Back in olden times, I lived with The Swiss Husband and The Baby in an apartment on the fourth floor of a walk-up brownstone on 73rd between Columbus and Amsterdam. The photo is from those times, probably the snowy winter of 1996 when we were in full crisis mode. Drugged up (Sophie), failed drugged up (Sophie), bloated from keto diet that didn’t work (Sophie), no sleep (Sophie and me), the full-time job of therapy appointments, doctor appointments, insurance nightmare appointments, etc. etc., the book What to Expect The First Year chucked down the garbage chute, making a satisfying thump at the bottom of the building — you get what I’m saying. We were already deep in and had absolutely no idea what the future would bring. I had a friend who was a gazillionaire (that’s hyperbole, but you get my drift) who’d actually orchestrated Sophie’s diagnosis — meaning when I was put off getting an appointment by two months because of the dearth of pediatric neurologists who “took” our HMO insurance at the time, The Gazillionaire made some calls and lickety-split we were ushered into one of the best neurologist’s offices and got the diagnosis which is, of course, Part 1, Chapter 1 of what I guess I could title My Odyssey Through the Great American Health Care System, 1995-2022. Chapter One would be titled: “How to Get Diagnosed Quickly and Efficiently By Randomly Knowing Extremely Wealthy People As Opposed to Languishing On Waiting Lists While Your Child Seizes Away.”
Anyhow. This is NaFaCaMo, and I’m a MoFaCa, so I want to tell you that I highly recommend going to therapy at some point early in your career of being a MoFaCa. I, for one, went one time to therapy back in those olden times, probably shortly after that picture was taken. The Gazillionaire referred me to someone fabulous whom I remember had an office in a beautiful building overlooking Central Park. She was so nice, I remember, and she seemed like someone with whom I could talk about The Troubles and My New Life. She also charged me $275 for our one-hour session, which, of course, became our only session. I told The Gazillionaire that while I appreciated her help, I’d rather buy a ticket to Bermuda each week than pay for an hour of talk therapy. I refrained from adding that a ticket to Bermuda from NYC cost less than $275, and I’d have the added bonus of being sucked into the Bermuda Triangle and disappearing, which only underscores how very much I needed therapy.
So, Reader, what am I saying? I didn’t have therapy for the next decade, I guess — not until I’d moved to Los Angeles, had two more children and another ten years of caregiving and dealing with The Systems of Care. The therapist I found worked on a SLIDING SCALE which I could afford, and each Thursday afternoon, I go to see her. Still.
She has saved me in more ways than I can possibly list here, and I have learned so much about myself and what it means to be human in my particular world and in the vast world around me. The fifty minutes I spend in her room most weeks are precious, peaceful and heart-opening. I want that for everyone. I encourage all you MoFaCas who don’t already have a counselor or a therapist to consider it.
We have to stop now.
See you tomorrow.
I love this. I had a therapist early on. She was a Haitian psychiatrist - a big Mama with 5 kids of her own. When I said that I couldn't EVER sleep because of Nick's neuro crying, she suggested that I put on earphones, blast the music and rock him until we both fell asleep. Great advice.
I love this photo of you and Sophie. I love your words, even when they break my heart.