The Reluctant Healer

by Andrew D. Himmel

  “He didn’t conclude anything. Not enough time had elapsed.”

  “I am quite sure that you are wrong. Even if it were just a few seconds, the human brain is capable of making lightning-fast judgments that form far faster than the brain’s ability to assign words. Halter is intelligent and maybe even intuitively advanced given the pain he has had to grapple with his entire life.”

  “Not getting your point.”

  “He sees you in a trance, with your hands extended outward toward him. He knew what you were trying to do.”

  “Stefan . . .”

  “Will, Halter knew what you were trying to do. And between the time that he left the conference room and your next meeting with him, he had time to think about this more deeply. He chose to believe in the possibility that you could heal him. Couldn’t this belief have triggered some healing capability within him?”

  I wanted to respond, reflexively if necessary, to slow all of this down.

  “‘A sorrow shared is half the sorrow.’ Why should the sorrow be cut in half just by sharing it? The circumstances haven’t changed. The tragic event still occurred. The loss is still there. Everything is the same as before, in place, unmoved. But the reaction to the sorrow is different. Why?”

  “I don’t know, but . . .”

  “Let’s face it: The simple act of sharing actually lessens sorrow. I have no idea why either, but it happens, right? Isn’t it possible that the act of sharing activates some internal healing capability? And if that’s possible, is it really such a great leap to consider that Halter’s belief in the possibility of your abilities somehow, I don’t know, activated healing within him?”

  “Stefan, you’re abandoning me.”

  Stefan smiled. “No, you are not experiencing abandonment. It is much worse than that. I am making sense to you.”

  “Erica does not believe that spiritual healing is simply a placebo effect.”

  “I think perhaps you are burdened with semantics. What does Erica actually believe? And does it even matter?”

  “She believes . . . that there are those who are capable of harnessing energy, of directing the energy from a particular source toward those in need.”

  “And how did she form this belief?”

  “It’s a long story, not sure I understand it anyway.”

  “She read something somewhere, right? Or experienced something? It is not important, really, what she actually thinks is the precise causation. She believes in the causation. And this belief is communicated to her patients. She has faith. Do you study the Talmud?”

  “I am a disgrace to my religion,” I replied. “On the high holy days, I experience a vague sense of guilt for not being in temple. This is the extent of my religious observance.”

  “Do you know that I have studied the Talmud quite extensively?”

  “Yes, this makes sense, you being from Denmark and all.”

  “Well, if you study philosophy, it is not so unusual to spend time studying ancient rabbinical thought. And the Talmud is quite emphatic: ‘Faith is wisdom and wisdom faith.’ The ancient rabbis knew what they were talking about.”

  “I knew there was a reason to seek comfort from you,” I said. “When in doubt, consult a Scandinavian on the meaning of Hebraic scripture.”

  Stefan’s eyes lit up. “Just thought of something,” he said. “Our firm represents drug companies seeking FDA approval. Do you know why it is so difficult to succeed in this process? The single biggest impediment? It is because all studies must be measured against the placebo effect, and the placebo effect is almost always substantial. To be certified as effective, the effect of the new drug or treatment must be much greater than the placebo effect, and most drugs fail this test. Think about what this means.”

  “I can’t think now.”

  “It means that the expectation of a benefit causes alterations in brain chemistry. None of this is in dispute. It has all been documented. Here,” and Stefan rifled through files on his desk. “We represent a client seeking FDA approval for a Parkinson’s disease drug. We came across this study.” Stefan handed me a thick three-ringed binder filled with charts and crowded text.

  “Am I supposed to read this?”

  “I will summarize. This is a study showing that Parkinson’s patients improved with placebos. The incredible thing is that the changes in their brain chemistry were identical to the changes experienced by patients taking the actual medication. But even that is not the most amazing part.” Stefan paused for dramatic impact. “The most amazing part is this: The placebo effect does not work in secret. You cannot slip someone a placebo and realize any change. The participant must know that he or she is taking something that might help. This knowledge makes all the difference. Without knowledge, without expectation, without hope, there is no placebo effect.”

