Geno Molinari stared at Shellenberger in disbelief, rolling his eyes so far that he could almost see the back of his head, and mumbled, “Our minds were not the parts of us that needed clearing.” Seeming to juggle what he was trying to put into words, he blurted out, “Not trying to be too personal, but do you have problems with your bung-hole? I mean, Doc, you have exhaust that would gag a goat.”
Shellenberger’s face turned red, then white. He twisted his mouth in dozens of directions, but no words came out. The rest of the group bolted upright. Even for Molinari, this was a blatant and over-the-top violation of manners and respect. Shellenberger was certainly not their choice over McGinnis, but he was a doctor and a member of the hospital staff. Still, for a professional, he did seem uptight, stiff, and clueless, and there was little doubt about his obliviousness to his glaringly obvious problem.
The electrified tension in the room suggested that a more tactful, yet candid, approach to Bubbles’ flatulence might be in order. Hoffmeister gave it a shot. “I would put it differently,” he mused. “I think I can speak for the whole group in saying that we hope your alimentary canal is in good order and that your health is not necessarily reflected in your gastric emissions.”
Shellenberger’s body seemed to flirt with going into a seizure, as his jaw started to shake while his eyes bulged larger and larger. His arms and legs became rigid as his breathing pulsated in short gusts. If he were a tea kettle, he would have bubbled over the top.
Molinari continued staring at him like he was a pickled freak in a glass jar. “Doc, you kind of look like Lumpy used to. You know, seized up and all. Hope I didn’t piss you off.” As an afterthought he added, “Maybe you just need to clear your mind a little more.”
An electric shock seemed to pass through the psychologist as he stiffened and struggled to speak. “I . . . ah . . . hmm. . . do not know . . . ah.” He stopped, cleared his throat again, and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I’ve . . . never so . . . anxious.”
Molinari butted in. “Well, you should be anxious. Your gas attacks are killers, and despite what you might think, they stink.”
“Good lord,” Sonya cried out. “Show some respect! Give Dr. Shellenberger a break! He can’t help himself.”
“You might be surprised,” said Lundeen. “There’s a lot of this ‘unconscious’ behavior that can be managed. I bet Bubbles would cap his gas tank if he were talking to the Super Chief.”
Shellenberger’s body straightened up like someone had inserted an icicle suppository into the most active part of his anatomy. “How da . . . DARE you call me B . . . B . . . Bubbles!” His stuttering appeared to compose him somewhat as he continued. “You may refer to me as Dr. Shellenberger. Fu . . . fur..further, I take great offense at your ca . . . comments.”
“No offense intended,” said Molinari. “It’s not like we’re calling you ‘mentally ill’. But we might have to talk about your anxiety.”
“My anxiety!” fumed Shellenberger. “You’re the patients. Not me.”
“We’re not that different,” said Reardon. “Fear is fear. We’re all cut from the same cloth on that one. How we deal with fear is what makes us different. ”
“That how does not make us crazy aliens,” added Lundeen.
“Yes,” said Hoffmeister. “We all respond to pressure using some kind of a ‘fight or flight’ strategy.” With an uncharacteristic twinkle in his eye, he giggled. “Some of us fart and some of us dart.” Sneaking a look at Shellenberger, he sensed his joke might have gone too far. Working hard to erase the smirk from his face, Hoffmeister launched into his professorial mode, “Each of us, as we continue to grow up, are trained in different emotional skills. Most of these skills are learned at the knees of our mothers, fathers, teachers and mentors. All of them are intended to help us survive, but most come with a price tag.”
“I’m sure I would agree with that,” said Reardon, “Once I finish laughing about that ‘fart or dart’ comment.”
Members of the group started getting the giggles again, so Buck, like Hoffmeister, tried to get serious. “Survival skills get tricky for me. What I learned from an alcoholic mother kept me in good shape around her, but put me in a pickle when I used the same stuff with my wife.”
Lundeen nodded agreement. “Like Loren said, all we’re trying to do is survive, and emotional survival is the toughest of all.”
“It’s like we grow up learning a sport, like football,” said Reardon. “We get good at it. Then we meet a new coach who changes the rules, because he’s trained in hockey and expects us to play his game. Well, guess what happens when the All-Conference quarterback, who’s never played hockey in his life, steps on the ice with his skates and hockey stick?”
“He faints from flatulence?” quipped Brad, his comment sliding out of his mouth before he could close it. Suppressed laughter in the group now teetered on the brink of sidesplitting hilarity.
“Brad,” hissed Sonya, “Do you want to get kicked out of graduate school? He’s your supervisor, you fool!”
With tears in his eyes, Rich Reardon held up his hand. “Let’s take another run at this again. What happens when a football player tries to play hockey for the first time?”
“He falls on his butt?” chuckled Frankie Grayson.
“Absolutely. And guess what happens to his self-confidence? He’s used to being a star athlete, but now he can’t even stand up. So he redoubles his efforts to play hockey by football rules and ends up cussing himself for being a rotten athlete.”
“Good point,” spoke up Brad, trying to redeem himself. “So he’s still as good an athlete as he ever was, but now he thinks he sucks because the skills he learned at first don’t work in the circumstances he’s in right now.”
“Right,” said Reardon. “He remains a great football player, and a great athlete, but needs to learn some hockey skills in order to survive on an ice rink full of body checks and flying pucks.”
A hint of a smile crept across Hanson’s 5:00 shadow. “So, if a husband has been trained in Irish Catholic emotional rules, and marries a woman who plays by German Lutheran standards, there’s going to be some emotional train wrecks.”
“ . . . and marital conflicts that should be considered natural, not pathological,” said Hoffmeister. Rubbing his chin, he stared thoughtfully at the floor and added as an afterthought, “You can love someone and not be able to live with her. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Wait,” said Brad. “You mean to tell me that marital conflicts about kids, money, in-laws and out-laws, religion, sex and all that stuff are normal? How about the guy who beats up his wife because she spent too much money on groceries? That’s normal?”
“You misunderstand,” came a voice coughing to clear phlegm from his throat, a voice no one around the table expected to respond so soon. “The conflicts are normal but the methods used for their resolution are not. So often it’s not the ‘what’ but the ‘how. I suspect that the abusive husband’s perceptual filter and thoughts are twisted and distorted based on his emotional history. Therefore, his subjective reality is dramatically different from his wife’s. He sees black, she sees white and the conflicts are typically gray.”
Having finished his speech, Shellenberger reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, blew his nose and then dabbed at the mucous that had leaked around the cloth onto his mouth and hand. After wiping his face and cleaning up his fingers, he poked the handkerchief back into his pocket. His sanitary faux pas was obvious to all seated around the table but no one said a word. Shellenberger started to shift his weight to his left leg but then stopped. Looking around the group, his somber expression merged into a wry hint of a smile. Clearing his throat again, he said, “Perhaps that’s enough for now.”