Coaching Dad

By Fred Phillips

In ‘Coaching Dad,’ readers get to reconsider the contention: “You can never go home again.” If you were given the chance to do it, even at the risk of screwing up the space-time continuum, would you go? And if you did go, or went without knowing why, would you embrace the opportunity even if it meant eventually meeting and then coaching your father on the basketball court when he was a teenager?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483542072

Book preview

Physicist)

CHAPTER ONE

Believe it or not, I get paid to take the pills.

Every two weeks some research company right here in San Diego cuts me a check for fifty dollars to see if I'm reduced to the calm of a sleeping kitten or if I am knocking down walls with my bare hands. The stipend is not nearly close to covering what I pony up to the shrink and the plundering far exceeds the replenishing, but every little bit helps me stay solvent. I have to see a stuffy psychiatrist to get the pills, but anything in the name of science and sanity.

The initial dream started the very first night I swallowed the tiny, gray, oval pills provided by the shrink, er, good doctor. That first dream after taking the medicine sent me straight to the desktop computer and the world wide wonderful web.

Never trust the Internet. That's what my ex-wife told me after I lost a few thousand dollars on some money-making scam I found online, that in hindsight looked financially ludicrous. Losing money proved her point, but I still have this secret hope that there is something worthwhile somewhere on the Internet. Besides porn.

So, at four in the morning, long before the California sun poked its fiery head over the horizon, I found myself on one of those websites that analyzes your dreams.

On yourdreamsareveryreal.com I read, "If you continuously dream of going backwards in time, it means your subconscious is seeking romantic wish-fulfillment." Huh? I think that means I am aching to return to the good old days when life was like shooting ducks in a barrel; full of sunshine and rainbows instead of divorce proceedings, bills, snotty and impertinent teenagers, deadlines, meetings and medications. Maybe the Internet isn't that God-awful after all.

The first dream on this medicine was unlike any dream I had ever experienced. It took me back to a place twenty-five years prior. One minute I was reading a novel, struggling to keep my eyes open, the next minute I was lost in another time and place. It was filled with grainy black and white images with myriad shades of gray - like an old classic black and white movie packed full of people long since dead, places long since destroyed, and memories long since faded. But, what made this dream so unique was that it was like a trip down memory lane – it wasn't surreal or pretend. It was like an 8mm film of a specific point in my life.

Here I was; before marriage, separation and divorce, before unsightly love handles, before the receding hairline, before streaks of dull gray, before that treacherous slippery slope of decay. I saw myself at twenty-five, in a brightly lit gymnasium I can faintly remember from an earlier time, playing a game of pick-up basketball, running gracefully, powerfully and athletically up and down the court. I was dribbling, shooting, jumping, faking out defenders and scoring; sweat was dripping profusely from every pore. Long before knee surgeries and back pain and the wicked downward spiral of age had robbed me of even a sliver of my youth, I could actually play a decent game of basketball. I was a scrapper, a hacker, a battler with grit, but one with at least a little smidgeon of talent. Was the NBA in my future? Hardly, but I could hold my own on those other macho proving grounds, the playgrounds and gymnasiums.

In my dream, the past me is playing basketball while the present me watches. I stand on the sidelines watching, spying on myself, but no one sees the older me. Fifty people in the small gymnasium and no one can perceive my presence. I remain completely undetected and invisible. Like a phantom in a photograph. Just watching.

Since starting this new medicine, how many times had I revisited this dream? Five, ten, fifteen or more. At least one per night. Each time I lingered in the dream a little longer. I stayed invisible in the gymnasium and observed more of the game, almost in tears from watching my youthful exuberance and athleticism. I saw myself as a player; producing moves on the court I couldn't even think about making now without pulling a muscle or blowing out a knee.