  “You must think that Erica is absurd.”

  “You haven’t been listening. What I think is that there are probably good healers and bad healers. We do not know why the expectation of benefit activates the same neural pathways in the brain as medications, but we know that it happens all the same. Doesn’t it make perfect sense that the greater the expectation and belief, the greater the change in brain chemistry?”

  Fatigue was overtaking me. “Good healers, bad healers?”

  “Yes, exactly,” Stefan said. “Look at Erica. She is attractive. She is forceful. She cares. She is committed. Can you imagine how powerfully she can trigger belief? Expectation?”

  “You all but ridiculed Erica at our first dinner, and you were right to do so.”

  Stefan walked to the front of his desk and leaned back. “That was not my best moment,” he said. “What am I trying to say here?” Stefan rubbed his face vigorously as if to revive his energy. “How about this? Even if you’re a scientist with no belief in the supernatural, you can still accept that so-called healers can improve others. Why? Maybe because, through the force of their personality, they can evoke expectation and belief and hope, all of which alters brain chemistry and promotes healing.”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?” Stefan replied.

  “I have special powers. I just have to be somewhere, and I radiate healing energy.”

  “It’s true. I always feel so good around you.”

  “Stefan, I just have to be in the vicinity. No one needs to know about my presence. I’m just there, and my very presence transmits healing. No placebo effect. No . . . brain chemistry being altered due to my just . . . being there.”

  Stefan nodded. “Well,” he said, “that would pretty much invalidate everything I just talked about, would it not?” He paused for a moment, then stood up and clenched his fist.

  “I think I have it. The answer, Will, the answer that has been staring us in the face all along.”

  I looked up expectantly. “And that would be?”

  “It took some analysis on my part,” he continued. “I had to think outside the box, draw upon vast reservoirs of knowledge, of science, of history . . .”

  “Stefan,” I said. “The answer. What is the answer?”

  “Well, isn’t it obvious?” he said. “You are a gifted healer with supernatural ability.”

  20

  Sitting In

  I sat on a bench in Madison Square Park near Erica’s office, granting myself a few minutes of reprieve before taking my assigned seat in the waiting room. The line for Shake Shack snaked across the park toward the Twenty-Third Street boundary. Dogs raced up and down in their designated runs, kicking up dust and choking off the small amount of oxygen left to breathe on this humid July afternoon. I was momentarily startled when a squirrel jumped on my back, with all four paws landing simultaneously; then, it darted off. I jumped up, let out a silly, helpless yelp, then sat back down again, trying to regain my composure. When I looked up, Sondra Whitfield was standing in front of me with her child, a small boy who I could see, on closer inspection, had fair, almost effeminate features.

  “May we jo
in you?” she asked.

  I searched for the reasons that would have prohibited such an encounter. Disciplinary rules? Etiquette? I came up empty. All that I was left with was a vague sense that meeting Sondra like this, in a public park, near Erica’s office, was improper, maybe even disloyal.

  She sat down before I could respond, and her son walked away from us, toward the nearby playground. Sondra seemed unconcerned, as if a virtual maternal leash kept him safe. She was dressed in a long-sleeve dark business suit with a lapel collar and white blouse. As she crossed her legs, I glanced at her furtively, not wanting to establish enduring eye contact.

  “I’m not sure about the protocol here,” she said, “but I wanted to say something to you. Appreciation, I suppose, for what you’re doing.”

  I smiled nervously. “Honestly, I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing.”

  She leaned back and closed her eyes briefly. “I’m not either,” she said. “And just so you know, Erica has been very honest with me. She’s told me, well, she’s told me all about you. How you may not believe everything she does, how you may not believe what she believes about you.”

  “I believe in Erica,” I said. “Of that, I’m pretty sure.” I felt pained by the automated nature of this response. What exactly did I believe in anyway? Her sincerity? Her abilities?

