Through this process, my schedule filled up quickly. My first session was scheduled for mid-November. I wanted Erica to be with me, another presence so that I could dilute the strength of any implied promise. I also wanted her instincts and experience, for no other reason than to fill any uncomfortable pauses in the proceedings. But she refused. She was making progress recovering from her kundalini rising and working steadily over the phone with Matthias Kristen. She was also not ready to leave Garrison, and she was unwilling to see patients in her current state.
At 9:45 a.m. on November 16, I arrived at Erica’s office fifteen minutes before my first session, my maiden voyage. I sat behind Erica’s desk, glanced around the office space, and found that much of my anxiety was dissipating. There came a point when a dreaded event was so imminent, and the possibilities of avoidance were so removed, that you either collapsed or relaxed. This was a pattern of mine in preparing for trials and hearings, and the same dynamic played out now.
At 10:00 a.m., Francois Durand entered the office. He was a morbidly obese French national working for a biotechnology firm in New York on an H-1B visa. I would have guessed his age as mid-to-late fifties and was surprised when he told me he was thirty-eight. He was a mess physically, with wrinkled clothes and scattered strands of hair splayed over a largely bald head, but he spoke articulately and intelligently, with a slight accent lending an air of sophistication entirely at odds with his appearance. He had some difficulty lowering himself into Erica’s leather chair and, once ensconced, needed a few moments to orient himself before he was ready to communicate.
“So I find this somewhat peculiar, but my companion, who heard about you, suggested this encounter, and here we are,” he said. “Work your magic, and I will be on my way. You did mention no payment for today; I am correct about that, yes?”
“You are correct,” I said. “Let me make a few preliminary comments about how I imagine this going forward.” When quiet, Durand’s facial features seemed to disappear within folds of flesh and gained definition only when he spoke. I wanted to race through my initial comments so that he would appear again, and so I could be sure I was not alone in Erica’s office, speaking to myself. “I do not make any promises, Mr. Durand; I have no idea if I can help you. But I do have some reason to believe that, in some instances, with some people, I can be of assistance. You’re with me so far?”
“I am,” he said.
“I am not inclined to answer questions about what I do or to provide explanations, not because I am being secretive or wish to safeguard my methods but because I simply do not have answers or explanations that would make sense to you or, frankly, to me. I either work, or I don’t work, and you will be the sole judge and jury of this question.”
Durand did not respond, and I wondered whether he was even there, whether instead some indistinct globule had migrated onto the chair. I continued, “I will ask you in a moment to tell me briefly what brought you here. You can choose the level of detail you wish to communicate to me. I would only suggest that you be specific enough so that I obtain a fair understanding of what your issues are. I will not be inclined to ask a lot of follow-up questions, and the likelihood is that I won’t ask any.”
Durand nodded.
“I will then ask that we embark on what I will call a joint meditation. This asks from you nothing more than simply relaxing in your seat, closing your eyes, and the two of us can experience a few moments of silence together. I will suggest a thirty minute limit, but I will have no objection to extending this period of time if you wish, or even cutting it short, if you prefer that.”
Durand nodded again.
“So as you can see, I will not take up much of your time, and I will not take any money from you today. We will conduct our business, and you will leave.”
“And how do we handle the issue of compensation?” he asked.
“We don’t handle it. You handle it. You will leave these offices, Mr. Durand, and you will decide whether you have received any benefit. If you conclude that this has been a waste of time, you will pay me nothing, you and I will never communicate again, and I will wish you well.”
“And if I decide that I have received some benefit?”
“Then, I would ask, but not require, that you compensate me in an amount which you believe is commensurate with the benefit you received.”
“Do you have any guidelines to suggest what that amount would be? Any standard, such as, for example, the suggested admission price at the Metropolitan Museum of Art?”
“No, I have no suggestions. You decide. I think most people have a gut sense of the value of services they have received, so you will follow your own instincts and reach this decision on your own.”
“And if I receive a benefit and pay you nothing, what then?”
“Then, I will lose out on this encounter, and there will be nothing that I can do about it. I suppose you can view this as an honor system fee arrangement.”
“And if I wish to see you again?”
“I would be willing to see you again, but would only ask that if you decide to make another appointment, you first make payment to me of some amount, again entirely at your discretion.”
Durand then described for me, in a manner somewhat less fluid than the presentation of his preliminary comments, that he suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder, nothing crippling, but bothersome enough that his day-to-day life was often a struggle. I suppressed the thought that he did not look the part, that surely an OCD sufferer would be fastidious in appearance, but I placed that unhelpful observation to the side.
And so I began. We both sat back in our chairs and closed our eyes, and to be honest, I don’t recall much else about this first visit, other than the thought that on this maiden voyage, I was filled with gratitude. This individual trusted me, at least to some degree, and I felt an obligation to return that faith with a true effort to address his concerns. I did not accept the legitimacy of what I was doing, but I also approached this path in the utmost good faith. As an attorney fantasizing about a withering crossexamination, I could only hope that one day I would confront a hostile witness expressing such irreconcilable nonsense.
