be so nice in a snowstorm.

And then he inserts her. He says, "She told me that I had to fight her parking ticket for her because I didn't move the car in that storm, so of course I did, I fought it and won, and it's a good thing I did."

And there she is. And I feel better. The light motif is still light, but it's more meaningful.

At some point I see his daughters, young married women with young children, and I talk to them. They're very much about talking about their mother and their loss, and how we must, we simply must find a cure for breast cancer. Someone mentions Mike Dewey, the Texan who has offered $1 billion dollars to anyone who finds a cure. I feel the time slipping away, know I have to get to work, so I say the magic condolence formula that we say to mourners** and ask the younger women, "Where's your grandmother?"

I'm asking about the woman who caught my eye when I walked in the door. She has vacated her seat. I want to meet her, to tell her how much I admired her daughter, how I'll miss her, too. They tell me, "Try the kitchen."

Where else?

So I head there, to the kitchen, and sure enough, the elderly woman with that certain spark, that glint, smiles when she sees me. I recognize the spark because her daughter had it too, that quick way of creating humor, a way of making things light, happy. Humor is communicated through the eyes of these people, the ones with the sparkle in their eyes.

I introduce myself. I say I'm So and So's niece. Everyone knows my aunt in this community, there weren't that many Orthodox families in town when my mother, my aunt, and this woman were girls. Chicago has grown, but the native Orthodox all know one another.

"You looked familiar! I knew I knew you," she exclaims. "And now I know why! You have the family resemblance."

I don't want to disappoint her. I look like my father's side. But it's okay. We shmooze awhile, standing in the kitchen.

"And how did you get this?" I ask, pointing to a sling on her arm. "It's very stylish, but still."

She's coy, lowers her voice, the twinkle is blinding. She says, "Well, I'll tell you the truth. I just. . .I just wasn't getting enough attention on Thursday (the day of the funeral) so I tripped and made them take me to the hospital. I think it was brilliant." She's smiling the smile that caught the canary, making this our little not-so-private joke, and it is, it is really, really funny.

"You go to a lot of trouble for attention. You could go pro."

"I know," she says proudly. "And look! It worked!"

"Except," I correct her, "that you're stuck with a lot of pain for who knows how long."***

"Four weeks, the doctor says. It could hurt for four weeks. I'll need a lot of attention."

"Four weeks if you're lucky!" I cry. "It could go on for six weeks, eight weeks!"

"I told them! I told them this!" she exclaims upon hearing my prognosis, triumphant. "I told them it could go on for eight weeks. Come. Come with me. You have to tell them." She takes me by the elbow, guides me back to the living room where they're sitting shiva.

"Tell them!" she commands, for all to hear, pointing in the direction of her daughter, the only daughter left, the only mourner I've yet to meet. There's a small crowd of women sitting around her but I introduce myself, tell the only daughter left that I'm sorry about her sister.

"Tell her!" the matriarch insists. "Tell her how long it could take for this arm to heal!" She's having a ball. She loves this.

"Are you a doctor?" asks her daughter.

"Not a medical doctor. A PhD."

"That's fine. Even better," the daughter affirms, going along with the script. "So tell me, doctor, how long will my mother need this sling?"

I shake my head gravely. "I don't know. It could be very, very bad. Could be six to eight weeks. Maybe more. Could be years."

No one's got a straight face here, but boy, I'm trying. I shrug. "I would keep a good eye on her if I were you," I say, looking up and to the right, clearly deep in thought.

Then I tell over the condolence blessing to the only daughter left, kiss my new friend and say it again, and leave, always amazed at how these things go.

therapydoc

* You can read more about the three weeks on the Cirque du Soleil post, there are links at the end from bloggers who know the rules.

** It's in Hebrew and basically says The place of all comfort should comfort you among the mourners within the gates of Jerusalem. Some prefer to say simply, We should meet at simchas, happy occasions, or You should know no more sorrow, like that's possible, but it's a blessing, basically. All positive shoulds, you should, are blessings in this religion, or can be.

***for who knows how long is a Jewish way of marking time that goes on and on, as it does.

Other bloggers who have posted on shiva include:

Amy Kronish writing about Shiva the movie (who knew?) directed by Ronit and Shlomi Elkabetz

Patti, not religious at all, but still sitting virtual shiva at Live to Lounge writes about having lost her brother very recently. If you're very sensitive, you may not want to gaze at the banner, nude art alert, consider yourself warned. But say hello, wish her well. Why not?