At first the dreams frightened me; they seemed so terrifyingly real. Palpable and tangible, they were not really dreams at all. I would awake in a pool of sweat, sometimes shivering, sometimes trembling, usually disoriented for a few moments. Was I truly there reliving my youth? I could smell the gym's musty odor, hear the screeching of sneakers against a newly polished gym floor, and hear the satisfying swish when the basketball went cleanly through the net. But after a few nights, I grew to enjoy the vivid dreams, to look forward to them. I relished and anticipated the genuine and compelling look back at my now distant past; the dreams had given me a reason to turn off the television or the computer, get to bed early and quickly retreat into a deep slumber.

After a few months, my dreams changed. They were still astonishingly real, vivid, dramatic, and graphic. However, the time period had changed. I had regressed chronologically several years. I was eighteen, drinking at an ear-shattering loud frat house in college. I was standing in the midst of a raucous group, drinking, dancing, and partying. Were the girls really that young? Did those young girls with their tan and sinewy legs, taut stomachs, and perky breasts actually speak with me and bestow upon me a few moments of their precious time? No one that attractive and young would even glance in my direction now. But, here I was laughing, flirting and drinking with these hot coeds. I'm sure the conversation was purely vacuous drivel, but who cares? Geez, what I wouldn't give now to have a vacuous conversation with a nubile young angel in short shorts, a halter top, and a belly button ring! I wandered around the party, people staring in my direction as I passed, but no one sees me. It's as if they felt a gust of wind as I went by. Every night for a few weeks I was lost in this dream; I would arrive at the party at a time that appeared to be just a few minutes later than the previous dream. The people were drunker, the music was louder, and the girls were sexier. I would merely wander around in awe and utter confusion, but still no one would see me. Or hear me. I was just an apparition wondering aimlessly through the mayhem, staring curiously at faces buried deep in my past. Just watching.

One night, the dream moved back further in time. I was sitting on the steps of my back porch at my family's Cape Cod-style home. The old, gray shingle house with the white trim appeared newer than I remembered it, glimmering in the sun with a fresh coat of paint. The lawn was freshly mowed, the trees newly trimmed, the giant lavender bush in our backyard abloom. A shiny blue Cadillac Seville sedan, with white wall tires and that ugly white vinyl roof sat in the driveway. This is the house where I grew from a petulant toddler to a hormonally-raged teenager, before growing up into a somewhat off-his-rocker old man paying a psychiatrist to peek around inside his head.

I could see my mom, young and vibrant with dark wavy hair, slender and lithe, possessing an effervescent smile, busy with motherly chores in the kitchen. Sprawled across the couch on her stomach, with her white Keds in the air, was my older sister, four years my senior, with curves and crevices that turned her into a woman right before my eyes. My younger sister, two years my junior, straight, spindly, angular; hair cropped short for the summer, and all tomboy, was watching the TV. I could see my Dad relaxing supine in the lounge chair. He was graying, balding, getting a slight paunch, gaining wrinkles across his brow. But he still had his look of dignity and confidence, fatherly as he moved steadily through that seemingly ephemeral middle age toward a senior citizenship he will never achieve.. He was reading the newspaper, his glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose; the Sunday morning Dad, not the workweek Dad. He was taking his time, sipping his coffee, relaxing, reading the Sunday New York Times , enjoying the idyllic Sunday morning in 1970's suburbia.

You're as young as you feel. That's what those smiling senior citizens at my fitness center say. You're old if you think you're old. Blah, blah, blah. Yeah, I tried that psychological crap, and I still get older each day. I feel old, I think I am old, therefore I am old. Fifty years of age, balding, graying, getting fat, getting wrinkled, slowly decaying like a rotten peach left uneaten for too long. I look at the young me and I want to shout out, Hey, look at me! Do you know who I am? Or who I became? Or who I will be? Or who I was? Or why I am here wandering around in the past like a disoriented ghost?

