Lying On The Couch

by Irvin D. Yalom

Ernest sat down next to her. “Can you talk?” “Too late. No more words. Just hold me.” Ernest took Eva’s hand, but she shook her head. “No, please, just hold me,” she whispered. Ernest sat on the bed and leaned over to hold her but could find no workable position. There was nothing to do but to get on the bed, lie next to her, and put his arms around her. He kept his suit jacket and shoes on and nervously eyed the door, worried that some misunderstanding person would enter. He felt awkward at first and was grateful for the layers between them—sheet, comforter, coverlet, suit jacket. Eva pulled him to her. Gradually his tension dissipated. He loosened up, took off his jacket, pulled back the comforter, and clutched Eva closely. She clutched back. For an instant he felt an unwelcome warm purring inside, the foreshadowing of sexual arousal, but, furious at himself, managed to banish it and to devote himself to hugging Eva in a loving fashion. After a few minutes he asked: “Is this better, Eva?” No answer. Eva’s breathing had become labored. Ernest jumped up from the bed, bent over her, and called out her name. Still no answer. Eva’s sister, hearing his call, rushed into the room. Ernest reached for Eva’s wrist but could feel no pulse. He put his hand on her chest, gently pressing her heavy breast aside, and felt for an apical pulse. Discovering her heartbeat to be thready and wildly irregular, he pronounced: “Ventricular fibrillation. It’s very bad.” The two of them sat vigil ...