Absurd or not, as the weeks passed, and as I met with an increasing clientele, I brought to each and every session a sincerity and hope that I am sure was conveyed to each participant. I wanted to help them, and I tried to do so.
Most paid something, and a few paid a fair amount. Some probably did not pay at all. I never kept track. I noticed that some payments were made by postal money order, others under the names of corporate entities, and a few by personal check. I would occasionally receive written communications of gratitude in varying degrees of intensity, and I also received a few polite emails thanking me for my time but expressing doubts as to whether any good had been accomplished. And of course, many made no response at all.
In the first two weeks, the money added up. Not in preposterous amounts, but to a degree that I would characterize as sustainable. I could live on this. Not lavishly, but comfortably. This would assume the steady stream of clients would continue unabated, and who knew? Perhaps the numbers would increase, and I would have to expand my hours and availability.
And with a few notable exceptions, most patients appreciated the stripped-down approach used in the sessions. Most did not try to open up a deeper connection, and most did not quarrel with the procedure I used. Of course, this lack of resistance was surely explained in no small degree by the lack of any requirement to make payment. It’s your show, pal, and it’s free and won’t take up much of my time. So I’m on board. And my defenses are down.
But I also think that most patients got it, and what in God’s name do I mean by that? Whether consciously or not, I think they tapped into my ambivalence. Hell, they were ambivalent as well and would have been even if they were visiting with a self-professed healer plagued with no hesitation. I doubt very much that I achieved the psychological goal of transference, but our shared equivocation cre
ated a bond, which in turn created trust. We were kindred spirits, my patients and I, humble and skeptical and hopeful.
I was dazzled by the array of ailments described to me. Perhaps a solid 50 percent fell into what I would call the psychological category, consisting of no physical ailments other than what would flow directly from inner demons, and this category simply had no limiting contours. One patient, who I met early on, was an elderly woman, Elaine, who lived in Kips Bay in a three-story prewar walk-up with her husband, to whom she had been married for over sixty-five years. Both of them were in their early nineties. In a matter-of-fact tone, she expressed the conviction that her husband had been replaced by an imposter who looked exactly like he did. She appreciated the gentle demeanor and good habits of the imposter, but she wanted her husband back. I later learned that this ailment had a name, Capgras syndrome, named after the French psychiatrist who identified the delusion.
During my session with Elaine, I was prompted to amend my protocol by emphasizing that my “treatment” was to be considered supplementary only, and that no one should forgo other more traditional methods of treatment. “Are you trying to tell me that I am crazy?” Elaine asked. For someone hopelessly delusional, she was pretty sharp. And anyway, I had difficulty supporting an argument that she was more delusional than I was.
Other patients suffered from more traditional ailments, and many of them were painful to hear. Stuart, a veteran of the Vietnam War, had flinched spastically at loud noises for years but now was reacting at any unusual sound, regardless of the volume. Gail, a bookish secretary, fantasized about becoming romantically involved with death row inmates. And Grant, an elementary school teacher, obsessed over whether the intersection at York Avenue and Sixty-Third Street was clear. He would often stand near the intersection and find breathing difficult until the cars coming off the FDR Drive were released onto York Avenue by the light changing from red to green.
I was baffled by how these particular individuals found me, as I could not imagine that Kravitz was the source for all of them. But I came to understand that clientele growth through word of mouth was unrestrained in the scope of its reach and the direction of its grasp. Surely, more than a few of my early patients were responsible for at least some referrals.
The other half of my practice consisted of the physical domain, ranging from petty discomfort to debilitating conditions. Especially with those in the latter category, I never had occasion to insult their intelligence by reminding them to follow up with more traditional treatments. Been there, done that. Now, it was time to try something new. Leave the management of my ailments to me; you’re just one of the tools in the drawer I’ve elected to try.
During this inaugural period, I called Sondra on a number of occasions, but she did not call back. I followed up with emails, asking her to call when she got a chance, asking about Josh and telling her that I was ready to resume our outings, if she wished. I received no responses. I was not entirely surprised. Despite her intentions, she may have felt awkward, and at the very least wanted a decent interval to elapse. Or she may have decided to withdraw from contact altogether. Either way, I sensed that some space was in order.
The practice crept up on me. My schedule filled up, increasing slowly, but always increasing, to the point where I began to see patients three, four, and then five days a week. Soon, my weekdays were filled, and I realized that I could time the joint meditations to last no more than ten to fifteen minutes, which meant that I could see as many as twenty patients a day. I enlisted Erica to handle the scheduling and finances. The clientele was instructed to make payments, if any, to a joint account established by Erica and me. I insisted that these monies were our joint property, and Erica offered no resistance.
I discussed all of my cases with Erica, without divulging any names, and she listened carefully but never offered advice or guidance. “You know what you’re doing, whether you realize it or not. You don’t need my help.”
