Dating Your Mom (9 page)

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Authors: Ian Frazier

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“Hi, Jerry, how's the writing going?” he says.
“Pretty good,” I say.
“How many chapters so far?”
“Almost ten.”
“Wow! That's great! That's really a lot! How many pages would that be?”
“Oh, about a hundred and fifty,” I say.
“A hundred and fifty! Wow!”
“Well, I triple-space.”
“Still …” he says. Then he says, “Tell me, Jerry, do you mind my asking? I was wondering about the angle you're taking on your material.”
“Well … it's, uh … you might say it's kind of darkly comic,” I stammer.
There is a long pause, while my muscles begin to knot up and my forehead grows as clammy as the bottom of a vegetable compartment in a refrigerator. “Well, I'm sure you're doing a terrific job, and I just want you to know how proud I and all other Americans are of you, and I know that you'll show the world that our country has writers who are second to none!” he says.
I rushed back to my room and threw myself face down on my bed.
Darkly comic!
That's not the half of it! That doesn't begin to describe it! The truth is that from page 1 right up to the very last page I've written
so far my book is deeply, profoundly disturbing! Or, to be more exact, Chapter 1 is profoundly disturbing; Chapter 2 is both profoundly disturbing and upsetting; Chapter 3 is disturbing, upsetting, and alarming; in Chapter 4, I let up a little, and that one is merely disconcerting; Chapter 5 provides another short breather, and it is just troubling; but Chapter 6 goes right back to profoundly disturbing again, and I continue like that without any break at all from then on. When the President finds out what a sweeping indictment of our civilization I'm writing up here (and on the government's nickel, no less), he's likely to go through the roof. I wouldn't want to be around the Oval Office to watch, I can tell you that.
This week's column is by way of apology to the many readers (too many, I'm afraid) whose unanswered letters sit in heaps in my study. Seems like ever since I published
If You Don't Like It, Don't Eat It
I've been fighting a losing battle to keep up my correspondence with thousands of people around the country who appreciate my plain-speaking approach to diet and health and who want to discuss their individual dietary plans with me. I wish I could answer every letter personally. I know all too well what it's like to wander alone in a wilderness of nutritional dogma. To those of you who find yourselves hopelessly confused by all the television diet gurus and esoteric health-food treatises, I say, Don't give up! Keep searching for the
eating program that's right for you—keep experimenting on yourselves and your families—and don't be afraid to buck the experts and their conventional wisdom! The following is only a small sampling from my mailbag, but I hope all my readers will see a little bit of themselves in the questions, and learn from my answers.
 
Q; For the past ten years, my husband and I have been lactovegetarians, and we believe it is the diet God intended man to follow. It gives us great vitality and alertness, as well as a feeling of inner calm. I can honestly say that I no longer feel even the slightest desire to eat meat of any kind—in fact, the thought actually makes me a bit ill. Nowadays, the only time I ever stray from my diet is when I get the urge for some polyvinyl chloride. I don't know why it is, but those little plasticized fibers have a flavor that I absolutely adore. Once a week or so, I'll go out to the waste disposal bins at the local electronics plant and come home with laundry bags full. Then I'll sprinkle the fibers on salads, main dishes, even desserts. When my husband teases me about this, I tell him that everybody is entitled to one delightfully sinful treat. Don't you agree?
 
A: Often many of us forget that our appetites are a natural extension of the needs of our biochemistries. When we feel a strong craving for one substance or another, it usually means that our bodies lack that substance, and we should replenish our supplies. In your case, your body is telling you that you have electronic circuitry with dangerously exposed wiring
somewhere inside you, and it's time to coat those wires with a reliable industrial insulator—like polyvinyl chloride fibers. Had you let yourself be ruled by your conscience, and denied yourself this “sinful treat,” chances are you would now be suffering from debilitating electrical shorts. So go ahead, eat up, and
bon appétit!
 
