Episode 4: “The Mind-Body Connection”

One of Sarisob’s fundamental beliefs regarding social work is that patients be as relaxed as possible. Newly-diagnosed cancer patients are bundles of stress; putting them at ease is his top priority. As the last episode stated, Sarisob even encourages certain patients (those who receive the early-PF) to "fart proudly," which invariably makes them laugh and relaxes them further. But to Sarisob relaxation is serious business. He puts the mind-body connection at the forefront of his practice, and this is why he is so much loved by his patients.

Sarisob’s belief in the power of the mind-body connection comes from his early immersion in the works of psychotherapist and natural scientist Wilhelm Reich. He was drawn to Reich not through his writings on stress and repression, however, but the orgasm, which Reich considered of primary importance to a person’s overall health. In his teen years, Sarisob’s mania for chicken-choking led him toward Reich’s, er, seminal work “Function of the Orgasm,” and from there to many of his other books. Much of Sarisob’s understanding of psychotherapy and the detrimental “body armor” people carry around came from his study of the brilliant, controversial Austrian, whose visionary thinking alienated him from his colleague/mentor Sigmund Freud and set him on an odyssey of exploration that culminated in the wilds of Rangeley, Maine, where his estate/laboratory is now a museum that Sarisob has long wished to visit. While Reich did go off the rails in his later years, theorizing about UFOs and Fascist conspiracies designed to tether people’s sexual and psychical freedom via what he termed the “emotional plague,” his ideas on the importance of free sexual expression and emotional states impacting physical wellness were ahead of their time, quietly influencing modern conceptions of bodywork and sex therapy. Alas, Reich’s paranoia proved well-founded in the Spring of 1956, as Federal agents, suspicious of his research, spirited him away in dramatic fashion while his young son Peter looked on. The crime that hastened his demise—Reich died in Federal prison a year later, literally heartbroken—was a petty offense involving the intra-state commercial conveyance of an Orgone Accumulator, a device he invented to harness the power of Orgone energy—a naturally-occurring elan vital also of his own discovery—toward a variety of healing purposes, including curing cancer and rainmaking. Ideas such as these were considered worrisome by the Feds, who burned hundreds of pages of his research.

Sarisob never would have conceived of social work as a calling if he hadn’t read Reich. His controversial approach to therapy deeply appealed to Sarisob, even as he disagreed with Reich’s views regarding masturbation. Reich paid close attention to the posture of his therapy patients, going so far as to ask certain patients to strip down to their underwear in order to better determine the extent of their body armor. Of course, Sarisob never went that far with his patients, although he did once witness the efficacy of a controversial Reichian technique in Sophie, an emotionally-repressed 49-year-old undergoing chemotherapy for a brain tumor.

Reich would occasionally request that a patient induce vomiting before a session, so the catharsis would help to soften their armoring. Sophie’s breakthrough session occurred when Sarisob, saddened by the tightness in her face, voice, and posture, slipped some Ipecac into her Diet Coke while she was in the bathroom. He’d kept the Ipecac in his desk for months, waffling over whether to take such a career-threatening chance. “Who feels it, knows it” says the Jamaican proverb posted above Sarisob’s toilet, and Sarisob felt it was the right time the morning after Sophie’d had her head shaved by her friend Jan. She appeared in his office unannounced, and was a complete emotional wreck, shaking and near tears. Luckily he was free at the time and was able to see her. He dosed her soda when she went around the corner to compose herself and wash her face.

Ten minutes and a few sips later, Sophie was profoundly nauseous. She returned to the bathroom and vomited to beat the band. Once back in his office, Sarisob gave her a toothbrush and paste (he kept extras in his desk), replaced her Diet Coke with a Diet Canada Dry, empathized with her for having the side effect so common in patients receiving chemo, and encouraged her to finish their session, which she did. Sarisob was shocked at how relaxed her body and mind were after vomiting, and even more so by her change in attitude. Sophie sat back, settled her shoulders into the chair, and began to speak with the freewheeling candor of an unblocked organism. She spoke about her husband, Jack, a free-lance business writer and consultant who once ran Corporate Communications for Digital and now makes $150 an hour writing annual reports and promotional materials and advising corporations on their branding strategies. They’d been married for 14 dollars—dollars, Sophie said, instead of years, but Sarisob didn’t correct her—14 years in which Jack gradually withdrew emotionally after the birth of Gwen, their only child, and put his energy increasingly into his two passions: his work and his garden, which became more profuse than ever after her brain cancer was diagnosed.

“He gives the garden what he can’t give me!” Sophie sobbed. It was the first time she mentioned any marital difficulties in their seven sessions. She discussed her family, her college, rebelling from her Christian Scientist upbringing, her wonderful support network, her daughter, her knitting group—but never her marriage.

“So he says it with flowers, then?”

“Yeah, but he only talks to himself. He doesn’t know how to be there for me in the way I need the most!” she cried. “He’s afraid to lose me, be on his own with Gwen—I understand all that. But he can’t take it when I’m in pain, or suffering. Last night, when Jan was over—she convinced me to shave my head—I was sick of seeing it stick to the comb, it made me feel like I was dying. Jack tried his best, and it hurt me to see his eyes fluttering. He couldn’t hide his pain, and went out to spread mulch. He loved my hair, Matt, and I loved the pleasure he took in my hair. He used to kiss it when we made love.” Sarisob felt himself hardening. He, too, loved Sophie’s silken blonde mane, and reflected, watching her stretch out with a catlike languor that she never would’ve accessed if not for a cleansing puke, that he would soon be visualizing that gorgeously absent hair while olive-oiling his blood-engorged glans, sitting on the very toilet where she hurled twenty minutes prior. Despite her repression, Sophie was a hot little number, he thought, with or without hair; he considered it a tribute to the woman’s still-vital sexuality, even after several punishing rounds of Taxol, that he was able to bring himself to climax while imagining himself sucking her golden hair, taking her in a sideways position. He hoped to find a trace of her vomit in the toilet bowl. Imagining himself shooting a load upon it, he shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. Listening to Sophie’s liberated monologue, Sarisob marveled at Reich’s insight into the human condition, and pondered how to build upon this session’s gains without relying on emetics. He knew that using Ipecac was an experiment he would never repeat.