  Sondra looked up intently to locate her child, who almost simultaneously looked back toward us from the playground. It was as if they had a pre-arranged schedule to establish eye contact. She turned her gaze back toward me. “I hope I’m not being too forward here, and I haven’t even talked to Erica about this, but . . .”

  She looked down at this point and mounted an effort to regain composure. “I promised myself a long time ago that I would never shy away from taking any steps to help Josh. So I’m not going to stop now, and you’ll just have to deal with that, Mr. Alexander.”

  “Will,” I said.

  “Will,” she repeated, taking comfort in permission to address me by my first name. “Will, I would like to ask that you be there at every session I have with Erica. I can give you plenty of notice, and you can be sure I would give you any compensation you believe is fair.”

  “Ms. Whitfield, I have never asked Erica for any money, and I have never accepted any.”

  “Well, I couldn’t ask you to do this and not compensate you, for your time, if nothing else.”

  I looked at her directly now. My guess was that her suit was expensive, highly textured with zippered cuffs. Her shoes were elegant designer heels with aggressive ankle straps. It struck me that the severity of her attire might have been a brake against runaway despondency. “Erica recently wrote out a check for me for fifty thousand dollars,” I said.

  “That’s exactly how much I paid her two weeks ago.”

  “Ms. Whitfield . . .”

  “You can call me Sondra.”

  “Sondra,” I said. “That’s an insane amount of money.”

  “No, it’s not,” she said. “At least, not for me. And by the way . . .” She paused and swept her gaze across the park, scanning the shorn trees, the choked traffic, the ragged lawn trampled by office workers hurrying back to work. “I’m actually not a believer. I’m probably a lot more like you . . . skeptical . . . but open to possibilities.”

  “I’m not sure how open I am,” I said.

  “I’m open, maybe more out of desperation than anything else,” she said. “If it had been anyone except Erica, I really don’t think I’d have gone along with any of this, not even for a moment. But Josh and I had been seeing Erica for some time before she got involved with this . . . stuff.” I smiled, because I often had the same difficulty finding the single word or phrase that summarized Erica’s practice. “One quality I share with Erica,” she continued, “is that I make fast judgments about people. And my judgment of Erica is that she’s sincere.”

  “We’re in agreement on that point,” I said.

  “So, Will . . . my belief, or hope, in what she’s doing is based mostly on my faith in her, not what she’s . . . what’s the word . . . performing, or practicing. What I’m trying to say is that I’ll pay Erica, because I know she’s not trying to swindle me, and because, well, why not. I can afford it, and if there’s the slightest possibility that her practice can help Josh, then I’m all in.”

  “I don’t fault you for that,” I said.

  “I want you present at our sessions.”

  I was suddenly envious of everyone I was confronting lately who appeared to have no need to calibrate their actions or words. Erica said what was on her mind, and her actions seemed to flow directly from her heart, if not from science or logic. Sondra pushed forward based on the love of her child and the terrible circumstances she faced. Halter summoned me to his car and unburdened his psychiatric past with emotion and honesty, untrammeled by the slightest hesitation. And Stefan, with his confident, forceful nature, made sweeping pronouncements on medicine, science, and the status of my life. Even my parents, my beautiful, simple parents, tolerated Erica with complete and comfortable acceptance.

  But my interactions constituted a series of careful responses prompted by self-image and concern for the frailties of others. I seemed unable to get out of my own way. “I’d like to help you,” I said. “But I just don’t believe I can.”

  “Will . . .”

  “I’m . . . with Erica, and I tolerate her. I do things for her. But I’m not sure I accept everything she’s doing.”

  “You don’t have to . . .”

  “And all of this could be seen as an act of fraud, taking advantage of a distraught client.”

  “I’m not a client of yours.”

  “But in a way you are, because I’m providing services for you.”

  “But you’re not providing legal services. Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Alexander, but I’m not asking you to enter into an attorney-client relationship.”

