“Surely, whoever speaks to me in the right voice, him or her I shall follow.” ~ Walt Whitman

January 1989 – Initial Contact

I assumed it was a prank caller or a bad connection at first.  But before hanging up I heard someone breathing on the other end.  I pressed the receiver closer to my ear and heard a woman clear her throat.

“A friend referred me, said you might help with my pain,” the woman whispered, her voice cracking in and out.

“What’s causing the discomfort,” I asked?

“It’s my throat,” she said.  “I’m losing my voice, my livelihood.  But doctors haven’t been able to help me.  They can’t isolate a cause.”

“You know I’m not a throat doctor,” I clarified.

“I know who you are,” the woman shot back.

I opened my planner and scanned the upcoming month.  “Are you available next Thursday at 3:00 PM, or the following Tuesday…”

“I’ll be at your office 8:00 AM tomorrow, before you open,” the woman insisted.

I tossed my planner on the desk, then asked,  “Whose name should I pencil in?”

Before hanging up, the woman replied, “My name is Dita.”

1 month later – first hypnosis

“How will this work,” Dita asked nervously. “I’m trusting you, Sigmund.”

“My name is not Sigmund,” I reminded, yet again. “And you’re sounding much better, more playful than…”

“Don’t you want to know why I trust you,” Dita scolded?  “Shouldn’t my trust mean something to you?”

“Of course, I want your trust.” I replied. “But for these sessions to work best, I need you to realize…”

“Then ask me,” Dita demanded. “Ask me why I trust you.”

I smiled at my inability to control my patient.  I was learning, though, conversing with Dita was more fluid when I followed her lead and didn’t fight the current.  Besides, I was curious.  “Why do you trust me, Dita?”

“You have Spanish eyes,” she said. “I can tell a lot by a man’s gaze, yours tells me that you are safe to trust, that your heart is here with me.”

It was evident that I was putty in Dita’s hands, to be molded and played with at her pleasure.  “Thank you,” I said, all but blushing and fiddling with my imaginary pearls.

“Doesn’t mean I won’t hire some goons to kick your ass, if I end up quacking like a duck on the set of my Pepsi commercial,” she warned.  “So don’t get any ideas when I’m under, Sigmund the Spaniard.”

“Sigmund the Spaniard,” I repeated with a nod and a grin.

Dita stretched out on the couch and slowly exhaled, before facing me again.  “I hate relinquishing control,” she confided.

“I understand,” I reassured. “Most of us do.”

“You never answered my question,” she reminded. “How will this work?”

I removed a pocket watch from my jacket and dangled it in front of Dita.

“I will ask you to focus on this watch while holding onto my voice,” I calmly explained.  “Imagine that I’m telling you a bedtime story after a long and troubling day.  As you listen to my sentences, understand that today is the last day that I’m using words.  They’ve gone out, lost their meaning, don’t function anymore…”

Sigmund the Spaniard