Dad looked over the top of the Sunday paper saying 'Hey son, did you see the score of the Yankees game last night?" I tried to reply and words come out of my mouth, but I don't know if it's the 12-year old me or the 50-year old me who was speaking. Did I say something about the early 1970's Yankees or the brand new billion dollar Yankee stadium Yankees? I could see that Dad is puzzled at my response. I think he saw a ghost. I think he felt an aberrant gust of wind brush his skin. He was about to say something.

And then he was gone. One brief blink of an eye and my entire family was gone. They had evaporated into the still and shadowy night air. I was awake in the enveloping darkness and lost in the enormity of my lumpy king-sized bed straight from the Salvation Army store. The room was silent and black with only the illumination from the alarm clock cutting through the dimness. I was still 50 years old, graying, balding, getting fat, and getting wrinkled, breaking down into some comical remnant of my former self. No matter how much I huff and puff and exercise, how many expensive supplements I take, decay is inevitable. On top of that I was still filled with angst and regrets and stress and all the weighty baggage that builds up after fifty years of living and making mistakes.

I read somewhere, probably on that inane Internet dream site, that dreams are like stars, you cannot touch them, but they are always there to remind you of the limitless possibilities in this universe. I would like to add my take; dreams are like stars, they twinkle brightly when the night is young, but eventually fade as the night grows long; like life when you pass from young man to old geezer.

When I awoke, I had the feeling that I had been talking in my sleep. Was it purely nonsensical rubbish, or something somewhat coherent? Perhaps I was even shouting, yelling, or screaming at the figures in my dream like a lunatic who had forgotten his medication. Curiously, however, I hadn't forgotten to take mine. Question: If a man wakes up screaming in his bed in the early morning hours, but his wife has deserted him and is not lying in bed next to him to hear it, is he really making a sound, or does the damn tree fall in the forest all the same?

CHAPTER TWO

So, Charles, you've been continuing to experience those dreams of yours on a nightly basis?

Yes, doc, virtually every night. I can't remember a night in a long time that's been dream free.

Are they still progressing chronologically?

Well, actually, if you remember, they are regressing chronologically, not progressing. I'm twelve now but I started out as a twenty-five year old, which seems like an awful long time ago. I was a totally different person then. Just ask my knees and my back.

Yes, yes, that's true. You kept going further back in time. You stay in one time period for awhile and then move backward.

Last night, I dropped in on me and my family, 1972. I was twelve years old. Just a typical 1970s family hanging out in the back yard, dad languidly reading the paper, mom serving lunch, me, just a bratty, know it all kid, but still an angel in my mom's eyes.

And I assume by your descriptions that this was a pleasant dream?

Yeah, pretty much an idyllic scene. Sunshine, fresh air, our shiny green Cadillac DeVille sitting in the driveway. Yes, life appeared to be good. All the dreams have been glimpses of happiness and better times. Postcards, pictures and 8mm movies from those happy days gone by. I imagine there is something to be analyzed from that.

Hmm.

Psychiatrists like to say hmm often. I think they believe it sounds like an expression of thoughtful intellect. Perhaps even reflective genius. I view it as occupational arrogance and professional hubris, but I don't tell the good doctor that. Perhaps there is a class in Psychiatry school that teaches prospective shrinks how to use hmm in the right context, at the correct time, and with proper emphasis for maximum effect. But, what do I know? I'm just the poor, suffering, distressed patient who writes the checks at a whopping $250 an hour! I certainly realize that the good doctor is here to help me, and mostly, he is reasonably astute, though a bit stuffy and pretentious. However, he is a shrink, a manipulator of minds, a clinical sculptor of emotions, one who pulls the strings on the frontal lobe, so that makes him open to criticism in my book.

