Inuit Story Telling
Don (not his real name) approached me one day at the grocery store and said he wanted to see me for therapy. I had known Don for years. Of Don and I attended the same church. He shared the same interest in Zen Buddhism and a love of desert life. Don and I often had breakfast together at a local diner. He had never crossed a professional boundary in all the years I had known him.
When one works in a small community, it is not uncommon for friends and friends of friends to approach you publicly and inquire about car repair, aluminum siding or whatever your trade is. I discourage this since I am a therapist, and we have stringent rules about client privacy, and I might add our own.
“Don,” I said. “I can’t see you as a client. We are friends, and I do not have the objectivity to analyze you.” And we went back and forth, him trying to convince me otherwise. I was unrelenting.
Finally, he said. “OK, can we start having lunch together at your office?”
I could tell he was resolute, and not wanting to damage our friendship, I told him, “Sure,” but I would be buying. I told him I knew what he was up to and emphasized that I would not do therapy and he would not pay me; we could talk as friends.
Don was retired by this time and was mostly at home watching his wife of fifty years dying from metastatic breast cancer. He was isolated and missed working. Every Saturday, he would take supplies to the homeless guys living in the dry arroyo south of town, and some Saturdays, I would go with him, and then we would take our retrievers out for exercise and training. I was very aware of his loneliness.
We had lunch together twice a week for six months. He would call me just before I started my day, and we would agree on food, mostly New Mexican, though occasionally we would have a burger and fries. Then, we would sit in my consulting room for privacy. I did not sit in the big chair I used to interview clients, instead sitting on the loveseat at a right angle to the couch to emphasize that I was not doing therapy.