After my therapist of thirty years retired, I decided to try to wing it on my own for a while. I had been in some form of psychotherapy since I was 23. I thought this was a good time for a break from treatment. (For what it’s worth, that story is told in my article, “The Ultimate End to Treatment”.) But turning 70 hit me hard; and I decided that I wanted to talk to a therapist about the failure of my latest love affair mess and about my fears of growing old alone. Even though it was late June, I wanted to set up an appointment before everyone goes on vacation in August. But whom could I turn to? As a therapist myself, I know a lot of people in the field; and for a variety of reasons, I didn’t want to talk to any of them. Years ago, when my daughter asked for a referral for a therapist, I asked my therapist to recommend someone. I called that someone and asked her for a referral. She gave me two names, a woman on the UES who accepted Medicare and a man on the UWS who didn’t. I called the woman first. It may seem like an unsophisticated thing for a therapist to say but I liked her voice and the way she spoke to me over the phone. But let me not kid myself here, I also liked that she accepted my insurance. I made an appointment with her and put his number on the back burner.
Her office was in her posh East end apartment, an immediate red flag for me since I had written an article, “Be It Ever So Humble…..”. It was a controversial paper on the pros and cons (mostly cons) of practicing in the home office. I put my judgmental side, aside and went to see her anyway. I thought, maybe this time it would be different. As it turns out, it wasn’t.
Her apartment was so posh that the doorman controlled the elevator from his desk. I didn’t have to push any buttons. When the door opened, there were two apartments on her floor. She had told me that hers was the one of the right. I rang the bell, waited and turned the door knob. The door was locked. After several more rings, the door opened and a beautiful young woman on crutches ushered me in. My immediate first thought was, “What the fuck?” She asked, “Wasn’t the door open? It should have been.” I snidely said, “Well, it wasn’t.” Incredulously I asked, “Are you Dr. Schwartz?” She laughed and said, “No. She’ll be with you shortly.” I looked around the foyer that served as the waiting room, and my eye was immediately drawn to a pencil drawing of nude women in various poses—totally nude women that is! Once again, I thought to myself, “What the fuck?” I needed the bathroom. When I closed the door, I looked for the lock. There wasn’t any. I thought to myself, “What the fuck! What is going on here?” Feeling a bit rattled, I took a seat on an old wooden bench in the waiting room and wondered what’s next.
Dr. Schwartz opened the door to the treatment room, smiled a warm smile and invited me in. I liked her immediately. There was an air of kindness about her that I had picked up during our phone conversation. Dr. Schwartz was an attractive, even a pretty woman. It was summer and she wore a white summer dress. She appeared to be around my age or slightly older. I was somewhat distracted by her hair. It looked unkempt and she wore no make-up. I thought she would be a knock out if only she would put herself together better. I wondered: “Was she depressed?” But when she stood up to hand me the insurance form to fill out and walked toward me, my jaw dropped. Her white summer dress was sheer; I could see right through it. Dr. Schwartz was wearing black panties! I thought, “Oh my god. What the fuck is this?”
When she began the intake interview, she asked: “Why are you here?” But instead of answering her question, I asked her one. I asked: “Have you ever read “The Magus”? She replied, “No. Why do you ask?” I said,” You know, John Fowles. He wrote The Collector and The French Lieutenant’s Woman. He wrote The Magus. It’s about a guy who tries to escape his life by running away to teach at a Greek island and gets involved with a man named Conchis who messes with his perception of reality. I feel like I just walked into The Magus.” She asked me: “What’s a magus?” I said: “A magician.”
I felt obliged to let her know of my trepidations about seeing a therapist in her home office. I told her about my untoward experience with another female therapist whose home office adjoined her boudoir and who left the beautiful stained glass sliding doors ajar so that I could look into living quarters and see her lingerie draped over the chair facing her boudoir mirror. I also told her that I never mentioned any of this to the therapist and said to Dr. Schwartz: “Do you know why I never said anything?” She said, “Why?” I said, “Because I was afraid she’d close the door if I did.” Dr. Schwartz said, “She probably would have.” I told her about the article I wrote about the home office after this incident. I told her about the young woman at the door of her office, the lack of a lock on the bathroom room, and the painting of nude women in the waiting room. She told me, “In over 30 years of practice, no one has ever said anything about the lock on the door nor the painting. It’s a Picasso.” I was angry with her but said to myself: “Is she bragging?” I did say: “So what? That’s not the point. And anyway, it doesn’t matter that no one else has said anything. There’s no safety in numbers.” She said: “You’re right. I’ll think about it.” I told her that I felt over-stimulated by it all but stopped short of telling about seeing her black panties through her dress. I didn’t want to embarrass the both of us.
The rest of the interview went fine and as the session drew to a close, she asked,” Well, would you like to come back?” I thought but did not say: “Yeah. If we can have sex next time.” She offered to bounce some of her patients’ times around to accommodate my schedule. Naturally, I was flattered that she was so eager to treat me; at the same time, I was suspicious of her eagerness to treat me, yet another: “What the Fuck moment?.” As I left her apartment/office, I wondered to myself:” Would Medicare cover that too?” When I told this story to a female therapist friend of mine, she said dryly: “She doesn’t sound like the right therapist for you.” I replied, “Ya think?” Still, I’m thinking about calling Dr. Schwartz for another appointment after the summer break. I hope she can squeeze me in.