Dr. Benjamin Fredrick Ralston is approximately my age, full head of hair with no grey hairs to be seen, with a finely chiseled face, and a plethora of degrees on the dark cherry wood paneled wall. He sits upright in his expensive high-backed burgundy leather chair, legs crossed, sucking on the end of a pen pondering the ramifications of my answer. I lay face up, head on a fluffy pillow lounging on a cool black leather couch with wide arms. The office reeks of sophistication, arrogance and yuppie wealth influenced by old school pretensions. Fine Renaissance oil painting reproductions, a cherry wood desk with computer, printer, phone, pens and appointment book are neatly arranged on its surface. A line of cherry wood bookcases stand against two walls filled with books by Freud, Jung and a host of other psychiatrists, psychologists, and scientists I have never read and most likely never will. The scene is virtually what you would expect a psychiatrist-patient scene to look like if you've seen enough movies.

Except it is absolutely, completely, one hundred percent real. I am here with the esteemed Dr. Ralston, scholar, healer and friend for an hour. I call him Doctor Ben; he hates that but I hate his full head of hair so I guess we're even. I am the patient with the screw loose and he is the calm, composed, kind, educated, and erudite psychiatrist on the verge of solving all my psychological issues. I am being probed and pondered and analyzed and critiqued. (And paying big money for it).

On April 1st of last year I had a nervous breakdown of sorts, a sudden lapse of mental health and stability. No, it wasn't an April Fools' joke; it was an agonizingly authentic breakdown. I, Charles Behrens, possessor of a relatively stable and functional mind for most of my life, had hit the proverbial wall at full throttle, had fallen headfirst into a deep dank well, and was primed for a reservation in the windowless, corner-less room at the Rubber Walled Hotel. Ok, that's a bit of hyperbole, but the leaks were certainly popping up in the wall of sanity and normalcy that had traditionally ruled my life. The deepening financial crisis had caused my retirement funds to disappear like puffs of smoke in gale force winds. The weight of the stress of having two rebellious teenagers, a marital separation after eighteen years of wedded bliss, and extreme ennui at work had caused my sanity to take a brief holiday. To paraphrase Howard Beale in the movie Network, I was mad as hell and I just couldn't take it any longer. So I left. I packed a toothbrush, my credit cards, a few snacks and hit the highway. I disappeared into the night like taillights on a getaway car in the fog. I took off in my SUV with no destination in mind; with a bunch of oldies CDs, I rocked out until I found a low-rise chain motel along the highway in neighboring Orange County. I paid the grumpy old man at the reception desk for three nights in cash and said, Hold my calls. He wasn't sure what to make of that last remark, but he handed me the keys, gave me a map of the surrounding area and went back to watching game shows in the back room. I took a room on the second floor and locked myself in for three days. Little did I know the major shitstorm I had created back home after pulling my sudden disappearing act. Frantic calls were made, missing person reports were filed, curses were shouted (mostly by my wife), jokes were shared (mostly by my kids), tears were shed (ok, I'm not really sure any genuine tears were shed but I had hope), and I'm sure my wife even endured a few unwelcome and surprising guilt trips.

After I returned to the mess I had left behind, after the police were notified and I was questioned, after hugs and tears all around, my wife suggested I see a psychiatrist. Suggested might be an understatement. Requested, demanded, commanded; these would all be more appropriate. I have a tough time saying no when it might involve a confrontation, so I reluctantly agreed. I made an appointment with the sexy-sounding receptionist, Anastasia, but I canceled the day prior. I made another appointment and canceled once again, making certain that it was more than twenty-four hours prior to the scheduled time so I wouldn't be charged the exorbitant fee. Little did I know that this Dr. Ralston, the psychiatrist my wife referred me to was actually a referral form her current lover and frequent hotel-room sharing paramour, Lance. I was quite surprised to find that there was actually someone named Lance outside of romance novels. But, I was even more surprised to find that my wife was banging Lance the Porsche salesman in various four star hotels around the city. After I found this out, and before I could suffer a second nervous breakdown, I made an appointment with Doctor Ralston and this time I didn't cancel. There wasn't even a hint of irritation in Anastasia's voice when I made that third appointment. They must have special classes at receptionist school that teach you how to deal with idiotic clients and patients.

