Four Friends (21 page)

“So—that waning sex drive. That okay with you?” Joyce asked.

“I never even noticed,” Gerri said. “Well, I barely noticed.”

“You talked about it? With Phil?”

“I didn’t know there was anything to talk about. We’ve always done a lot of talking, about everything, but that didn’t come up, so I thought it wasn’t an issue.”

“And the menopause symptoms? Really getting to you, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. Some of my friends glide right through it, but I’m not. You know you’re flashing when your bra is wet. When your scalp is wet and your hair goes flat. Throw in an extramarital affair and it’s like the bottom’s falling out.”

“Let’s try something—we’ll get a blood panel, see where you are and try some bio-identical hormone replacement, used in the form of creams. We can start with a low dose, see if you get some relief. Some women have good results. And I’m going to give you a tube of cream with testosterone in it. You can apply it anywhere the sun don’t shine—try the inside of your thighs every evening before bed—see if you begin to develop a libido. And in case you do and want to enjoy it, I’ll fix you up with some lubricant that’ll make you much more comfortable.”

“Now? Right now I don’t
want
to sleep with him!”

“Then you won’t,” the doctor said easily. “On the other hand, if you decide you do want to, he’s still your husband. Right?”

“That could really screw up my potential divorce! I don’t want to give him false hope!”
But,
Gerri thought,
the truth is, I don’t want to give myself false hope!

“Gerri, I’m going to be frank,” Joyce said. “You don’t have to give up sex yet. Remember how much fun it was in your younger days? A lot of women are still having fun at your age.” She shrugged. “Some are lying back and thinking of England for a few minutes a couple of times a week, but some are having hot sex. Women in their fifties often rediscover that part of life. It’s pretty common, in fact.”

“I don’t think I’m one of the hot-sex girls,” Gerri said.

“Maybe not—that’s not confirmed yet. After talking with my patients, I’m convinced the ones who don’t use it, lose it. Seriously, women who used lubricant for intercourse in their forties because they had to are having fun with it in their fifties, sixties. Whatever the case may be, in a marriage, it helps if you can assess each other’s needs.”

“Honestly, I didn’t know these needs existed.”

“Yes, you did,” Joyce said, straight out, pinning it on her one more time. “You did. You know you did.”

“I
didn’t,
” Gerri said angrily.

Joyce took a breath. “I attended this seminar once. We had workbooks and completed little homework assignments before each weekly workshop. They were silly little things that I thought were such a waste of my valuable time. One assignment was to go to your closet and take out the one outfit you know looks terrible on you and get rid of it. And I thought, I don’t have an outfit like that! And who cares? I wear scrubs most of the time. Obviously my reaction was common because the next sentence said, ‘Yes, you do and you know it—go take it out of the closet and get rid of it.’ So I went to my closet and pulled out this beige outfit that made me look sick and fat. I’d spent a lot of money on it and I was determined that eventually it would look as good on me as it had on the mannequin. But I threw it out, because even though I didn’t want to admit it, I knew. In fact, I had always known.”

She’s right,
Gerri thought. If she was truly honest with herself, she did know Phil was still interested in having sex with her. He’d made overtures from time to time. Not often, not desperately, not like a man driven. Certainly not like a man about to put those moves on someone else. All she’d had to do was tell him she was too tired or too moody or too menopausal and he’d roll right over, be snoring in sixty seconds. Now and then she took pity on him and gave in, hoping he’d hurry up. She didn’t want to think about what kind of passive, disinterested partner she’d been on those occasions.

She sighed. “So, a little hormonal help, lubricant and that’s your prescription?”

“I’m going to examine you, run some tests for STDs just to be safe even though the affair was years ago and you have no symptoms. And, I think you should try to talk to him, see if you can zero in on what’s worked well for you as a couple, what hasn’t worked so well. Even in the closest marriages, it’s hard for couples to discuss their more personal needs. Cravings. It might’ve been quite easy for you to avoid subjects like that, and never even know you were becoming less close.”

“Every time we start a conversation, it ends in a fight.”

