Informed Consent

      You’ve likely encountered one of my kind before. The odds are in your favor to that fact. Among a group of four people, I think the numbers now put it at about a twenty-five percent chance you’ll need my help. The thing is, I’m not like any of the others who practice my craft and skills with you. No, I don’t follow the buzzworthy treatment trends. It’s not for me to do the latest method of cures. I’ve always followed my own brand of care. My style is more, shall we say, symbiotic in nature. 

           Surprised? Most people are. When they first realize my urge to counsel my clients serves their emotional well-being as much as my own hungry need, the reaction is one of three options. First is relief, pleased even that I may be the way they can finally get help for their distraught lives. The second is concern, almost worry that the professional they’re with may be as ‘crazy’ they believe themselves to be. The last reply is the one that I can’t offer many details for in explanation. This response is when people wonder if I’m using our work together for some hurtful intent. 

           Many of, shall I say, my more worry-prone clients have expressed fear I may have shared the sacred information they told me with outsiders. I will go on record now to you and only you. No, I do not ever share clients’ details with anyone but myself and the individuals seeking treatment. Never have, never will. What I can share instead, you see, is how the work impacts my life. 

           Of course, to call what I experience a ‘life’ may be a stretch. Let’s back up and call it an existence instead. And in using that term, I will also say how miserable it is through a vast majority of my days. You may think it thrilling to be given an eternity to encounter the world and form some semblance of understanding it both for myself and others. Let me rid you of that misguided notion now. To call it hellish would be an insult to that part of post-life worlds. 

           It started two centuries ago, give or take a decade. 

I was in Europe at the time. These years weren’t the worst I’d gone through. I’ve yet to pinpoint those. Nevertheless, my time on that continent was not pleasant either. Looking back, I can’t be sure what brought me to the doctor’s office that fateful night. I’ll try to recall that fateful night the best I can though. The brownstone building had been calling to me day after day until the tugging pull to my curiosity was too difficult to ignore. 

           Once at the door, my hand hovers over the door’s ornate knocker for a while. Unexpectedly, the interest I had to investigate the inside of the building was now wavering. Worries surge through my body and I wonder if I should run away again to my alley. At least there, I know it to be a place that I felt I belong in more comfortably. I look and see my fingers tremble. They grow moist as my insides roll in fearful worry. A gulp goes down my throat and I try to steady my rapidly increasing breathing. Just do it, two quick raps and then I can return to the safety of the streets. 

           The door creaks open as I finish my thought. Behind it stands a cloaked figure. I am unable to identify their gender right away. The only visible part of their body is a hand that grips the side of the door. It’s white with few wrinkles on the knuckles and one finger has a ring on it. The jewelry’s band is grey, too grey to be made of any metal I recognize. I guess instead it’s stone or even…a shiver trickles through my shoulders. Bone, I think and remember the conversation I heard of a recent influx of graver robbers in the city cemetery. My fear that had just been motivating me to flee has paralyzed me in place. All I can do is look at the individual in front of me. 

           “Welcome,” a voice crackles out from under the cloak. 

           I look at the figure in terrified apprehension. The person must sense my worries because they step toward me. I notice the hand I saw at the door clasp my forearm. It takes all of my will to not leap in fright as a response. Surprisingly, the touch on me is gentle. Comforting almost. 

           “Come farther inside, it’s ghastly cold out there. I have tea if you’d like a warm-up,” I’m told by a voice that grows smoother as the speaker ends their sentence. 

           I am drawn to the sound and the tactile sensation on my body. The figure’s hold loosens, and I find myself longing to follow it and its owner. The rooms appear to grow brighter as I walk further into the building. Each space is exquisitely warm compared to the frosty alley I had been mere moments before. I sigh as the start of relief fills my body. If the tea is as soothing as this physical place, I may die of solace. 

           “Have a seat while I get the tea,” the lilting voice calls from a distance ahead of my pace.

           I follow the instruction and place myself on a velvet and plush settee. As I glance around, my eyes catch sight of the many portraits along one wall. They all appear to be of one woman, but each shows her at slightly different ages as far as I can tell. I keep my gazes over them as subtle as I can until I hear steps approach again. Knowing it’s the figure from before, I avert my eyes from the walls and try to steady myself toward them. Whoever my host is on this night is still wearing the cloak that covers all of their body save for their two hands holding the tea tray. 