So Charles, remind me again, did the dreams begin at approximately the same time as the introduction of the medication?

Well, in fact, I think the very first night I took the pills, I had the very first dream.

Yes, yes, I now recall our discussing that previously. A side effect that we noted in our reports, I believe.

No doubt the two are connected in my mind. Take the pills, have a dream. Stop the pills, stop dreaming.

Hmm.

There he goes again, showing off his intellectual superiority. You would think that the degrees on the wall were enough.

Hmm, what? I retorted.

Perhaps it is merely a coincidence, or perhaps there is a real correlation. Interesting, no?

Yes Doc, it is very interesting. You see it as interesting in a clinical way, but to me, this is the only brain I've got. Mostly normal, but recently damaged and a bit screwed up, but I can't trade it in for an improved model. You shrinks do understand that, right?

You remember that we discussed the experimental nature of the medicine and you understood all the ramifications?

Yes, Doc, I remember.

The health risks of this particular medicine have been studied quite extensively, but its ability to ameliorate specific conditions and to alleviate certain symptoms are still somewhat questionable and unknown. Its long term effects on the workings of the brain are still somewhat mysterious.

My chance to say Hmm.

It's a brave new world. One with exciting possibilities. One with a chance at alleviating anxiety and stress and making it easier to cope with the burdens and issues of the day. Perhaps one with a chance to unlock some secrets of the complex mind. Perhaps that is what we are doing here, no?

No, I mean, yes, doc, perhaps, I don't know. I guess I do feel more relaxed, less anxious and I am able to sleep better. In fact, I look forward to going to sleep because I look forward to the round of dreams every night. I can't wait to get to sleep so I can dream. I suppose the dreams are kind of therapeutic

Perhaps cathartic, no?

I suppose.

Yes, emotional issues are often purged through dreams. Dreams can be very beneficial for the mind -- great healer.

Yes, I suppose I can see that with these dreams. As long as the medicine doesn't mess anything up, the dreams I can handle.

Hmm.

But doc, do you remember that I initially came here to get better, you know, to avoid some sort of mental breakdown, and then after you told me about this study, I agreed to take this medication mostly because you are paying me to take it? You know, with my retirement account hitting an all-time low, I figure any money is good money, and if I further science, all the better.

Yes, I recall that compensation was more important to you than treatment. You did not feel you actually needed treatment. You-

Well, as a point of clarification, I did feel I needed treatment and or counseling, I just didn't feel I needed drugs. You know, as wacky as I may be or may have been, I really never dabbled much in drugs. I did a little in high school in the mid-seventies when everyone smoked pot. Sure, I tried it a few times, and I even inhaled, but mostly I always tried to avoid it. Then, the wild cocaine era hit and the women with loose morals just passed me by because I was afraid to snort some white powder up my nose. Treatment, good, drugs, bad.

Yes, yes, my error. Treatment and counseling you were open to, drugs you were rather hostile to. I think you put it '…those psychiatry drugs are for wackos and kooks. However, I do hope that it is more than monetary compensation that motivates you now that we are a few months into the treatment. I do hope that you see some pronounced medical and psychiatric value in the medication."

Well, Doctor Ben, yes and no. I take medicine to get better, yes, but also to make a little extra money. But, I suppose I do see the potential value in the medication. The anxiety is less, though that might have happened anyway. I mean, I really wasn't that screwed up to begin with. I had lived a normal life for fifty years. But, this medication…the dreams are certainly something different, and it has been an interesting experience to have these dreams. I just hope the medication isn't frying my brain and short-circuiting my synapses. Now, that wouldn't be very helpful, would it?

No Charles, that would not be very constructive for either of us.

Hey, if you destroy a few wires in my brain and I become catatonic or just noticeably stupider and denser, perhaps I could sue for malpractice, come up victorious in a big lawsuit, and make stacks and stacks of money.