Q; As the mother of a large family, I see to it that we get three well-balanced meals each day, with plenty of meats and fish, fresh vegetables from our garden, and big, heaping bowlfuls of pure powdered Kepone (that stuff farmers used to spray on their crops sometimes from airplanes). Now if we could only get rid of this doggone twitching of the neck muscles which causes our heads to jerk violently at unpredictable intervals, everything would be perfect. Any suggestions?
 
A: Like all responsible members of the medical profession, I am often forced to admit that we do not yet have all the answers. I would need more details about your diet and overall health picture before I could make any definite statements about the symptom you describe. Could it be that you are getting too much vitamin D? If you are taking a D supplement and eating foods (such as dairy products) which have D added, that may be causing a buildup. Vitamin D is fat soluble and thus remains in the system, and it can be toxic in large amounts. Also, you may have a case of what we call “innocent” or “whimsical” twitching—a muscle contraction that the body performs every so often, apparently just for the fun of it. If your symptoms persist, you might try the following:
1.
Lift with your legs, not your back, in order to distribute the strain more evenly.
2.
Don't hesitate to ask for help with precision tasks such as passing a truck on the freeway or trimming the kids' hair.
3.
Wear loose-fitting clothing.
These guidelines may not cure the condition, but they will at least make it easier to bear.
 
Q: Last year I decided to quit drinking, and I began to sample various nonalcoholic beverages looking for one I liked. Tomato juice with Tabasco, herb tea, carbon tetrachloride, soft drinks, Perrier and lime, reactor coolant, tonic water, hexachlorocyclopentadiene (C-56) on shaved ice, lemonade—I tried them all, but none seemed quite right. Then one evening I was at the home of a dry cleaner friend of mine and he offered me some chlorobenzene. Wow! I'd never tasted anything like it! It had a delicious, almondy flavor combined with a bracing, almost overpowering astringency that could make a man forget blended malt whiskies forever. Right then and there, it became my beverage of choice.
Since I've been on the wagon, I feel much better (aside from a pesky red rash on the backs of my legs, along with weight loss, dizziness, and this darn second row of teeth I've started to grow), but if it weren't for chlorobenzene, I'd probably have gone back to the bottle long ago. I'm wondering—why isn't this wonderful product on the shelves at my supermarket or beverage store? I am forced to purchase it from dry-cleaning supply houses.
 
 
A: Don't ask me—ask the high panjandrums at the Food and Drug Administration! They're the ones who have chlorobenzene trussed up in red tape that limits it to commercial use only. Notoriously finicky eaters themselves, these career bureaucrats delight in dictating the menu for all America. And of course, it is you and I, the consumer, who must suffer. We can only hope that one day our government will come to its senses and stop treating its citizens as if they were all still in short pants, incapable of making the simplest decision about their lives. As for that second row of teeth you've developed—remember that twice as many teeth means you should be brushing twice as long. Recent studies have shown a clear link between oral health and the health of the body as a whole.
 
Q; I love lead—have ever since I was a youngster. I was raised on crunchy lead-based paint flakes, bite-sized toy soldiers made of lead, and good old-fashioned lead pencils. Today my kids and grandkids live in a completely different world. When they want something to chew on, they reach for the modern acrylic-based paint flakes, or plastic army men, or ersatz fruit-flavored marking pens. I tell them they don't know what they're missing. They call me an old dinosaur. Then they say that they've heard lead is bad for you. This gravels me, because I've been eating lead for years and am in perfect shape, except for some minor central nervous system damage which causes me to walk in tight circles. I'm all the time trying to get them to try a little lead, and they're always trying to get me to cut down. Neither of us will budge an inch. Who's right, them or me?
 
 
A: If lead is harmful to human beings, this is the first I've heard of it. I suppose if you ate enough of it, it might be, but you'd have to eat a tremendous amount, much more than any one person is likely to want. You might ask your young relatives: If lead is so harmful, why did the Romans, rulers of a vast empire, install drinking fountains made of lead in every entrance to their Coliseum? Most people today are unaware of that fact, as they are of lead's other benefits. Today, as always, lead's worst enemy is public ignorance. You might also remind the skeptical younger folks that fifty years ago, central nervous system damage was as common as hiccups—and taken about as seriously. Back then, if you had central nervous system damage, you didn't go looking for scapegoats among the heavy metals. You just changed into some loose-fitting clothing and went about your business—a prescription I am sure we would all find every bit as valid today.
 