Oaxaca is interested in comparating religions over at the Bed and Breakfast.

Vesom Sechel , kind of serious, but okay, this is a serious subject, generally, that is.

Is Marriage for White People

The CNN headliner is a good one: Is Marriage for White People?
Dionne Hill quotes statistics (I assume for 2000)

Forty-five percent of black women in America have never been married, compared with 23 percent of white women, according to the U.S. Census Bureau's American Community Survey in 2006. . . .

I am a statistic.

She says.

A CNN video (very good) informs us that in 1910, 64 % of black men remained single compared to 48% in 2000.

Social scientists might opine, regarding this crisis, that yes, there does seem to be a sociological trend. The comparable odds for marriage for black women are less than those for white women, and fewer black men are getting married.

But so what? You are not a statistic. You are a woman. Or you are a man. You are an individual. Group statistics don't apply to individuals.

Ms. Hill continues

I am part of a generation of Americans who are choosing to postpone marriage while they pursue their careers....Among the men I have dated, there were definitely some who were ready for something a little more significant than I was willing to give. Did I drag my feet because I wasn't ready? Or was it because those men weren't right for me? It's debatable and probably a combination of the two.

How honest. How refreshing. Owning it, Dionne.

Even more illustrative are the clips in the CNN video, Black in America.

We hear poet Saul Williams tell us that the most challenging days for black families lie ahead. Men disappear into the streets. Seventy percent of all black children are born to single black female-headed households. I didn't check that statistic, but the Department of Commerce tells us that half of all children in America will spend time in a one-parent family (Zill, 1988; Bumpass, 1990). A challenge, for sure, for all of us.

And Bishop TD Jakes tells CNN that it is very difficult to get a black man to be what he has not seen. The bishop is referring to the roles of husband, father.

Black in America features a black couples counselor, Ronn Elmore (exquisite) who tells us that when a black woman thinks that there is only one perfect mate, that she will stop looking, stop putting herself out there.

Black women are raised to be independent and strong, and men (get it, are intimidated). . . When a man thinks,
She doesn't need my money.
I can't make her laugh.
I can't bring anything to this relationship
There is nothing unique and wonderful that I can bring to her life that she wouldn't have if I weren't there.
Whenever a man senses there's no opportunity (to give), a man backs away.

Read the article and go to the links. I don't do the content justice.

But statistics do refer to groups, not individuals. Divorce, beginning in 1960, rose to fifty percent, but has leveled off. The rate has stayed the same for a few decades, now. Still, no one looks at this trend quite like marriage therapists do. We're keenly aware that if half of all marriages are expected to fail, then half of them succeed, also. Half of all married couples make their relationships fly. Year, after year, after year.

Someone like me will say that therapy helps. Therapydocs talk about pre pre-marital therapy, pre-commitment commitment therapy. Understand yourself. Understand your style of communicating. Know what you need, and go after that.

See if he (she) can make you laugh. See if he (she) can add something to that already very extraordinary life of yours. Watch him (her) in those nascent stages of a relationship before sex (oh, and wait, please do, please wait for that, don't let it turn into that or that is exactly, what it will be). See whether or not you can grow together.

A baker might go with the metaphor, How good is the yeast, really? When you add the water to it, will it grow?

The obvious stumbling blocks, the stuff of that pre-marital therapy or pre pre-marital are the fears, the realizations of catastrophic, seemingly unresolvable issues. Another pair of eyes and maybe they're resolvable. Don't run from them. They'll catch up in the next relationship.

We fear commitment, we fear intimacy. We fear for our interpersonal conflict and fear raising children in a most violent, sometimes amoral society. We fear repeating the mistakes of our mothers and fathers. All good to talk about, work out.

But that being black and single thing? Sorry. It ain't necessarily so.

therapydoc

Cirque du Soleil

I'm one of those therapists who asks what you liked to do when you were a kid.
















Did you play Hopscotch? Casino and Spoons? Bounce or Fly? Tetherball? Soccer? Did you trade baseball cards? Beatles cards? Garbage Pail Kids? Did you go to the symphony? And I want the context, too, the feelings, who else was there, the good stuff.

The answers blow my mind.

Once a woman in her seventies told me that she wasn't very physically strong as a child. Whereas her sister could lift things, move furniture, mow the grass, run for miles, she was a light weight. She couldn't do anything.

"But surely you could do something for fun," I insisted, thinking along the lines of needlepoint here.

"Oh, sure. I did cheer-leading and baton-twirling. Those kinds of thing."

Marvelous.