Mentioning malpractice is a good way to get a reaction when dealing with a doctor. Doctor Ben was no exception.

The cost of an hour of treatment with Doctor Ben: $250. The look on Doctor Ben's face when I mention malpractice: priceless.

Don't worry, Doctor Ben, I'm not the suing type.

Hmm.

I find it very odd that my dreams do not have a beginning and an end. They only have a middle. I merely find myself in the middle of the moment; no arrival and no departure.

Doctor Ben didn't find that strange at all, so I suppose I will defer to the professional on that one.

On a few occasion, I experienced a sensation similar to falling backwards immediately prior to the dreams. Not falling in a vertical drop, but more like being blown by hurricane force gusts through a wind tunnel. Then the wind subsides, and I find myself in my dream. Only a dream.

"Well Charles, it is a fascinating experience, perhaps almost like traveling back in time if that was possible, no?

No, um, I mean yes. I mean, I don't know.

CHAPTER THREE

Since I try to be the cool parent, my weekends with the kids involve tacos, fast food, and R-rated horror films. My son, Andrew, fifteen going on eighteen, and my daughter, Destiny, thirteen going on twenty-one, are no longer adorable. They are moody, aloof, and challenging, but they love their dear old dad when he buys fast food and takes them to see slasher films.

Whenever they stay with me, Andrew and Destiny had to share a room since I only have a two-bedroom apartment. Not the luxurious life some children of divorce experience. One day Destiny asked, Dad, why do I have to share a room with Andrew?

Because life isn't fair and money doesn't grow on trees. I replied – not a bad parental comeback, I thought. She laughed, but I had the feeling she gave me the finger in her mind.

Last night, only a few short hours after popping some of that experimental medicine from Doctor Ben, I had two dreams; prior to each of them I was blasted through the lengthy wind tunnel, enveloped in the frightened feeling of helplessness, and eventually deposited in a remote corner of my history, where I recognized my mom and dad; my precocious older sister, Emily, and my bawling infant little sister, Janet. I watched the younger version of me at seven or eight, dribbling a basketball through the kitchen. My dad was making a halfhearted attempt to steal it from me as I laughed and shouted. My mom was asking him to stop because the baby was crying, but my dad was playfully ignoring her. I stood on the periphery of the room, watching, watching me. No one saw me; no one knew that I was there. I was invisible again, merely watching something I had lived through many years before.

The next morning, I made pancakes for the kids and smothered them in sugary syrup, another thing their mom had banned from their lives the moment I was out of the picture.

So dad, were you yelling at someone last night? Andrew said with a mouth full of pancakes.

Huh. Yelling?

Yeah Dad, it was like you were having a fight with someone, 'cept we didn't hear any other voices, Destiny added.

Oh, yeah, well, I've been having dreams. Um, well, quite a few dreams and they get pretty, ah, intense. I realized my eyes were looking down at the pile of pancakes in front of me, afraid to meet my son's.

Is that from going to the shrink? Andrew asked, failing to suppress a chuckle.

No, that has nothing to do with it, I rebutted bluntly. And I don't think Doctor Ben would appreciate you calling him a 'shrink'.

You call him that all the time. Sometimes you put the F-word in front of it.

Kids. They don't miss a thing.

I looked at my son and thought of how we interact and it made me ponder my relationship with my dad. I thought of the joy I had playing catch with him in our backyard, going to baseball games and grabbing a few cold ones (Coke for me, Ballantine beer for him), watching sports on TV, shooting baskets in the driveway. I thought of how we grew apart, as I passed through puberty and adolescence. Was it my fault or his? Looking back on it, it's still difficult to say. Blame could most likely be heaped on both of us. Though sports remained common ground, I know I shut him out of my world as I passed through high school. Girls, friends and parties were all more important than dear old dad. And then I was off to college and we grew farther apart. It was as if we were staring across the Grand Canyon at each other. We could barely see each other, couldn't hear each other and there was no possibility of a bridge to span the chasm.