Readers wishing a transcript of this column should sit down and copy it out in a firm hand on sheets of ruled paper. Then mail a check or money order for $12.99 to Hooker Publishing, 2,4,5-T Street, Niagara Falls, New York 13870.
With a graceful tug, Dr. Morris Smith opens the venetian blinds. Light glints on his faceted forehead, on his metal-rimmed glasses, on the silvery medical instruments in the pocket of his white lab coat. Beyond his office door, he knows, is a waiting room filled with patients who all too soon will begin their ceaseless round of demands upon him. This will be the only time he has to himself for the rest of the day.
Just for a moment, Dr. Smith relaxes. He unbuttons his coat, turns on the coffee machine, leans back in his chair. Frequently charming and gregarious, Dr. Smith is nonetheless the kind of man who prefers the company of his own thoughts. He will always seem a bit alone no matter where he is, whether at a crowded cocktail party or in a darkened laboratory long after
his colleagues have gone home. His mind, trained since youth in a discipline few men master, has developed the habit of solitude. At an age when most men are barely ankle-deep in the waters of their chosen careers, Dr. Smith has attained to such a position of eminence in his field that a quick glance at the degrees listed after his name in a medical directory does not begin to tell the story. More than merely a professional, more, even, than a highly skilled specialist, Dr. Smith is also a teacher, a counselor, a healer, a bearer of the greatest hopes and darkest fears that dwell deep inside us all.
With a sudden gesture, like a man awaking from a reverie, Dr. Smith tosses off the last of his coffee. From a desk drawer he takes a tall stack of patient files. He searches the stack for a moment, finds the file he wants, and bends over it at his desk with a concentration that seems to shut out the rest of the world. Another workday has begun for Dr. Morris Smith, practicing clinical sexologist.
 
My own acquaintance with Dr. Smith dates from over a year ago, when I heard about his pioneering treatise on harem pants. A lifelong fascination with the human sciences prompted me to call him and request an interview. He readily agreed (asking only that I change all identifying names, in the interest of his patients' privacy; “Morris Smith” is, of course, a pseudonym). A few days later, we met in the parking garage of the major urban hospital where he practices. As he led me into an elevator and down a series of corridors toward the building's new fifty-million-dollar sexology wing,
I asked him what it was like to live inside the mythic image that surrounds his profession.
“It can be difficult, certainly,” Dr. Smith said. “People see the sexologist as a man set apart, because of the godlike power he wields. But you must remember that there are many different kinds of sexologists. There are child sexologists, and adolescent sexologists, and sexogerontologists (sexologists who treat the elderly); some sexologists have large private practices, others operate mobile clinics in rural areas, and still others choose not to practice at all but, rather, devote their lives to a study of the vast literature of sexology.”
An orderly wheeling a patient on a stretcher hurries across our path, and Dr. Smith stops short. Overhead, the hospital's public-address system urges its ceaseless petitions:
“Paging Dr. J … Dr. J, please report to Surgery at once … Dr. Severinsen … Dr. Severinsen, report to Emergency … Doc Severinsen to Emergency … Dr. No … Dr. No, please call your office …”
Nurses, interns, and hospital staff fill the halls with their purposeful bustle.
“So, you see, it's awfully hard to generalize about the profession as a whole,” Dr. Smith continues. “The best you can do is to say that all sexologists are human beings, and I think it's important not only for the public but also for the sexologists themselves to try and keep that in mind. We're people, too. We put our pants on one leg at a time—and, of course, I should add that some of the greatest sexologists in history have been women.”
A white-coated colleague waves a greeting as he passes, and Dr. Smith stops to introduce us. Then they
begin to chat. I can pick out only the words “Spanish fly,” “beautician,” and “tilt-cup brassiere” before the conversation becomes too technical to follow.
 