"Baton twirling!?!! Do you think you still can do that?"

"Well, sure, about as well as I ever could," she laughed.

There's a story.

A few weeks ago FD said to me, "It's our anniversary. Let's go out. We should celebrate."

Sure, I'm thinking. Mama Mia!

I whisper it. "Mama Mia?"

He lowers an eyebrow. "Streep? Musicals? I think we've been there. We saw that Garrison Keillor musical, A Prairie Home Companion. I don't want to go back."

I knew it. I knew I couldn't fool him into Mama Mia. "Cirque du Soleil?" I meekly suggest.

"Uh, haven't been to a circus since I was ten." He's looking frustrated with me, wants to get to work, his eyes are darting around for his keys, he wants to pack his lunch.

"Yeah, I know. I took the kids all by myself. Once. Once was all I could handle, kids at a circus. But this is no ordinary circus, dear, and there aren't any animals. It's all gymnastics and acrobatics, clowns."

"Maybe," he shrugs. "Find out the time, the cost. Have your people call my people."

Ha.

I go to work, Google Cirque, get a phone number and shoot him an email.

8:00, United Center, Parking Lot K, 2.5 hrs with intermission. Cheapest tickets, $55. We can call it this year and next year's anniversary present, throw in a rototiller. There are plenty of seats available.

He writes back,

Let's go!

I can't wait. But how can I listen to people talk about their problems if I'm going to go to Cirque du Soleil in a couple of hours? And how can I not share that I'm going!? And how can we just go, all by ourselves, not share the experience with another couple?

Then it occurs to me. See if Empath One wants to go. Empath One and I share a suite. She's the one with the chocolate. That would be even more fun, going out with E-1 and R.
FD likes them, too. The thrill is just too much.

I wait for that rare moment that E-1 and I both have a break between patients and wander into her office. "E-1? What are you and your boy doing tonight?"

"Uh, nothing?"

"Wanna' go to Cirque du Soleil? Starts at 8:00. Just in case you're wondering, the three weeks start this Sunday.* This is your last chance to live it up for awhile. FD will pick up falafel. We can eat on the way to the United Center. "

"I made dinner."

"Aw."

"But I want to go!" she cries. "Let me check with R. I'll get back to you."

I go back to work, reflect on the times patients have forgotten to pay me but have enlightened me about their vacations, especially trips to Vegas, home of Cirque du Soleil. I live vicariously through these patients. I have to. All of my vacations are family vacations. Not that seeing the kids doesn't beat the circus any day. And there are some similarities.

I'm not jealous, seriously. But how do you like that? It's here. Cirque du Soleil has come to me.

So I make some coffee, finish up the day, get on my horse and ride home against the wind. No matter how the wind blows during the day, when I have to ride my bike home, it turns against me. This is life. But I'm going to Cirque du Soleil.

FD has bought the falafel and is popping some corn. I shower up and change, try to look nice, he doesn't notice but that's okay because we'll be inside a circus tent soon!

And the show begins. And all I can think about, while I'm watching, is how my granddaughter would really love the trapeze, and my grandsons would love to try that high wire and the flips and the trampolines, and I'll have to remind all of them, after they see the DVD that I have to buy, not to stack the kitchen chairs way high to the sky or climb on the furniture, Daddy might get upset. And an accident could happen.

And I think about my septuagenarian, the woman who could toss and twirl a baton, who suffered so much depression as an adult, and I wonder about her, if she saw the juggler, oh, how she would love his act!

Click here for an overview of the show. (Warning, if you're not listening to music because it's the three weeks*, wait until after Tisha B'Av to watch these clips. They'll still be here.)

Here's another link to a not so ordinary circus, (no elephants or tigers).

The seesaw or do you call it a teeter totter act that you don't want your kids to see.

And finally, the link to Anthony Gatto's juggling act Unbelievable.

David Shiner, the director of Cirque du Soleil sums up the show in one word. Fun. So if you can catch it, I think it's here until August 26.

therapydoc

*About the three weeks.
Jewish people take upon themselves two fasts that bookend the three weeks, a much dreaded period of mourning. We dread it primarily because fasting in the summer is really hard (no food or water). But we're also afraid of your ordinary calamities. It's not a lucky day for us.

These fasts give new meaning to that Jewish joke, Oy am I toisty. which, if you're nice I'll tell over to you sometime.

Various prohibitions between the first fast, the 17th of Tamuz and second, the 9th of Av (Tamuz and Av are lunar months) include: No weddings and other festive gatherings, no hair cuts (some refrain from shaving), no music, no home decorating, no swimming, no shopping for clothes unless you get a really good deal.