Two summers after graduating college, after quitting my first excruciatingly boring job, an entry level accountant position with Author Anderson (long before they went down with Enron), I spent two months at home. It was the first time that my dad and I had hung out since my early high school years. We went to a ballgame at Yankee Stadium and then out for a drink. Drinking with your dad is a bewildering experience and I can clearly remember him saying to the bartender, "Two draught beers please." Not one draught beer and a Coke, but two draught beers. We even ordered a second round: "Two more draught beers please." Those two beers were the start of a new friendship. Father and son still, but friends and drinking buddies as well.

Then my Dad got sick. He began to stutter when he spoke, he forgot what he was doing in the middle of doing it; his once precise penmanship began to look like childish scribbles, and he began to complain of headaches -- serious, painful spirit-crushing headaches. Our family doctor saw him and was smart enough to refer him to a specialist at some fancy medical center in New York City. On one crisp clear autumn day, he was diagnosed with an aggressive form of brain cancer – I still remember the word, glioblastoma. It sounded horrific and it was. He seemed far too young, far too healthy, and far too strong for this diagnosis. There should have been so many of those so called golden years ahead for him. He had an operation to remove the tumor and recuperated for a few months, but the reversal was quick and tragic. One day, he said a few mumbled words to my mom, blew a kiss to each of my sisters, and then he looked at me and said, See you around, buddy. He then closed his eyes and drew his last breath. My mom cried and gave me a hug and whispered to me. He'll see us in heaven.

But, Dad isn't all that religious. I responded. Does he even believe in heaven?

I felt my mom's wet tears against my face as she left my question levitating like a UFO stuck in neutral.

Besides his last words, I've blocked out almost everything that happened in those few months. I merely remember the numbness of sudden loss. There would be no more chances to attend baseball or basketball games together, no more opportunities to sit around and have a beer with dear old dad, no more days to sit around and chat and find out who the man behind the title 'Father' really was. I had the rest of my life to feel like an asshole for turning away from him for several years. I had the rest of my life to regret those mistakes that teenagers too often make.

I stared at my two kids, two kids living in the proverbial broken home. Two teenagers drifting gradually apart from their parents. I was the dad and they were the teenagers, and never the twain shall meet, or speak, or comprehend each other. I tried to keep the lines of communication open with them; I did not bother them about their hairstyles, clothing, Facebook accounts, or the profanity-laced music they enjoyed. I suppose the discarded parent usually tries to be the fun parent. Sadly and universally, I don't think teenagers ever think of their parents as fun. Until it's too late.

After a day at the beach, I dropped the kids at my ex-wife's house, got out of the car, hugged them both, said goodbye, and told them I would see them next weekend. I watched them walk up the steps to the house, the house that had once been ours. Now it was theirs. And their mother's. Almost on cue, they both turned around and waved. A sign of affection, or at least, I took it as one. When my ex-wife came to the door, I got back in the car without waving and sped away into the night, determined to get back to my dreams.

The next day, I parked in the underground garage, rode the elevator to the fifth floor, and made my way to Suite 500. There were no patients in the waiting room as I pushed open the door to Dr. Ralston's office. There were only potted plants, some fake, some real, comfortable leather chairs and a plethora of magazines piled on a wood and marble coffee table. And me. His office was on the top floor of a low rise office building in La Jolla, five blocks from the shore with an unobstructed view of the resplendent blue Pacific. I was definitely shelling out some extra cash for the privilege of telling a stranger my secrets within spitting distance of the sea.

Hi Anastasia, I'm here for my two o'clock.

