Through the Nostrills Part I (A Story in Chapters)

It was during my second session with Dr. Vian, my new Central Park South psychoanalyst, that he recommended surgery.

I was a bit taken aback by the idea, but I was not able to study his expression at the time and didn’t have the leverage to make a sudden movement. You see, I was resting comfortably on his leather sofa facing Central Park (the snow covered trees shone brightly by the February sun), and was in the midst of a premeditated free-association.

I was recalling a dream I rehearsed for my previous psychoanalyst, Dr. Schumer, it was about me trying to get in a rustic lodge-like house. It was dark, perhaps very late evening. There were other people with me, and we were all running around that house trying to find a way in. I didn’t have the key, and all the doors and windows were shut and locked. Though I've never seen this house in my life, I was convinced it was my home.

“Describe what you see outside the house”, Dr. Vian asked, to which I replied with a satisfied smile (he took my bait): “I think it is in the country somewhere”. There is grass on the ground, many bushes and trees. There are fruits on the trees but I cannot make out what kind. And yes, flowers, lots of flowers. But it is dark so I cannot tell what kind or of what color…”

“Interesting, what happens next?”

“I finally get into the house, but something is wrong. I feel like the walls are moving, like they are closing in on me. I feel like they are about to crush me, as if the house is collapsing into itself. And then I woke up? What say you, Doc?”

He took his time before he replied, I could hear his lips sucking on his cigar (that was one of his only conditions, he will take me as a patient as long as I will not mind his smoking and will not steal any of his Cuban cigars).

By the time the first hints of smoke reached my nostrils he uttered with great dignity: “Well… this is very interesting… It seems like you are expecting an interpretation of this… hmm… dream, right? This is your motivation… this is interesting indeed. Let me share with you my own train of thought if you are willing to indulge me…”

“But of course!”

“I am certainly not your first psychoanalyst and not your second either, as Dr. Schumer did mention that you were referred to him by another psychoanalyst. So, you must know by now that it is not my job, or any other analyst for that matter, to interpret your dreams. Is that correct, so far?”

“Well, yes, but I thought…” He cut me off in mid-sentence.

“However, this is not a dream. This is a fabrication. This is a piece of literature that you presented me with, am I right?”

“I am not sure where you are going with this Doc, but I like the sound of it, so I will humor you. Let’s say I did fabricate it, what of it?”

By now the space in front of my face was covered in thick smoke, but I know how to fight a cough when I need to.

“Well, the answer to that is obvious. Both dreams and a literary works demand interpretation, however in a dream the interpreter can only be the dreamer, with help from his psychoanalyst of course, but still most of the work is in the hands of the dreamer. Literature, on the other hand, demands interpretation from a third party – do you see where I’m getting at?”

“Of course I do. You found a loop-hole. You are dying to interpret my dream, so you created a scenario in which you can interpret my dream and not compromise your position as an analyst. Gotcha, Doc. Don’t worry I won’t tell anyone.”

He coughed. “I beg your pardon…” Then he coughed again.

“You are mistaken, Bob”, he said. “You WANT to tell everyone. But the biggest trick your unconscious is playing on you is to hide the truth by actually telling the truth. You fabricated a dream in order to lead me to a particular analysis. However what you are not able to take into consideration is that the truth shines through even your most outrageous fabrications. You never stopped to consider why you wanted to lead me astray, why you wanted to lead me to a particular interpretation, now, didn’t you?”

“It is all too philosophical to me, I am not sure I follow…” For some reason my right hand started twitching.

“But you do. You studied Jacques Lacan, you already told me that. So think of his analysis of Poe’s “Purloined Letter”, how was the letter hidden? It was placed directly on the desk for all to see. Given that no one in his right mind will think that a secret letter will be left in clear sight, nobody bothered to look at it”.

My right hand stopped twitching. The index finger of my left hand twitched and then stopped.

He continued. “So, now that we have established that the message you were trying to convey to me, or rather the message that you were trying to dupe me with, is actually important – my question to you is: are you able to explore with me the possibilities hidden in this message? Will you tell me to which conclusion you wanted to lead me?”

A wind blew through the trees outside, moving eastbound through the leaves. I could see a wave pattern forming on the tree tops, like a pulse bomb. Massive chunks of snow fell to the ground, covering a small dog, his owner, an Upper East Side middle-aged woman, now seems to be strapping a leash to a pile of snow. She didn’t realize it yet, she was on the phone.

“Bob? Are you still with us?” he inquires softly.

“Yes. A house usually signifies the Ego. Wanting to get inside, meaning I want to get inside myself, remove myself from the world, and the splendor that is outside: Fruits, flowers, trees, etc. Once I finally get inside the house, the ego collapses into itself as in a psychotic episode. But I’m sure you got it, didn’t you”.

“Very good! So in a way you are deliberately attempting to do something that will harm you, is that right?”

“Yes”. The lady outside begins to be irritated with her unresponsive dog and turns around. Through the closed windows I can’t hear her scream but I can imagine it. She has a very annoying high pitch voice.

“Why do you think that is?”

“Well, its quite simple, Doc? I’m tired. I had enough with myself, I’ve been with myself for 30 years and it’s not fun anymore. Not that it ever was particularly fun in the past, but now, it seems particularly, well, not fun. I think its time for a change. I think I need to be someone else from now on. It is very tiring to be in my head all the time. I want a clean break. I think it will do me good”.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Well, yes. I want to be someone else from now on. If I can make some requests, I would like it very much if I could be a lot more selfish, with a lot less guilt, a lot less consideration to the people around me. I find that it’s very paralyzing for me to keep considering other people. In short I want to be an asshole. Assholes usually get what they want. I want to be one of those. Is this possible?”

I think I stunned him, because no word was spoken for a minute. But then I heard his lips part as they were sucking on his cigar.