  “It’s not that simple.” At this point, Josh ambled back toward us. His body movements were lethargic, but his eyes were bright and alert, and he was focusing on me. “Lawyers are judged by everything they do,” I continued, “whether it has anything to do with law or not. And frankly, accepting money, or even just participating in the provision of a service for you, puts me under a microscope. Let me ask you an unpleasant question.” Both of us scanned the park, as if we were ensuring that we would not be overheard.

  “Is it possible that to some degree, you accept the potential legitimacy of Erica’s treatment because, well, she is articulate, educated, white, attractive, and she is in a relationship with a conventional professional? If everything were the same, except that, by appearance, Erica was not Erica, but instead a storefront psychic, unkempt, older, pockmarked . . .”

  “Do you think that Erica’s a fraud?” Sondra asked.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be fraud on your part either, because, well . . . because you’re telling me it might be fraud on your part. But I want to make something clear . . .” Josh sat on his mother’s lap and opened and closed his eyes, and each time his eyes opened, he looked toward me. “This isn’t about you, or what you believe, or what you don’t believe. I’m not naive. There’s probably a good chance your presence does nothing.”

  I kept staring at Josh to see whether he would continue to look at me when his eyes opened.

  “I’m not asking for you to believe or for you to even exercise any powers. I’m just asking for you to be there. I need to insist, Will, and I feel awful about it, but I won’t stop asking, and I won’t stop haranguing you until you say yes.”

  She did not have to harangue me. Under different circumstances, I would have been able to imagine Sondra brimming with enthusiasm, each day another challenge to conquer with the tools of intellect and organization. But she had been slapped down hard, as I came to learn. The marriage to her financier husband fell apart shortly after Josh was born. He still lived in the city and was devoted to his son, seeing him regularly. When
Josh fell ill, his father provided all the funding necessary, but Sondra did most of the work and research relating to Josh’s care. The energy that might have been fueled by joy was redirected to a frenetic pursuit of anything and everything that might help her son. Western medicine. Eastern mysticism. African herbs. Obscure jungle remedies. Everything was explored.

  I sat in on their sessions, and although I’m sure that Erica did not plan it this way, I began to pay attention. I did not gain appreciation for the underlying substance of Erica’s beliefs or her treatments, but I did gain respect for Erica, for the way she handled Sondra and Josh, for the way she gently led them through various exercises or trances or whatever you want to call them. They trusted her, and I was captivated by these sessions.

  I will not make this memorandum a compendium of her treatments. I still found myself plagued by doubts. But I also could not easily shake off the reality of what I was experiencing as I watched Erica work with Sondra and Josh. Was Josh being healed? I had no idea, but there was something going on. Their sessions were filled with purpose and direction, and in a peaceful, calming environment. It was, oddly, fun. I don’t mean this in a frivolous sense. What I mean is that everyone was enjoying themselves immensely. There was an abundance of smiling, laughter, meditation. Sondra and Josh looked forward to these sessions, and they were always deflated when their time was up. As long as Sondra was supplementing, not replacing, Western medicine, I could not see the harm in it.

  And through no particular exchanges that I can pinpoint, Josh and I began to bond on some indefinable level. Often he would bound into the room with scraps of aluminum foil, which he would spill onto the floor. Then, he would unfold a plastic map of the fifty states and challenge me to manipulate the pieces into the shapes of New Hampshire, or Iowa, or Nevada. He quickly intuited that this kind of obsessive game-playing appealed to me, which indeed it did. He did not speak much, but he was always engaged with puzzles, smartphone games—anything, I suppose, to distract him.

  And so the next plateau was reached in my relationship with Erica. It seemed that every time a milestone was achieved in advancing my participation in Erica’s practice, a period of serenity followed. I tried deconstructing this dynamic, and I’m not sure I liked what I was observing. I began to feel a growing need on Erica’s part to involve me in her approach, and I worried that she was using me as a device to validate her new path. She was independent and willful, but she had also trained her mind rigorously to adhere to the demands of logic and proof in her training as a social worker. She needed to conflate the two paths, to harmonize the conflict, and she settled on me as the readily available tool to accomplish this task.