The Balance of Life (Priorities)
Dr. Melvin Bernstein swiveled in his office chair with hands folded against the back of his neck.
This was the fifth client that he’d seen this morning, and this afternoon he had four more, all whiners. He hated whiners. After all, he didn’t whine, did he?
He’d endured four years of undergrad work, then another two earning his Masters of Psychology. God knows how many years he’d snoozed in classes before finally receiving his doctorate. And then there was his final two years interning at New York Medical Center. . . . He’d earned his place in society. Why couldn’t they?
“I think I really need help. I don’t think I can go on much longer.” The voice came from somewhere in his spatial universe.
Internally, he sighed, trying to keep his expression deadpan. He picked up the gold pen and leather-bound pad and pretended to write. In actuality, he doodled.
“Lucille, tell me when this all started.” His open-ended questions always got his clients started. Then, he focused back on his golf game. His last score had been a ninety-five. Trouble was -- he had too much going in his life. He couldn’t concentrate. He was thinking too much about his clients when he was on the golf course.
“I can’t seem to accomplish anything. I’m going to school, trying to get my Bachelor’s Degree, which I need for a promo . . .”
Lucille’s conversation floated into the background of the doctor’s predominant thought process.
There was his wife. He was sure Melinda was having an affair. He didn’t know with whom, but he suspected it might be the new tennis instructor down at the Scarsdale Country Club. She had become so distant lately. He realized that he hadn’t had much time to spend with her. In fact, he hadn’t noticed her at all. She had gained all that weight after their last son was born five years ago, and she had let her hair go to a mousy brown. This morning, he’d detected a decided change. The brown was suddenly auburn and she’d lost weight. Why hadn’t he noticed?
“Dr. Bernstein, I think my husband is having an affair.” “Why do you suspect your husband is having an affair, Lucille?”
“I haven’t spent much time with him, trying to juggle my job, school, and carting the kids around. The house is always a mess. I can’t seem to find time for that, either. I guess I couldn’t really blame him if he was. He’s so . . .” Her voice droned on with suspicions of infidelity.
Why did he suspect that Melinda was having an affair – because of her new hair color? Perhaps she suspected that he was having an affair. Did she suspect about Colleen? Pretty Colleen, with her red flowing hair, green eyes and smile that sent rockets of sensations careening in and out of his mind. He had to work those extra hours, but her little Central Park West apartment was worth the rent.
As Lucille spilled her guts about her husband, Dr. Bernstein discreetly checked the time. Perhaps, if he could cut Lucille’s appointment just a little, he’d see Colleen during lunch.
“I know, if I didn’t have to work so much, if I could spend more time with him, he wouldn’t be seeing this other woman.”
He looked at Lucille’s mousy brown hair. It looked very similar to Melinda’s hair color, before she had -- what, dyed it? Should he suggest to Lucille that she dye her hair? Something in Lucille’s tone had triggered a reaction, but he wasn’t sure what. He wondered if her husband was a tennis instructor. He knew very little about this woman.
“Lucille, tell me about yourself. I mean, what do you want out of life?”
“Doctor Bernstein?”
He noticed that Lucille’s dark eyes penetrated into his face and deeper. He saw the look of a deeply troubled woman sitting in front of him, and realized that she must have already told him her story several times. He hadn’t been listening. Frantically, he searched for a cover. He found one and gave her the “priority” antidote.
“You see, Lucille, you’ve got to prioritize. You’ve got to balance your life and decide what’s most important.” That was a stupid remark. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He could have been talking about himself.
Which of his obsessions was most important -- Melinda, his job, his teaching assignment, Colleen or his golf game? And, what about his wife? Sadly, he realized he totally ignored whatever he happened to be doing in favor of that which he was not. Priorities.
“Doctor, my most important priority is my husband and my children. In order for us to survive, I have to work. My husband is an artist and doesn’t make much money. He doesn’t have to juggle. I’ve taken that burden off of him.” She stopped for air.
“I need to earn more money, so I’m taking classes at school. I’m failing, because I don’t have time to study. I came close to having a nervous . . . ,” she stopped and started to cry. Dr. Bernstein handed her the box of tissues that he always kept handy on his desk.
“Breakdown. . ., that’s why I came to you,. The school is paying for it.
I hardly see my husband anymore, and his assistant is gorgeous. She has fiery red hair and deep green eyes. I met her at a gallery opening this September. I can’t compete with her. She has money . . . and can afford to look glamorous . . . and she lives in an elegant Central Park Apartment.” Sobs disjointed her conversation. “I’m losing him and I don’t know what to do.”
Bernstein sat up and took notice. He suddenly wondered what Colleen did for a living. Wasn’t she an artist? Why didn’t he know? “I’ve been too damned concerned with my own life,” he thought. Lucille was sobbing. The tissues were rapidly disappearing from the box.
He needed more time with her, but his desk alarm started playing its forest and bird calls. Next week, he’d pay more attention to her. Now, he had to find out what his fiery redhead did in her spare time.
Life and priorities hit Dr. Melvin Bernstein right between the eyes as he raced out of his office building and into a nearby cab. He’d catch the witch off guard.
“Central Park West and 86th Street, quick!” He held out a twenty.
The driver, who appeared eager for Dr. Bernstein’s bill apparently didn’t see the dazed, sad young woman with the mousy brown hair, walking out of the office building. When Dr. Bernstein noticed, she’d stepped out from between the parked cars into the accelerating taxi.
She never had a chance.
