The news of Dr. Paul’s death sobered John up in a hurry, and within minutes of hearing it he had arranged for a cab to take him home. He berated himself the entire way back for not being there, and waited till he got home to make some phone calls to find out what exactly had happened. He spent a very long night packing up his things and trying to make arrangements to change his plane reservations.
The next morning was bittersweet for John, as he was sad to be leaving his mother so abruptly after such a positive visit. He was happy they had reconnected over the past couple of days, and as he left he assured her how much their time together had meant to him. It had been a healing experience for him.
On the plane home John was numb, and he was still having a hard time processing that the man who had been the closest thing to a father he had really had was gone. It was particularly hard to make sense of considering how much he reconnected with his mother after so many years. One door opens and another door closes. John knew this to be true.
After speaking with a very distraught Mildred earlier that morning, John had discovered that the funeral services for Dr. Paul would be held the next morning at St. Patrick’s Catholic church in downtown Chicago. Paul had one sister in New York, and hundreds of colleagues and friends, but in reality John was closer to him than anyone else in his life. He knew sometime before tomorrow morning her would have to prepare a eulogy.
He replayed the circumstances in which he heard about Paul’s death in his head over and over again. In a bar, drunk, and perhaps about to make a mistake with a woman he barely knew. He couldn’t help but think how disappointed Paul would have been if he knew this, and he wondered if all of there work together had been for nothing. He knew this was self-destructive thinking, and reminded himself that he hadn’t actually done anything wrong other than have a few too many drinks in a bar. He tried to let himself off the hook, but it was difficult.
He wondered how he had gotten here. In retrospect hearing his father mentioned on the radio show the previous day had likely triggered something in John that made him repeat some of his father’s self-destructive patterns. Despite being a therapist, and being all too familiar with triggers and his own patterns of behavior, John had stumbled. He thought about how he would broach the subject with Stephanie.
Arriving home she was waiting for him at the airport, and hugging her and feeling her in his arms was an amazingly comforting feeling that instantly reminded him of everything he had been working so hard for. These were the moments where it truly was wonderful to have someone to love.
They drove to Stephanie’s house, and on the way, John did his best to explain where he was when she had finally gotten a hold of him last night. Seeing the wounded look on her face when he told her about his evening was devastating for him, and he reminded himself once again that all of his actions had consequences.
Later that afternoon he fixed her lunch, and did his best to assure her that her presence in his life was the best thing he had in this world. She agreed that it was something they could talk about later, and reminded him that he had to write a speech for Dr. Paul which she assumed would be a significant task for him emotionally. All the same he wanted to touch her and feel close to her, as she was the only thing in his life that made sense to him right now. Freud had remarked that the most important event in a man’s life was the death of his father, but for John, Dr. Paul did so much more for him than his own father, that he knew the effects of this would stay with him for a long time, perhaps forever. Right now he needed her comfort.
They spent the afternoon lying down together in her bed, and John was once again so thankful to be with such an understanding and compassionate soul such as Stephanie. Later they made love, and it was especially passionate and intimate considering the emotional circumstances of what John was growing through. He was reminded of Hemmingway’s description of sex as a way of beating back death. That’s what it felt like to him.
That evening he poured himself a large glass of Glenlivet and stared for quite some time at a blank screen. He had so much he wanted to say, but couldn’t quite break through the emotional ice he had built up to deal with the penetrating sadness he knew was going to come. He was well aware of the different stages of grief, and knew that part of what he was experiencing right now was denial. He spent a very long night wrestling with his own emotions, and when he finally did start to write after two glasses of scotch and several hours, the words poured out of him so freely that he was amazed when he looked up and saw it was now 5′Oclock in the morning. It was going to be a long day.