“That so? Then one of you is dropping the bait. Could be him, trying to get you to take the rap, could be you, letting him know just how angry you are.”

“Is that the best you can do? Because I already know that.”

“And you already know that gynecologically, medically, biologically a sex drive is a powerful force in nature. It’ll make your beloved pet turn on you and maul you because he’s picked up the mating scent. It’ll cause animals to fight to the death. It could cause a good man to wander, even if that’s not what he wants to do. Good women, too, for that matter. You owe it to yourself to find out what you’re dealing with.”

“Look the other way, be understanding and forgiving?”

“I don’t know Phil. Is he a good man? Or is he just another bastard who cheats whenever he gets the chance? Whenever there’s an opportunity? Was he looking for sex, or was there more to the story?”

“There’s nothing Phil can say to me that will convince me there was a good reason to have an affair,” Gerri said.

“I imagine not. Can I tell you one more thing? Orgasms are very healthy. They’re great mood stabilizers, tension relievers. If you can’t find it in yourself to enjoy that aspect of marriage, you can still indulge in orgasms. There’s more than one way to skin that cat.”

Gerri sighed deeply. “I don’t think I’m going to be cured by an orgasm.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that. But the waning sex drive, the affair, the discomfort of menopause... Gerri, you’re a counselor—see if you can find out what happened to you and your husband.”

“I always thought he was ethical if nothing else. Moral. I’m not thinking that way right now, and it’s painful. I don’t feel like giving him a break.”

Joyce grinned. “I didn’t suggest you couldn’t leave a bruise or two. I mean, he was a bad boy, right? Try not to hurt yourself in the process.”

“Can this marriage be saved?” Gerri said sarcastically.

“
If
you walk away, be absolutely sure you’re burying something that was dead.”

eight

SYDNEY KALAY WAS filing some charts in the office she shared with two other psychiatrists at Glendale Psychiatric. Sonja walked into the office and the doctor looked up with a smile. “Well, it looks as if you’re feeling much better today,” she said. “Please, have a seat. Give me a moment.”

Sonja sat in the chair that faced the desk. She noticed that Dr. Kalay had some chimes hanging in the corner of her office, a miniature waterfall on top of the filing cabinet. She made a face, seeing these artifacts that once meant so much to her.

The upscale private facility was only partially covered by insurance, but George was taking care of the rest. It didn’t bother Sonja that George was stuck with the bill, yet it made her angry that without his benevolence she’d be in some state hospital, sharing a ward with eight other patients, eating food off a metal tray instead of china. Sonja had never made a good living, not even before George. She’d always dabbled in things that interested her, was satisfied to live at home with her parents until she married. She’d immersed herself in those things that fascinated her, soothed her—subjects reputed to bring health, light, peace, serenity and balance to one’s life. Now she felt she’d been tricked, wasted her time.

Dr. Kalay sat behind the desk, folded her hands atop Sonja’s chart and smiled. “This isn’t a therapy session, Sonja—just a medical evaluation. So, you’re looking good. So much better.”

“I don’t feel much better,” she said with a shrug. “In fact, I think I feel even worse.”

“Tell me about that,” the doctor said. “What doesn’t feel better?”

“I’m crying like an idiot in group sessions,” Sonja said. “I hate crying in front of people. I didn’t do that much crying before...”

“Crying about?”

“About failing George, failing at marriage, falling apart, going crazy in front of my friends, finding out I’ve just been deluding myself about everything....”

“Grieving,” the doctor said. “It’s painful but important work.”

“And what was I doing before?” Sonja asked.

“
Not
grieving,” she answered. “You couldn’t grieve, so you shut down emotionally, mentally, refusing to feel.”

“So—I did that to myself on purpose?”

“Of course not. You did it on instinct, because feeling was very painful for you. Your mind and nervous system took over to protect you. If we could look way back, we might find instances in your childhood that were so traumatic, your system perfected a way to take over, keep you safe from feelings that could be dangerous to you. On the other hand,” she said with a shrug, “there might be a DNA pattern in your family tree—a history of depression or something similar—that provided a natural pathway to your mind’s ability to drift into that state.”

