The injections, more pinch than pain, were the least of it. Far more unnerving was the “emotional riddle,” as Bruni described it. How do you rest easy while knowing that you will awaken to uncertainty—the possibility of a world permanently blurred or darkened? He tried to cope by ritualizing his doctor’s suggestion that he stay hydrated, especially before bedtime. Dark humor with family and friends provided moments of relief from persistent flashes of fright. Prayer—the best advice his doctor could offer—did little to comfort a nonreligious man.
“I’m better at drama,” Bruni admitted. I could relate, and anyone who knew me well would be moved to say amen.
I did try to laugh it off as best I could, linking my eye condition to a relatively minor prostate procedure I had also undergone to claim that my life had essentially come down to “seeing and peeing.” But good luck putting a consistently happy face on potential blindness. My habit of catastrophizing sudden adversity ultimately won out, and it had occurred enough times by this stage of my adult life to call it by its clinical name: episodic depression and anxiety, typically symptomized by sleep deprivation and a loss of appetite and confidence. In retrospect, I could cop to the plea that I had overreacted to most of my prior life crises, and all of these chapters were, in essence, merely detours along a successful and relatively steady-as-she-goes journey. But at the time, they felt like cause for real despair.
It’s a terrible place to be, awakening each morning with a crippling lethargy and unshakable foreboding. Work suffers. Relationships fray. Simple tasks can feel like a massive undertaking. Fortunately, these periods tended not to last long, blessed as I was with a loving wife and sons, good friends, and the ability to lift myself up with therapy, exercise, and ultimately my work. And, of course, there was always Michelle, my fortifying go-to voice of experience and reason—caring but never too accommodating.
A therapist’s goal is to create a road map to self-discovery, the more conventional and presumably more lasting means of psychological growth. But Michelle was no shrink, even if she wholeheartedly endorsed psychotherapy, valuing the work of her psychiatrist, Dr. Goldfarb, during her solo-parenting years to the point where she visited him out west years after he’d retired from his practice. But in Michelle’s line of work, dealing with a person’s problems was a more urgent end than healing. She didn’t have time to nurture clients through some tortured process of self-discovery. Her job was to lay out the truth, whether or not the person in question wanted to hear it.
Her friends were treated no differently, even if they weren’t obligated to listen. Whine for a few moments if you must, she would say, but I sure as hell am not going to encourage you to wallow. When Robin Kelly’s marriage to Wynn Plaut was ending, her therapist went so far as to suggest that she steer clear of Michelle, who had been characteristically brusque when assessing the terms of the divorce. To wit: Stop bitching about it. Given Michelle’s own marriage-ending experience, Robin had made out like a bandit: an amicable parting, generous financial settlement, a prize Manhattan apartment. Why ruminate? Why waste time when you could be getting on with life? Robin eventually asked that her therapist back off—she actually didn’t want to feel sorry for herself. She could handle the truth and appreciated Michelle’s giving it to her, however bluntly.
I was no different. During the early, dispiriting weeks after my macular degeneration diagnosis and through the shock of the conversion to the condition’s more troubling wet form, it was Michelle’s tough medicine that somehow provided me the most comfort. It calmed—or actually steeled—me more than any medical reassurance, sympathy from family and friends, or even commiseration from my mother, bless her, whose advanced macular degeneration from her mid-eighties into her early nineties had left her unable to read or make out faces from more than a few feet away.
I suppose it was a testament to the trust I had in Michelle, her credibility and consistency. While others would assure me, “Oh, you’ll be fine,” she would only tell me that maybe I would and maybe I wouldn’t—I’d just have to push it all aside and figure out a way to deal with my fate when the time came. Because, again, what choice did I have?
It was an example of what I most admired about Michelle—how she pressed forward, even as daunting life changes occurred. As powerful as her backstory was, as much as she had persevered, her resolve in later years made an even more powerful impression on me because I got to witness it firsthand. As she aged, Michelle was determined to do whatever was necessary to maintain her career—including defying Father Time with the assistance of a cosmetic surgeon. The night I turned around from my press row seat at the Garden and found her looking several years younger seems in retrospect like a potential scene from Curb Your Enthusiasm. Was it my imagination? The lighting in the arena? A miracle of makeup? Even for the congenitally indiscreet Larry David, this would have been a tricky ask.
“You look great, Michelle,” I stammered, choosing tact over temerity and hoping she would let me in on her secret.
“Thank you,” she said. “I paid enough for it.”
In a more private setting, she told me she had undergone the nip-and-tuck as a calculated career investment. Some of her clients were aging out or dying, and were being replaced by younger executives. As much as she resented the double standards for women, especially older women, they were what they were. She had convinced herself that she needed to appear more youthful to extend her career. She liked looking good, too.
Her strategy worked out