No fun.

So no Cirque.

The three weeks culminate with what is judged by all to be the worst day of the Jewish calendar, perhaps the single most worst day, historically, for the whole world. Examples of events on this day include,

587 BCE The First Temple is destroyed by the Babylonians under the rulership of Nebuchadnezzar.

70 The Second Temple is destroyed by the Romans under the leadership of Titus.

135 Romans conquer Bar Kochba's last fortress, Betar, and destroy his army. The Roman Emperor Hadrian turns Jerusalem into a Roman city.

1290 King Edward 1st of England signs an edict expelling all Jews from England.

1492 Jews are expelled from Spain.

1670 The last Jews leave Vienna, following expulsion orders.

1914 World War I begins (Germany declares war on Russia on August 1, 1914).

1940 Himler presents his plan for the "Final Solution" to the Jewish problem to the Nazi Party.

1942 (5702) Nazis begin deporting Jews from the Warsaw Ghetto.

Everyone knows someone who suffered a loss, a freak accident, on the 9th of Av.

We always worry on this day. More than usual I mean.

And look upwards.

One down, one to go. You can wait to see Cirque du Soleil. It's okay.

For more on the three weeks check out Yutopia and Yid with a Lid

For a couple more reviews on Cirque du Soleil, read Chris Jones, Chicago Tribune and Foreman in Philadelphia

You can get lyrics to the music

BlogHer

One of the things about being out here on the Internet, for a person like me, is the fear.

I worry that if twenty, or a hundred, or a couple of thousand people or even more, read what I write, that the odds are pretty good that I'll upset someone. And this doesn't sit right with me, makes me want to pitch the whole thing.

An email conversation with a cousin (Let's call him Mike):

Mike: Great post on the family blog! I love the pictures.

Me: Oh, I didn't post them. E. did. But speaking of blogs, if anyone should write a blog, it would be you. I happen to know that you're a writer and as a rabbi, too, you
actually have something to say. Why don't you read this guy (I link him to a blogger rabbi).

Mike: I KNEW it would be dangerous contacting you!

See? He's scared, too.

Readers of this blog who email me about their problems usually get back a prefabricated answer, although I try to personalize it and will sometimes hypothetical-ize it.

I go into why I can't address personal problems on the blog or by email. I just don't want to get into trouble, you know. Sure, it's lame. No guts, no glory. But people need their own face time with a flesh and blood therapy doc, and that's basically what they hear from me.

Apologetically. I have an entire lecture about pat answers.

Speaking of apologies, validating comments is hard! And here I wrote that entire post about validating what people say. Ugh. I stay up night wondering, honestly, where people have gone. Sorry, sorry, sorry, guilty as always. Please forgive.

But here's another thing. I've never officially linked to BlogHer!

The Unstory

The other day, cruising the blogs, avoiding responsibility, I noticed someone had linked over to BlogHer. Now, two years ago, when I first started blogging, BlogHer was the first website out there that really helped women network with women. Empath Daught had told me how to find it. It was a dot.org at the time, not a dot.com.

Anyway, BlogHer linked back to me, as is her nature, many times, and I never properly thanked her (them, really), not even in the monthly Back 'acha posts.

Total ingratitude. Such an oversight. How these things happen, I don't know. A person gets momentum and sees forward, not back. Wasn't it Bob Dylan who said, Don't Look Back? Why would I listen to him?

But now, well, here's a chance to make up for it. I'm going to direct all of you there! To BlogHer! Even men! Especially men. Sure, why not? At the risk of losing you forever to the many amazing BlogHer bloggers, check them out.

And we'll get to my apologies for not answering email and not validating your comments,and on and on, another day.

Here are only a handful of the women to watch at BlogHer.

Mir Kamin chimes an objection to people who worry about men with cameras around children in bathing suits. Not everyone's a pervert, she's thinking. I'm glad. But what if just one. . .

Lisa Stone I think Lisa founded BlogHer. She's so accomplished she's scary. Reading her bio makes a person proud to be female, related by some speck of DNA.

Nordette Adams tells us about a police officer who lost it in the carpool line. You can read Nordette here. She'll tell you about septuagenarians (a theme, lately) having babies. So it's not all about raging, here.

You think that I talk too much about sex? Find Liz Rizzo at Everyday Goddess and sure, at BlogHer, too.

Just a start. So many more.

therapydoc