Hi, Mr. Behrens, we have been waiting for you. It is a pleasure to see you as always. Please go right in; Doctor Ralston is almost ready for you, she said in that sexy, sultry telephone voice. She was dressed in a low cut V-neck blouse, appointed with a silver necklace with a cross positioned right between the curves of her breasts, drawing your attention and holding it for a few tantalizing seconds. As for Jesus' position on this juxtaposition of flesh and iconic religious symbol, I could only guess. I had no idea how old Anastasia was, and I don't think it matters. With a voice and décolletage like hers, age is irrelevant.

Thank you, Anastasia.

It is my pleasure, Mr. Behrens.

I bet they have a class for that at receptionist school. How-to-talk-sensuously-and-seductively-to-the-male-clientele-in-a-highly-professional-manner-101. And the graduate level follow up: Keeping-them-coming-back-for-more-at-two-hundred-and-fifty-dollars-a-visit.

I walked into the office and before sitting down, I looked again at the doctor's diplomas and certificates and the paintings that hung on his paneled walls. I browsed the titles of the books that lined his shelves. Carl Jung, Abraham Maslow, Sigmund Freud, Graham Capstone. Graham Capstone? Sounded familiar, but didn't fit with the others.

Doctor Ben pushed open the door. Hi, Charles, how are you this fine day? See any books you like?

"Oh no, well, I mean, this one, Why We Are…the author sounds familiar from somewhere.

He's a very famous scientist. He's done most of his work in the field of genetics, but much of it is concerned with our minds.

Doctor Ben gave me a firm handshake, offered me some Coffee? Juice? Water?, which I declined, and motioned for me to lie down on the slippery leather couch.

So Charles, how are we doing today? You look well. I trust that things are progressing smoothly for you. We should mostly just pick up where we left off last time. With the dreams.

I've had the same dreams for over a week now. And they are the most intense, the most real. You know, the ones where I go back to the 1940s or somewhere like that. I am a stranger walking the streets of my hometown. I saw my grandfather's hardware store. I saw my dad, you know, as a kid, messing around with a few of his friends. I think one of them was my Uncle Bernie.

Hmm. During our sessions, Doctor Ben alternated between taking notes and saying 'Hmm.' The ubiquitous 'Hmm' made me wonder, but the scribbling of notes made me downright uncomfortable.

"And I know I was there because one of the kids said 'Hey' to me. You know, he just nodded his head at me and said, 'Hey mister.' That was all. They were standing in the lot next to the gas station right next to my grandfather's hardware store, under that old Mobilgas sign. You know the one they had back in the old days with the flying horse on it? There was my dad, dark blonde hair, short, slicked back.

Was it all in black and white?

Oh yes, another night at the classic movies cinema.

Why do you say it was more intense?

"Well, as I said, one of the kids said 'Hey mister' to me. He really saw me; that was a pleasant yet somehow unnerving variation. For a few moments I was real and not just an apparition. But then, I quickly turned back into a ghost or a phantom. I kept on walking past the kids, my Dad, um, my Uncle. I went by a few more people walking down the sidewalk. They turned to stare but I could tell that they only felt something, like a gust of wind."

Yes, but it is certainly significant that someone saw you and spoke to you. Highly significant. I think this might be a point in our therapy that you might consider raising the dosage of medication.

Why would I do that, doc?

"To paraphrase Robert Frost, life is a series of momentary stays against confusion. In other words, we are constantly needing to find ways to stave off confusion, or perhaps what we might call insanity. For you, there may be times where you need the medication and times you will not. And there may be times when you need a higher dosage of the medication, and times you will not.

So, I am on the verge of confusion and insanity right now?

"Well, I think in its current usage, insanity is far too strong a word for you, but I do believe that this medication has stabilized you. You had experienced a series of traumas in your late middle age and dealing with them caused a, ah, episode, shall we say? The medication helped to lessen the anxiety, make life less overwhelming and threatening.

Ok – so I'm not insane. So, why would I need to increase the dosage? Am I still in danger of losing what remains of my sanity?

These dreams are interesting, no?

No, uh, I mean yes, they are interesting.