           “Thank you so much for your hospitality,” I say as I stand to greet them with respect. 

           The person sits down the tray, “You are most welcome. I could tell you were in need of my help. Please drink, and let that be the start of my assistance to you.” 

           My hand moves with a steadiness that I would have thought unknown to me in my moments of fear before. I pour myself a cup of tea from an ornate kettle that has blood red roses all over it. The cup for my tea has a similar pattern but with less flowers. I sip the tea slowly and the delicious liquid seems to warm my soul. The taste of it is nothing like any other beverage I’ve ever had. An aromatic flavor covers my tongue and it’s lovely without being overpowering. I also detect a hint of spices, possibly brought from the east? I take another sip. Not wanting to be rude in multiple ways, I make sure I’m delicate in doing so and I don’t guzzle it all at once. 

           I replace the cup on the tray and look to see my host gazing at me. At least, I think I’m being watched since the figure that sits opposite me is still cloaked. Now that we’re only inches away from each other, I see the shroud is identical in shade to the flowers on the tea set and I wonder at the coincidence of such things. 

           “Are you finding the tea pleasing?” The covered voice asks me.

           I nod vigorously, manners forgotten. 

           “Good, good. More of it can be available to you as you wish. I have a suspicion you require more than a simple libation such as my tea to help make your life better.”

           I bow my head again, more solemnly this time. The figure mirrors my actions and voices knowing that from the minute they saw me. My head tilts toward that comment. They seem to know so much of me but will I ever be told more about them? The person before me notices my gesture and moves hands to the hood of the cloak surrounding them. In a gentle, stroking push, they move it backward to reveal a woman before me.   

           She is of somewhat advanced age, confirming my guess from before when I saw the wrinkled hand. Her gender is a surprise though. Few women in this neighborhood have the means and permission to live alone with such means as this residence. I’m also in awe of her soft beauty still faintly present among her slight wrinkles. Her hair is a brown that reminds me of oak trees that line the forest in a nearby town. It falls in wavy ringlets below her chin and appears to go on farther than the shoulders that the opening of the cloak reveals. I gaze into her eyes and see a blue that washes over me like the sea before a storm. As I continue to look at her, my mind clicks in connection. She’s indistinguishable from nearly every portrait on the wall. 

           “I can tell you may be having some questions at this time,” her voice is maternal, protective even. “I can promise to answer them, but I first need an agreement from you.”

            I will give you anything. My mind says. I try to remain calm toward my impulsivity in wanting to quickly give my life to a woman I’ve known for the length of a cup of tea. My body turns to face her then. My fascination is overwhelming but I can’t stop staring with near-worship that I remain speechless.  

           “The agreement is required if I am to be able to help you,” she explains. 

My face betrays my confusion because she adds more. 

“Do you give me permission to access your thoughts, memories, emotions, and anything else you’ve experienced that have led you to your current life?” 

I find myself automatically saying my answer in my head. My lips part instinctively. I am more than ready to make my internal thought into an audible comment. As the words form on my tongue, she interrupts me. 

“Please do not answer me too quickly. Once you agree, the existence you will have afterward will be nothing like you have ever had and ever will again.” 

Every fiber of my being is suddenly alert and energy surges through it. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. My blood surges through my veins in conjunction with that rhythm. I look at the tea and my mind starts to cloud with flustered excitement. Did she lace the tee with something? Am I imagining what we’re saying to each other right now? I shake my head and tap my temples but the lively rush inside me doesn’t go away. The woman in front of me also gives me a smile as patience softens her eyes. 

“Yes.” 

After I gave my approval to her, the next hour blurs by. I recall we talked but I still to this day do not remember but scant details from that conversation. I learned years later that people who have had their own first encounter with me recall the same delirious disorientation after it as well. I don’t remember why my mind is so empty about that talk. 