“Its funny you should mention this solution, because it just so happens that we developed a procedure for that. It involves a pretty complex operation, but we do it in-house. We have recently renovated a room in the back, turning into a state of the art operating room. You will be the first patient, of course, but you may want to take that chance, if not for your sake, perhaps for the sake of human progress?”

“I will very much like to take the chance, but if you don’t mind, in case the operation fails I prefer that any lessons learned from this failure will not be put to good use for future treatments. I would hate to think that my untimely death helped other people or future generations, it will be defeating the purpose, don’t you agree?”

“Hmm… I see what you mean… I can promise you that I will definitely try to forget anything that occurs in case the procedure goes wrong. But I cannot guarantee success even on this matter; the mind is a strange thing. It remembers and forgets what it wants. And I cannot speak on behalf of Iggy”.

“Iggy?”

“Well, Igor. But he prefers Iggy, he is ridiculed enough as it is being a hunchback. You sat on him in the waiting room, but don’t worry about it. A lot of people confuse him with an ottoman, especially when he is doing Yoga wearing his leather jacket. You will have to speak with him separately about this request of yours”.

“And how does this procedure work, exactly?”

“It is quite simple, you see… we first need to find a point of exit, that is, a point from which we can remove you from yourself. It is normally one of the six facial cavities, but it is too early in the game to restrict it only to the face. Who knows? We may include other points of exit in the future. With you, I think the nose will be sufficient. I am not sure if anyone mentioned this to you before but you have quite a remarkable nose - very Hellenistic.”

“You mean Jewish”.

“Right… We will cut a small incision in your left nostril and see how your body reacts. If bleeding is maintained to mere minimum, we will begin to expand your point of exit by cutting upwards, creating a chasm in your facial tissue which will run diagonally across your nose.”

“I will not be much to look at after that? Wouldn’t I?”

“You will not have any use for this body anyway, you will be someone else”.

“Gotcha. And who will I be?”

“That’s a good question”.

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know who you will be, but you will not be yourself. After we allow you to exit yourself, it is all up to chance. But you would definitely not be yourself. Does that sound good to you?”

“That sounds marvelous. When can we start?”

“I will need you sign a waiver of course”.

“Of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Accountability is key in medicine nowadays, or lack thereof.” I smiled, but I am not sure he caught it. I tried to maintain a smile, hoping that my right ear is stretched enough to suggest a new facial expression. But I am not sure he can see my ear from the place he is sitting.

The operating room was brightly lit with exception of the bed on which I was placed. After the anesthetic was injected and was making its way circulating through my blood stream, I began to feel softness spreading through my organs; Softness and lightness, as if my body was floating in mid-air. The ceiling of the room was made of a checkers-like arrangement of small black and white tiles. They began moving before my eyes, as if I was racing through them in very high velocity. My legs began to feel even lighter than my already floating body, and it seems like they are rising up in the air and heading towards the door.

“It’s working!”

To that Dr. Vian dryly replied, “We haven’t even started yet”.

Then Iggy, or Igor, came into the room, and I tried to apologize for sitting on him earlier but no words came to my mouth, as if my mind already began separating from itself. Igor was indeed very short and his hunched back made him even shorter. His face was facing the ground when he walked, carrying a tray of operating tools. He reached Dr. Vian’s legs, and said, “Master, I bring you these fine tools which I cleaned myself”.

“Thank you Igor”, replied Dr. Vian, feigning a Romanian accent. They both laughed. Dr. Vian patted Igor’s head (which was still facing the ground), took the tray and placed it on Igor’s back. He then picked a small shinning object but I couldn’t make out exactly what it was. He drew closer to me, his face filling my entire field of vision and the shining object was gleaming before my eyes like a small sun. “Do you feel this, Bob?” he asked. I felt like someone is applying pressure on somebody’s nose. Then Dr. Vian’s faces filled with red liquid, he was startled and took a step back, but a handkerchief was promptly handed to him so he can wipe his glasses.

He continued, and I felt someone inflicting on somebody incredible pain. The shining object became the only thing in the world for somebody in the room, and then a sharp ray of light emanated from somebody’s nose upward toward the sky, flickering for a second through the stars and constellation and then in an instant drowning into the black of space.

The operation was a success. When I came back into consciousness I didn’t remember any of this. For the first few days the feeling of lightness persisted, but then it too surrendered to gravity. My body was restricted to a bed, in a strange room with a checkered ceiling, and had tubes attached to my hands and there was a feeling of discomfort in the nether area. I slept a lot, but it was very confusing. For some reason I remembered going to the dentist, but this doesn’t look like my dentist office, nor did I believe that I was supposed to stay overnight for a root-canal. The person I became had no knowledge of Bob, nor any personal knowledge at all for that matter.
I was trying to catalog all the things that I knew for sure, but it was all too general, did I have a name? a past? a family? a job?

Surprisingly (or not) I wasn’t so much concerned for this lack of orientation, because something else was bothering me; something else was creeping inside of me; something that I was pretty sure was very new. An overwhelming feeling of greed was beginning to show itself in my intestines, which was supplemented by a weird scent that came and went. It was metallic, and I remembered tasting something that had the scent in the past.

It reminded me of hospitals, football games, street-fights after school, but nothing particular about any of these. Something was in common with all these fragments of memory that I was missing, what is that smell?

A wind blew through the half open window, and a scent of trees filled my nostrils, I sniffed it in and then felt pain. I reached in great difficulty with my left hand to touch my nose, navigating through tubes knotted against each other, and I felt a pang of pain and something rough to the touch: stitches.
But also a thick wetness, I drew my hand closer to my eyes but couldn’t reach that far. I tasted. The familiar scent, the metallic taste, it all came together. I wanted blood!

To be continued.