We are egotistical beings who like to believe in our specialness, as if we occupy a prime position in a unidimensional universe. We believe our lives to be unique so as not to resonate in any other space or time. However, the reality is that our universe, like the facets of a diamond, has numerous dimensions, and our lives often resonate with other lives.
On one side of the universe, our lives appear, while on the other, their reflection, like a mirror image, is shown. On one side, we may be consumed with our tragedy, while on the other, our alter ego rejoices in happiness.
***
A while ago, as a private practice psychiatrist, I evaluated an individual. Let’s call him Dr. Richards. He was seeking my help due to depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts.
His general description was of a man in his mid-fifties, slim build, with gray hair above his temples. His fingernails were delicately manicured, and he wore golden-rimmed eyeglasses. He reflected an air of sophistication and wealth. His face was well-shaven and suntanned. As he approached, the flowery scent of French cologne and lavender aftershave, like a halo, filled the air.
Upon entering my office, Dr. Richards appeared neatly dressed, wearing a high-end tailored suit and Italian cordovan leather shoes—the ones that at Newman Marcus go for nearly two thousand dollars a pair.
Once he introduced himself, it all became clear. Dr. Richards was a successful and well-respected plastic surgeon. Thus, his visit was paid in cash, and he made sure that no records of his visit would be kept. I felt obliged. It’s difficult not to accommodate a wealthy person.
Despite his well-poised demeanor and sophisticated manners, proper of an individual with whom life has been generous, his eyes revealed a deep sadness and the dullness of someone hiding deep sorrows. Dr. Richards described his daily life as spanning hospital rounds and surgical procedures to social engagements at the Lenape Country Club—the most exclusive one in the area.
I inquired about the reason for his visit, and he reassured me that it was not due to financial reasons. Dr. Richards had all the “Amenities” he needed, from a five-thousand-square-foot home with mahogany hand-crafted woodwork and wine cellars to his Olympic-size pool and Porsche, among other “Toys.”
Dr. Richards then tried a faded smile, in testament to happy bygone memories, as he informed me that he routinely “decompressed” at his Italian villa. By all accounts, he was in an enviable position, a poster child of the American dream. Like they say, “Money does not bring happiness, but it helps!”
Dr. Richards continued describing his “Amenities” and his daily life, and I felt irritated and, perhaps, envious. I could not help it and exclaimed, “So what’s your problem?”. He stopped his account abruptly and gave me a glacial, stern, and surgical look. He described his nagging sense of emptiness, his unhappiness, and the deep void that made him feel like crying. He did not want to get out of bed and often felt suicidal. Nothing in his life made sense.
Dr. Richards confessed that in his desperation, he had contemplated divorcing his wife, who was cheating on him, and abandoning his two disappointing children and his unfulfilling career. But he was “trapped”. To Dr. Richards, the idea of abandoning his lifestyle and his “Amenities” was inconceivable, even if it meant suffocating and dying a slow, painful death of his soul.
Finally, Dr. Richard requested that I prescribe him something to get rid of such “unnatural” feelings. Better yet, he asked me to give him samples so there would be no pharmacy records.
***
Later, in the same week, I headed for my second gig. I was working at a county “correctional” facility, evaluating and treating inmates. It was just another Saturday. The guards brought me one of my first patients, Joseph K.
On simple inspection, he appeared like the typical inmate, dressed in a stained orange jumpsuit, disheveled, unkempt, and malodorous. He was a tall, slender, grungy individual with a greasy, long, reddish, tangled beard and Einstein-esque hair. He kept on scratching his forearms, groins, and hair, which were clearly infested with lice and scabies.
Joseph K. was clearly an older man, possibly in his mid-fifties, but he had remarkable boyish features and an inviting smile that made him look much younger. I was immediately shocked by his pleasant demeanor and undisturbed glow of happiness.
It was mind-blowing to me how Joseph K. appeared like a smiling Buddha while incarcerated in an exceedingly overcrowded, filthy jail. I could not help but notice his placid disposition and the happiness he exuded. It was clear to me that I was sitting across from an individual who had completely surrendered to his tragic existence.
Joseph K. was not bothered by personal pride or interested in pursuing honors and achievements. He was one of millions whose life experiences pushed him to the margins of our tax-payer existence. Society had forgotten him, and he did not matter, but he couldn’t care less.
Joseph K. tickled my curiosity. “What can I do for you?” I asked. He told me he wanted me to get him out of “isolation,” which is mandatory confinement and intense supervision when an individual first arrives at the jail. He wanted to be able to brush his teeth and shower, which he had not done several days before his arrest.
I started my evaluation mostly driven by curiosity about his life rather than by medical reasons. Joseph K. explained that he was arrested for possession of Marijuana. At the time, he was residing “in my apartment, under the boardwalk”-that is the Atlantic City, NJ, boardwalk. Given that it was the summer, he explained, the rental price of his “SRO” -single room occupancy- was “jacked up,” and he and other guys every summer needed to seek refuge under the boardwalk, right across the ocean.
Joseph K., with a sense of pride, told me that by the time of his arrest, he had secured a spot under the boardwalk structure. I guess it is a very human need to set private property. Thus, his piece of sand under the boardwalk was agreed upon as his. Joseph K. was not bothered by the human fluid, often urine, sipping through the board down to his “apartment,” frequently landing on him.
Immediately, in my prejudiced upper-middle-class suburban naiveté, I said, “It must be hard living there.” I asked if there were fights with the other guys. He said, “No. They all know me there.” Joseph K. assured me that he was “happy,” occasionally smoking weed and enjoying the ocean breeze. “It’s freedom,” he said.
But I could not let it go. I again asked Joseph K. about his safety and daily survival. Joseph K. then gave me a compassionate look, feeling sorry for my ignorance. He repeated, “They all know me there,” and to my deep surprise, he added, “Even the possums and the raccoons know me”.
Joseph K. claimed that he shared his “apartment” with these creatures and that “I sleep with the baby possums under my blanket.” He must have seen my surprise as he added, “They are very friendly to humans.”
A few minutes later, toward the end of the interview, still, with his blissful expression, Joseph K. added that on one occasion, somebody dropped a snake down on his “apartment”. The snake bit him. I was alarmed. “What happened?” I exclaimed. “Nothing,” he answered. He explained that being bitten by a snake, “it’s the test of a true Christian”. Joseph K. must have seen my bewilderment and quickly replied, “If a venomous snake bites you, and you are not a good Christian, you will die.”
It was time for me to wrap up the interview and leave. I did not ask further questions. “That’s deep,” I said, as I could not think of anything else to say. Joseph K. gave me the look of somebody who suddenly realized he had said too much. As he dreaded that I might not approve of his release from isolation, he quickly said, “I’m saying no more; you might think I’m crazy.”
***
While I drove back home in my demonically possessed, foul-smelling Volvo, I could not stop thinking about Dr. Richards and Joseph K. and the paradoxical, parallel universe that they inhabited. I wondered if Dr. Richards would trade one of his “suicidal” days for Joseph K.’s happiness. He would not.
A few years later, I saw a striking local news report on TV. “Renowned plastic surgeon commits suicide while in Federal Prison.” I learned that Dr. Richards, at the time of his death, had been doing a long prison bid after being sentenced for paying some bikers to murder his wife, who was planning to divorce him and threatened to take everything.
After all, I guess that Dr. Richards could not live without his “amenities” and his “toys.”
P.R. Thompson
March 7, 2025
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