“Hey, man, it’s John.”
John?
“From the meetings,” the voice adds. “AA.”
“John!” I explode. “How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while. Are you still going to the gym?”
“I’m still a member, but you know how it is. Busy at work.”
“Right,” I agree.
“I hope you don’t mind,” John says, “I got your number from directory inquiries.”
“Sure,” I say, “everything okay?”
“Well.” He pauses. “Not really. I’m struggling, Daniel.”
“Your mum?” I ask.
Another pause.
“I can’t seem to accept it, that she’s gone. The finality of it all.”
I suddenly realize John’s call is an outreach.
I check my clock: 11:56 a.m.
“John,” I say, mindful of Emma’s arriving in less than five minutes, “I’m just about to meet with a patient.”
“I wouldn’t call, but—” he cuts in, clears his throat, “I’m desperate.”
“Desperate how?” I ask, alarmed.
Silence.
“John?”
“Look, sorry to bother you, man, I shouldn’t have—”
“Listen, it’s fine. Really,” I interrupt. “Can we speak later, say, around, six-ish?”
But already he is gone, our conversation killed. Shame, I imagine, pulling on his wrist to end the call. Damn.
With just a few minutes to spare until Emma arrives, I feel a rise of panic and irritation with myself for not taking the time to talk. But what could I do? I soothe, I have to prioritize my practice, my patients. I make a note to call John back after work to check that he’s okay. Maybe I’ll suggest we meet for coffee, or that we go to AA together sometime next week.
Poor guy. It wasn’t long ago that I was in a similar place. How, soon after Clara passed away, I’d found it so difficult to seek help. Ironic, really, thinking now that John—the Old-Timer—had listened, checked on me, wiped me off the floor. His counsel at AA both consistent and sound. I hadn’t realized at the time how deeply reliant I was on Clara, how codependent I’d become, and now that she was gone I was half the man and shaken to the core. Finally, I thought, this is what alone feels like. And I was scared.
A knock on the door.
I gather myself, catch a breath, and open my office door.
“Hello, Emma.” I smile. “Come in.”
Emma looks at me, ill at ease.
“Are you okay, Dr. Rosenstein?” she asks. “You look awfully pale.”