Foiled
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My right fist throbs. I punched it against a wall, although I don’t recall the incident with any clarity, which frustrates the hell out of me. I’m resting on a couch with tiny drawings of horses, cows, and pigs. A lumpy sofa; it’s a comforting one when I’m low and feeling obliterated. But today, possibility opens wide to me, for me. Dr. Rain doesn’t spot me initially, but then she does, and we laugh together as I rise, and she tousles my hair like I’m a wayward child finally come home. 
The Prodigal Schizoaffective. 
Dr. Rain grins, shaking her head, and embraces me with her bosom bouncing as a current shoots right through us. My hands are on my knees as I weep, trembling, and I sob about Shea, Pop, about my great aunt and anguish, and shame, so much of it. Rain rubs my back, saying, “It’s been a long time coming, Rufus. Let those tears flow. Wonderful humanity surging through you now. No going back, no way in hell.”
“Never,” I say. 
We high-five like World Series Champs, like we can’t believe our good fortune. I try to explain, but I can’t find words. I mean, how does the foil just come off? How can that God-awful weight—something that once felt like a yoke, a ton of bricks—now be removed so effortlessly? 
I shake my head and ride a buoyant mood. Dr. Rain and I take selfies. A nurse points to my hand, and she asks me about my bloody knuckles. Everyone else is ecstatic about what I don’t have on my head, but she points to my swollen fist, and she’s right, the damn thing hurts, it aches, it needs to be addressed. A staff brings out some apple cider and Rain raises a toast. To Rufus McHenry – chronically ill man and former tin foil aficionado. What are the odds of that one finding the light?
On that misty afternoon in May, I ended up breaking my hand and needed a cast for two months. It was a mystery around Courage House, just where Dr. Pell met his clients? “Did you or Dr. Pell happen to take some form of LSD?” an APRN from the insurance company asked me soon after. “I mean, was it legit psychotherapy he practiced with you?” 
“There’s no foil ever worn again by me, so yes, it occurred,” I said. “But there were never any illicit substances. None at all.”
“How do you explain going from a lost, chronic middle-aged man and feeling hopeless to enjoying your life?” she went on.
“I don’t know, really, lady,” I said. “But, it sure tastes sweet.”
All that being said, I still have been unable to get back to the quiet, comfortable room with the old Time magazines and swim upstream to find Dr. Pell in his unmatched socks and hush puppies. If only to say thanks for rescuing me. I’m sure he’s only a phone call away, or online somewhere. I know Dr. Pell would be modest and self-deprecating and say, “You did all the hard work yourself, Rufus. I was just a mirror reflecting your substantial rage, regret, and anguish.”
I’ve even walked up and down Orange, Trumbull, and Grove Streets recently for a few hours, trying to recall where precisely we had had our extraordinary session. Which building did it take place in? What floor? Was there an elevator involved, maybe? Dr. Rain has said little about Dr. Pell. “A remarkable event occurred between the two of you,” she said. “You both achieved something awesome, and now the aluminum foil is gone from your life forever. I don’t know about you, but that’s all I need to know.”