“My aunt committed suicide,” Sonja said, looking down. “I never knew her, though.”

“A possible link to a family history of depression, but not necessarily confirmed.”

“My lymph nodes have been swollen,” Sonja said. “Like I’m coming down with something.”

“I read this in your chart. I don’t think it’s due to illness, Sonja. I’m pretty sure it’s a reaction to your medication and I’d like to ride it out for a while. It might pass. If it doesn’t, we’ll try something else. However, you’re responding to the medication in a very positive way.”

“I never took drugs before, for anything. Everything has been natural.”

“The drugs you’re taking are also natural, not synthetic,” the doctor said. “Everything in nature has great power. Homeopathic remedies can be very effective but they can also be lethal, depending on the dose, the combination, the prescriptionist...”

Sonja waved an impatient hand. “Medical doctors. Always the same drill.”

“Oh, you might be wrong about that. That’s often a correct assumption, but not always. For example, I visit a Chinese herbalist in San Francisco. She’s been tremendous in helping with my allergies.” She laughed. “She has many remedies—for everything from aging to liver cleansing. She looks like bloody hell herself, which makes one wonder. It can be a leap of faith, with natural herbalists, with physicians.”

Sonja leaned forward. “Who?” she asked.

Dr. Kalay shook her head. “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t make a referral like that. We’re really here about another matter. A relatively simple matter—clinical depression. By now you’ve learned you’re hardly alone. In fact, I would consider you fortunate—you seem to be responding to medication, despite the lymph nodes. Have you any idea the number of patients who don’t?”

“I’m catching on,” Sonja said. “There are people in my group sessions who have been hospitalized several times.”

“Does that worry you?”

“Of course!” she said. “I don’t want to be a high-risk patient!”

“I’m not concerned about that,” the doctor said. “Would you like to know why?”

“Yes, please.”

“A combination of reasons. You haven’t had a previous breakdown like that in your adult lifetime, unless you’re holding back information that could be pertinent. There’s no pattern. I don’t see any kind of toxic use of natural remedies in the list of herbs, roots and plants you used in your diet. Your break from reality was terrifying and seemed endless to you. But, in the great scheme of things, it was relatively short, thanks to early intervention. And your response to medical treatment was immediate. You’ve been lucky and I’m optimistic. But it’s going to be entirely up to you to continue making progress toward health and to do what’s necessary to avoid relapses.”

“Then why do I feel so bad? So hopeless?” Sonja asked, her eyes round, her expression beseeching.

“Because, Sonja, you’re grieving so many things. It will pass but there seems to be a structure to grief.”

“I know,” she said. “We go over this at least three times a day in group. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance....”

“But, Sonja, people don’t always go through these stages in order. Many people skip a step or combine stages or even go through them so quickly it appears they haven’t grieved at all—it’s very individual.”

“I heard that, yes. I still don’t know what I did.”

“Of course you do. Denial and depression. You don’t like to show anger—the anger was buried. And there was no bargaining—your life was changed in an instant and there was nothing in your imagination that could change it back, nothing you could trade. Add to that—for whatever reason—your depression was complete and dangerous, almost like it had been sitting there, waiting. Fortunately, we have tools now. We can help.”

“That means I still have steps to go through?” she asked.

“We don’t know that,” the doctor said. “People actually do skip steps in the progression. Or maybe the progression is just a rough map that isn’t always carved in stone. All I ask of you right now is that you allow yourself, with the help of medication, to feel. And report the feelings in your group sessions. Your group leaders and counselor keep good notes.”

“I hate that,” Sonja said. “Them writing down things about how I’m doing and not knowing what they say.”

“They say very encouraging things,” Dr. Kalay said, smiling. “You’re an A-plus student. Just keep moving ahead, you’re doing so well. Not such a hard task, really.”

Sonja was quiet a long moment. “I always thought I knew exactly what to do, exactly what was right. I studied. I took courses, attended seminars, worked so hard, practiced such discipline—and I didn’t expect big things. I wasn’t looking for miracles, just balance. Just a life that worked, physically and mentally. My husband and my friends, they considered me radical, but I wasn’t. I was just—”