Hours spent in office consultation with patients are what provide Dr. Smith with the raw data so important to his research and product-testing. He devotes four afternoons a week to these sessions, which he conducts in an atmosphere that is friendly, relaxed, and informal. Today, I will be observing him at work, and he takes a moment to brief me on his first patient. “This is a case which has so far resisted diagnosis,” he says. “According to her history, her name is Andi, she's nineteen and a half years old, she's a Libra, she enjoys sketching, skiing, and sailing, she loves making love in the out-of-doors next to a babbling brook or on a windswept beach, she also loves to wear frilly underthings that her man can rip in bed, she can't stand smog, red meat, L.A. traffic, or pushy people, her favorite foreign movie is
Das Boot,
and she hopes someday for a career herself in movies. Her waist, hip, and bust readings are all better than normal for a girl her age, and to the untrained eye she would appear to be a picture of perfect sexual health. But in our previous sessions I have become convinced that something is deeply wrong—what, I don't know yet. Oh, one other note: Andi is basically a shy girl, but the camera turns her on. Unfortunately, I don't happen to have a camera with me today, so she's apt to be a bit withdrawn.”
Dr. Smith's prediction proves accurate. The patient responds only with monosyllables to his inquiries, until, late in the session, she says that he doesn't understand,
that she's “not like other girls.” Encouraged by this breakthrough, Dr. Smith pursues the point: How, exactly, is she different? “Well, you see …” she begins. A hot flush of shame colors her cheeks. “I've never … I've never been even slightly attracted to a man with a good sense of humor. In fact, that kind of man repels me!”
Dr. Smith's face betrays no shock at this disclosure. I think, How much he must have seen over the years! In a soothing voice, he assures the patient that a dysfunction like hers, although rare, is not beyond treatment. She leaves his office with a lighter step.
He wastes no time on self-congratulation. Instead, I am surprised to see a sudden, uncharacteristic frown cloud his features. “My next patient is in for some rather bad news, I'm afraid,” he says, reading the question in my eyes. “It doesn't matter how many sessions like this I go through, I never quite seem to get used to them.” He sighs, shakes his head, and then presses the button on his intercom.
The patient, Mr. G., is a nondescript man wearing glasses and crepe-soled shoes. Sweat beads his forehead, and his right hand toys with the paperweight on the desk as he and Dr. Smith exchange small talk. Finally, there comes a pause, and Mr. G. fixes Dr. Smith with an intense stare. “O.K., Doc, give it to me straight,” he says. “How much longer have I got?”
Unblinking, Dr. Smith returns his gaze. “Without oral sex?” he says. “Possibly six months, possibly a year.”
Another pause. Mr. G. swallows hard, takes a deep breath, and then expels it slowly. “Well …” he says,
“I guess knowing is better than not knowing. Right, Doc?”
When Mr. G. rises to leave, Dr. Smith is struck with a thought. Reaching into a drawer, he finds a lingerie catalogue from a department-store chain. “Mr. G., I want you to take this with you,” he says. “If the pain becomes too severe, come back and I'll give you something stronger.”
Outside the office windows, the spring sun shines down on the hospital courtyard, which is blooming with trees and shrubs in new leaf. Dr. Smith walks to a window and opens it. “Sometimes you can do so little,” he says. “It's hard …” His voice trails off. Distant sounds—the twittering of birds, the high-pitched whine of a surgical saw, faint shouts of “Not that leg, you idiot!”—drift across the courtyard on the balmy air. The room begins to fill with the fragrance of new-mown grass and dogwood petals, and Dr. Smith breathes deeply. When he turns from the window, it is with the expression of a man whose peace of mind has been restored.
 