“Jack goes out of his way for me so much, it makes me feel guilty. He buys all the organic food and green juice I need, he brings Gwen to soccer and yoga and to her friends. But emotionally...he’s absent from me, and I’m at wits end over it. Is it me, Matt? Have I failed him?”

“Sophie, you know that’s not true! Cancer is a challenge for the entire family, and brings up tons of issues. The simple stuff is no longer simple, and the complicated stuff is overwhelming. I’m honored and so pleased, Sophie, that you’ve been so open with me today. You have a courage today that you haven’t shown in our past sessions.” Sophie responded with the fullest smile she’d granted him yet in their collaboration.

“Thanks, Matt. And to think I wanted to go home after throwing up! Thank you for convincing me to stay; I must confess it feels real good to get this off my chest. I usually don’t talk this freely about personal stuff—is this what you mean by cancer bringing up issues?”

“Sort of, yes. Cancer is like a centrifuge, you know? It may seem like it destroys your life in the way it breaks everything down—but just as often people come through it stronger than when they started. You stand a good chance of being cancer-free one day, and I’ll bet that you and Jack will have a stronger marriage when all is said and done.”

“You think? Yeah, he and I are going to have a little talk tonight. He needs to feel my shaved head—he wouldn’t last night.” She removed her multi-colored fez for the first time in the session, and Sarisob beamed with pleasure to see her gleaming pate.

“Wow, Sophie, you look great bald! It brings out your hazel eyes, and your cheekbones! And I’m not just saying that! If someone is beautiful with hair, they’ll be beautiful without it—don’t ever doubt it.”

“Oh, Matt, you are kind to say that. They say hair grows back differently after chemo; I hope mine doesn’t come back curly. Damn—isn’t it shallow of me to worry that Jack won’t like my hair as much when it grows back? He used to drive me nuts quoting that Yeats poem to me about the lady with the yellow hair, but stopped when I started worrying about losing it.”

“It’s not at all shallow to worry. It’s a real part of marriage. People have a basic need for validation, especially from their spouses. You know, I remember that Yeats poem from college. Such chauvinist nonsense!”

“Thank you!” Sophie said, clasping her hands toward Sarisob in gratitude. “Jack still has some residual chauvinism thanks to his jerk of a father. I’m working on it.”

“That’s great! And once you get through this, I guarantee he’ll love your yellow hair even more. But you mustn’t hold back with him, Sophie. Do you think you can show him the same courage and clarity that you’ve shown me today?”

“Yes, I think so—and I won’t let him go out and pull weeds either. Thank you so much, Matt: you helped me finally feel like I can face my husband and make him listen. It’s funny, I came to you for my cancer, but it turns out you’re just as good at marriage counseling.”

“Thanks for saying! One reason I love my job is that it continually reminds me how interconnected everything is. From the cells in our bodies, to our families, friends, neighborhoods...all the way out to the solar system and the Universe! On the surface I am here to help you through your cancer, but I tend to think beyond that. And soon enough, so will you and your family.”

“You know, I think Jack would like you. He loves Irish literature, and has a way with words like you do.”

“I’d like to meet him sometime. I told you before, Sophie, about the support group I run for family members of our patients. I think Jack would be a perfect candidate. If he wouldn’t feel comfortable in a group I’d be willing to meet with him solo. And I know my way around a garden, too: a green thumb runs in my family.” Sarisob smiled, and noted on his desk-clock that the session was soon to be over.

“I’ll mention it again to him, and also that I’m not the only one who finds the poem chauvinist. Stupid Yeats! Gosh, I can’t tell you when I’ve more looked forward to going home! He may not be interested in your group, but he’ll certainly hear all about this tonight.”

“After he feels your head.”

“Yes, after he feels my head.”

“If you don’t mind my saying, it’s a beautiful head, Sophie. Jack’s a lucky man.”

“Would you like to touch it, Matt?” The twinkle in her eye told Sarisob that Sophie and Jack were going to be just fine. While Sophie still had a statistically-significant chance of experiencing a recurrence within 5 years, he had a good feeling that her life partner would be there every step of the way.

“OK—but at our next session. Jack should be the first man to have the pleasure.”

“Fair enough, next time then. You’re a good man, Matt Sarisob. I don’t mean to pry, but, are you married?”

“Not yet, but I dearly hope to be one day. Still waiting on Ms. Right. But I don’t lose sleep over it: how could I when there’s so much to be grateful for? Sophie, it looks like we’re drawing to a close for today. Is there anything else you’d like go over?”

A few minutes later, as Sophie strolled out of his office—even her stride was more confident—Sarisob grinned broadly, pumped his fist, and said a silent “thank you” to his mentor in social work and sexual potency, Wilhelm Reich. Then he took a small bottle of extra-virgin olive oil from his desk and went to sniff out her toilet.