The Doctor is In By Laura Oliver

You may think that “The Story Within” (Penguin Random House) was my first book, but you would be wrong. So wrong.

My first book, 11 chapters long, was titled “Dr. Laura Pritchett’s Guide to Life.” I wrote it in support of my practice as a therapist, where I enjoyed giving advice to other people on their problems. I was 10. I still have this book. Feel free to contact me.

Sessions were a quarter. No one came. My office was the upstairs hallway. The price has gone up, but the office is still my upstairs hallway.

The book, tabloid-size manilla paper with the edges cut in order to leave staggered rectangular tabs for the chapter titles, began with a list of potential clients, each formally accounted for by first, middle, and (surprise!) the same last name, mine. They included my mother, my sister Andee, my sister Sharon, and our collie Beau, to whom I perversely assigned my own middle name, although he was a boy: Beau Jean Pritchett. I also included as clients “exclusive friends,” of which I had none and which were never identified, although apparently, one had a session, and my cat Clyde or Clide. I’d never seen his name written, so I listed him using both spellings for billing purposes.

A sampling of chapter titles included “God and Man,” “I’m So Mad I Could Scream,” “I Can’t Stand Her,” “Endless-Seeming Work,” “Love,” and “Life.”

Most useful in my practice today: “I’m So Mad I Could Scream.” The advice?
Have a good cry. Take a pillow and jump up and down on it. Comb your hair and wash your face. Play the piano to “take it out of your mind.” Walk outside by yourself, then play the piano again!

“I Can’t Stand Her” contained these gems: Think of the times you’ve felt sorry for her. If there are any, think of her good points. Think of the times (if any) she’s been nice to you. Be nice to her (if possible) and see how she acts. You may like her better then.

Not sure about my therapeutic model in “Endless-Seeming Work.” Clients were advised to “whistle and think of something gay, plan something fun for yourself, try to be neat” (?) and, this additional nugget of wisdom, “feel feminine.” Not sure how feeling feminine would make work fly by, and I’m pretty sure it screwed up Beau Jean, who was already having identity issues given his new name.

The chapter “Love” pretty much plagiarized the Golden Rule. Even at the age of 10, I knew when something couldn’t be improved upon.

For those with existential issues I referred to my opening chapter “God and Man,” where in fifth grade, I seem to have written out exactly what I believe now. The chapter began, “Man may someday conquer space and try to conquer God, but he will not succeed for he must always have some real but unknown answer to all he doesn’t know.”

Which I think was my fifth-grade way of saying life is a mystery you will never solve, try as you might, and this is a good thing.

But my closing chapter, “Life,” seemed to promote a certain self-righteous resignation: “Don’t try to find out what you have no need to. Don’t try to tear apart life and understand it. You’re better off just to live it.” I suspect I was channeling a mother stunned by her own experience and surviving on faith.

However, I no longer feel this way, and I hope I didn’t convey this complacency to my children. Learning is a creative energy, and what better means is there to honor creation itself than to admire the puzzle of it, to seek to learn its secrets, and to marvel at each revelation.

Have we ever learned anything about the making of the universe that did not leave us in awe? Are you sorry you’ve seen the star factory in Hubble’s Pillars of Creation or the Horsehead Nebula? That you know Uranus and Neptune once changed places in their orbits around the sun? That only Venus and Uranus rotate clockwise? That Uranus rotates backwards and on her side?

I wrote my manual as a kid before I had kids. Before I’d ever made a mistake. When the slate was clear. When I could have gone home with a “Welcome back, little camper! Well done!” And I have no idea how my children will remember me one day.

But I am reading a book titled, “Light” by Bruce Watson and the most moving thing in it so far is the dedication. It touches me because I’ve made so many mistakes in my life that there is no time or means to undo. But Bruce Watson, whose mother must surely have been imperfect too, opened his book with this:

“For my mother, whose interest in everything turned out to be the greatest gift.”

I imagine I would have liked Mrs. Watson, who clearly left a legacy of wonder. One which I suspect was fueled by her unconditional love of life itself.

Perhaps that is the synopsis of the life I will leave behind, but the last chapter is not yet written.

It’s my belief that we are evolving toward a happy ending.

The author is still editing the work.