Marital counseling brings out the full spectrum of Dr. Smith's skills, and today his final appointment is with a couple who seem particularly troubled. The man, John, is in his mid-thirties, and wears a gray Glen-plaid suit. The woman, Barbara, is younger, dressed in a brown skirt and an orange smock. They are hardly in the door before the woman begins to protest that she must talk to Dr. Smith right away. Deftly, Dr. Smith takes control of the session: both partners will first tell their stories without interruption, he instructs, and then there will be time for discussion and evaluation.
Again Barbara protests; she is silenced by an admonitory finger. “John, please begin,” Dr. Smith says.
JOHN'S STORY: “When Barbara and I met at a gallery opening in ‘71, it was a case of instant chemical attraction. We talked, we had a few glasses of wine, and then we took a taxi to my midtown apartment for a night of uninhibited lovemaking. The next morning we exchanged phone numbers, but, frankly, I never expected to see her again. I was very surprised and pleased several days later when I picked up the phone and heard her voice. This time, we met at her place for an encore, which, if anything, outdid our debut. We began to see each other regularly; after a few months, we moved in together, and in '74 we were married. Lawful domesticity did nothing to dampen our ardor —in fact, our performance in bed, like fine wine, only improved with age. Recently, however, there has been a change. Barbara has become cold and distant. Sometimes she ignores me for weeks, even months, at a time. She has a way of looking right through me that chills my blood. Perhaps the amount of time we both devote to our jobs is to blame; perhaps I am shutting her out of my life, just as she is shutting me out of hers, in a way that I can't see. All I know for sure is that I miss the magic we used to share, and I want, desperately, to get it back again.”
Dr. Smith looks up from his notepad. “Now Barbara,” he says.
BARBARA'S STORY: “Doctor, I have never seen this man before in my life. I haven't the faintest idea who he is, or why he has been bothering me all day. Not only are we not married, I don't even know the guy. The only way he knows my name is he read it off my
name tag. You must recognize me, Doctor. I'm a waitress at the steak-and-ale place across the street. I haven't been able to get a thing done with him always following me around, trying to talk to me. He said he was a patient of yours. Would you tell this man, whoever he is, that I'm not his wife, I'm not his friend, I've never met him, I have no desire to meet him, and will he please just leave me the hell alone!”
For a moment, Dr. Smith stares off into the distance, the tips of his fingers touching. Then he says, “I've often thought that marriage is rather like a tent. It provides us with warmth and shelter, and yet the only reason it stands at all is the many forces—the poles and ropes and stakes—which pull it in different directions. When these forces are out of balance, when one partner's push overpowers the other partner's pull, or vice versa, that's when the tent of marriage begins to collapse.”
“Doctor, I am not married to him or anybody else!” Barbara says, holding up her left hand. “See? No ring!”
“Yes, Barbara, so you've stated. According to you, you are not married; according to John, you and he have been married for ten years. Isn't it reasonable to assume that the truth must lie somewhere in between?”
“No! It isn't! Are you out of your mind? This man has been harassing me!”
“Oh, Barbara, Barbara,” John says.
In a rage, she turns on him. “Listen, if you come within fifty feet of me again, I'm calling the police! Understand? My God, you are all insane!” She leaves the office at a run, slamming the door behind her.
We sit in silence for perhaps half a minute. “Go to her, John. Find her. Talk to her,” Dr. Smith says softly.
 
“When I married Morris, I didn't just marry a man, I married a career,” Mrs. Smith says, passing me the silver gravy boat. I am sitting at the family's dinner table in their comfortable split-level home. Across the table sit the Smiths' two sons, aged nine and thirteen, and on my right is the Smiths' attractive sixteen-year-old daughter.
“If it weren't for you, I'd still be working in my parents' shop in Times Square,” Dr. Smith says, smiling back at his wife over the candlelight.
Hesitantly, with an affecting shyness, Dr. Smith has allowed me greater and greater glimpses of the private man, glimpses that confirm what I had long suspected: his success has never lacked for support from a remarkable and understanding family.
“He's a pretty great dad, really,” says the younger son.
“Yeah, he always brings us neat stuff from his office. Anatomically correct dolls and stuff,” the older one puts in.
“He's not an old bluenose with hidebound views of sexual morality, like some of my boyfriends' dads,” the daughter adds.
Embarrassed by this praise, Dr. Smith smiles down at the slice of roast on his plate.
“When your husband is in a demanding, high-risk job, you learn to love him when you can,” Mrs. Smith says. “And you learn how to let go. If he didn't live for that big, shiny clinic of his, he wouldn't be Morris, and if he weren't Morris I guess I wouldn't love him.”

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