I no longer felt that I was on a leave of absence. I was working. And at the end of a long day, I was exhausted, in a way that the practice of law never approached. With law, I was always concerned about the professionalism of my work but rarely about the welfare of my clients. Most cases did not pose existential threats. The clients would be just fine. But with my patients, I tried, and I cared. I don’t know how to describe the intensity of my effort, other than to say that when I fell into the joint meditation, I became troubled and anxious. I experienced my patients’ trauma. But more than empathy and concern, more than simply caring about the outcome, I was consumed with a desire to help, and this became exhausting, all the more so because I rarely heard from any patient a second time.
I approached every patient with a totality of good faith, even as I would be hard-pressed then, and now, to defend the legitimacy of energy healing in general and my practice in particular. I was not relaxed during this time. I could not even describe myself as happy or fulfilled. Instead, I was busy, focused, and stressed out.
Erica and I became more involved than ever, spiritually I suppose, certainly not physically, but I was unconcerned about the absence of sex, because I assumed that once our respective stages became clarified, once things settled down, we would reconnect on that level as well.
And I resolved to tell Erica the truth about Sondra and to do so quickly. But as I concluded a day of sessions on an unusually bright and sunny December day, I received a phone call which at first suggested that I may have waited too long.
34
The Decline before the Fall
I did not hear the phone ring, but I felt its vibration through the inner sleeve of my blazer. “I spoke to Sondra,” I heard Erica say. “I don’t know what to say.”
I felt no panic. I frequently had trouble initiating confrontation but often found a certain ease at handling strife if presented to me. With no escape route, there was only one direction left. This is what suicide must feel like, an ecstatic lightness borne from release.
“I guess you didn’t know,” she continued. The truth would remain hidden, then, and I resented the reemergence of options. “Josh. He’s not well. He’s at NYU Hospital in intensive care. He may not have long.”
“When . . .”
“We spoke only for a few seconds. Go there, Will. I’m not sure there’s anything you can do, but go there. Help Josh transition.”
I took the subway to NYU Hospital, in full recognition that my presence was unnecessary, maybe even unwanted. Who was I anyway? A special family friend? A counselor? An advisor? Etiquette may have suggested contacting Sondra first, but she had not been answering my calls for quite some time. My standing was questionable. I went anyway.
I arrived at an imposing visitor’s desk and expected to be questioned carefully, but the attendant cheerfully provided me with Josh’s room number. I ascended the elevator in the north tower to the eighth floor, slipped past the security desk, which was unmanned anyway, and walked down the corridor to Josh’s private room. To my surprise, he was alone when I entered, his eyes closed and his complexion ashen, but otherwise, he appeared peaceful. I looked behind me and down the hallway in both directions but saw no one. I returned to Josh’s bedside and sat next to him on a grim wooden chair.
He was gone, or close to it, and I could do nothing. I have no idea how or why I reached that conclusion, but I knew I was not mistaken. I wondered whether I could help him transition, as Erica had suggested, even as I questioned whether that request referred to the journey or the destination. I felt that I was not done with Josh, even as I was certain that Josh was done with this life.
I heard a chair scrape across the floor, dragged toward the bedside, next to me. A large man, well dressed, sat down and stared at Josh. The shared DNA was obvious, even though Josh was as angelic as his father was brutish. The one disconnect was the size. Josh was probably frail even as a healthy child and always small for his age. His father’s size, by contrast, was menacing.
“I know who you are,” he sa
id. He continued to stare at Josh.
“This must be hard for you,” I said. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“I wish you hadn’t done what you’ve already done,” he said.
I first absorbed this comment as part of the substance-free exchange that often takes place in difficult circumstances, until the meaning sank in.
“I’m not sure what that means,” I said.
Roger Whitfield scraped his chair closer to mine but continued to stare at Josh.
“I have pretty good instincts,” he said. “I trust them more than all of the schooling and training I’ve had. And do you know what they tell me? What they’re telling me right now, as we sit here, watching my son waste away?”
He torqued his upper body torqued toward me while his lower body remained immobile. “You’re responsible for this. I can’t say how or why exactly, other than an educated guess that your errant nonsense convinced Sondra to deprive Josh of treatment. Real treatment.”
“Mr. Whitfield, I’m sorry for what you’re going through, but what you just said . . . it’s just not true . . .”
Josh stirred momentarily; his eyes remained closed. But this small movement let us know he was there, a silent arbiter of our conversation.
“I wonder, in my difficult time, if you would do me the courtesy of telling me about yourself.” I noticed that his chair and his bulk made an effective blockade. “For example, are you a healer? How about that for starters? Are you a healer?”
“I don’t think . . .”
“It’s a simple question, really. In fact, it is an especially simple question because you have in your possession all of the information you need to answer it. I’d go further. You’re really the only one who can answer. Extend to me this courtesy, Mr. Alexander. My son is dying. Answer the question. Are you a healer?”
The Reluctant Healer Page 21