What I do recall now as I share with you this story is the longing I felt afterward. I was so compelled and aching to return to my hostess’s domicile again the next week. My yearning led me to revisit the woman in regular intervals. Within the first sessions that I spent with her, I do remember that I noticed her pallor diminish and the wrinkles on her hands smooth out. My own well-being improves remarkedly over our times together as well. I did eventually piece together my hostess’s secret as well. She informed me of the mutually beneficial results that arrive from our interactions. At first, that is all she told me, and I was left with renewed while still having such an intense and prolonged desire to meet with her more.  

My aching led us to continue our meetings for months that turned into years. Whenever there was an extended period of time between our interactions though, I notice the sallow nature start its return to her cheeks. The paleness would always dissipate by the end of our hour but it’s one of the rare details that has stayed in my memory and awareness to this day. It’s these revelations that helped me realize the subjects of the paintings that lined her walls. They were all here from various days between sessions. Those meetings were either our encounters or ones she had with others who sought her guidance to their well-being. Eventually, my sessions with her involved her telling me of a change that had to occur.

“I think it’s time for you to become aware of the other part of my secret,” she said at the end of that fateful meeting. 

My gaze fell to her hands then. I found preoccupied, practically mesmerized by her ring. She twisted her fingers over it and looked from the item to my face and then back again. I watched her take a few breaths. The action confused me, she never had to steady her nerves or ease them before. I didn’t say anything though.   

“It’s good that you’re already paying attention to that piece of jewelry. It will soon be yours,” she told me before she twisted it again.

That day, she held one of my hands by the wrist while keeping the hand with her ring on my neck. She shared a speech with me that she then asked me to repeat back to her. We went back and forth with the words until I had memorized them, never to forget them as long as I was to use them. Next, she disclosed to me how I would have to follow the strictest protocol for bringing in patients like she did me. 

“Without their acquiescence, you can not proceed further with the work and neither of you can earn the advantages of it. While the patient may be able to grow and develop with another provider, you will suffer without their stories and desires for your influence. Do you understand?”

I gave a shake of my head yes to signal my grasp of what she said. I recalled then and can still see the sight of her on one of the days I met with her just in time for both of us. She was so frail and so weak that day, I could hardly look at her to start the session as she looked so physically close to death. I had never looked so ghastly even in my own survivals of organ-chilling temperatures wearing only scraps for warmth and eating less than specks of food and drops of water for drink. I still could not believe she was alive that day until she told me what it was that fed her survival. It’s what feeds mine now. 

“How will I know what to say or how to offer for help to my patients?” My own voice was soft then too. To me it felt weak, hardly audible. 

           She nodded then, “You will have access to my trust that I have accrued in my centuries of practicing. That should financially supply you with the means to study and learn any technique, intervention, or task that your patients will require as help.”   

Soon after we finished talking, her smile started to fade, and I know I lost any humor to my own facial expressions too. We clasped hands one last time then and she said the final words that produced me to the being I am now. It took weeks for her body to fully disintegrate. She’d told me that’s how our kind dies without access to regular nourishment. What started as wrinkles on her hands and face soon turned to brittle bones that ended in total decimation of her into dust finer than any I have seen in all my decades. I mourned her through every second of those last days before I moved into her apartment. 

I was not able to grieve for more than a few days before I knew I needed to replenish my body’s strength. That meant I had to find my first client. My research while mourning showed me that was a more supportive term for those I would eventually help. The first person I found and brought into my residence was forgettable, I’m ashamed to say. He was a means to an end so that I would be able to survive, carrying on my mistress’s legacy. Over time, I know I helped him, but my heart wasn’t in the work, only my need to stave off my own physical demise. 

You should know that when I’m not been helping clients like him though, my days are absolute torture. My hostess all those years ago did not warn me of such information. Perhaps she thought it would have convinced me to not do the work and choose this existence I’ve had for so long. She would have been right about that. I feel I am betraying her in my decision to end things for myself now too. My days are too difficult to deal with and I can’t stand to enter a third century of feeding myself on tales of trauma, stories of suffering, and so on. 

I thank you for being willing to let me explain all of this. If you’re willing to entertain me and my ramblings a bit more though, I have one more question that I need to ask you.

Do you give me consent to approach your innermost life through thoughts you’ve had, stories you’ve lived, feelings you’ve experienced and anything else that have made up the life you’ve led so far?