I suppose it was inevitable that my analyst would start advertising.  It’s everywhere now.  On Web sites, of course.  In movies before the show, as they’ve been doing for years in England.  Even on NPR.

The first time he did it was a shock, though.

I lie on the couch for our fifty-minute session, and Doctor (that’s what I call him inside, just plain “Doctor”) signals the end of a session by leaning forward slightly and giving a creamy little grunt.

It’s a subtle marker, but I’ve learned to listen for it the way you learn to listen for your childrens’ distress sounds at night.  The creak of the chair as he leans forward, and then the grunt.

Maybe it never was a grunt.  Maybe he was always saying something, something mumbled like “our time is up” or “we have to stop”.  But I had heard it for all the years of our psychoanalysis as just a sound.

And then one day he creaked forward as usual, except, instead of the grunt, he cleared his throat, and said, “This session was made possible in part by the generous support of Blue Shield of California.”

I was completely taken aback.  But, good patient that I am, I didn’t say anything back except my usual formula: “Take care”.

But I was thunderstruck.  Had I heard him correctly?  Why had he said that?  What did it mean?

At our next session he said it again, this time at the beginning, right after I had settled on the couch.

“This session is presented in part by a grant from Pfizer, maker of the Zoloft brand of sertraline HCL.”

Doctor’s remarks are always somewhat uninflected and neutral, as was this.  I was torn between sitting up and whirling around to face him or continuing with the normal session on the couch.  I chose the latter.

“Your style is coming to resemble the ads on NPR,” I said sarcastically, not really expecting a reply.

“As you know,” he replied, “your fees only pay for a part of the cost of each session.”

“That’s right, guilt-trip me,” I said.  “I’m used to it.”

“Sponsors are tired of hiding their light under a bushel,” he said.  “Besides, it’s a good time to reach you.  They have your complete attention and you’re not going anywhere.”

What was I supposed to do, stop the analysis?  I derive a great deal of benefit from my hours with Doctor.  Was I supposed to throw it away because of a few extraneous words which both he and I weren’t going to take seriously?

And so it went.  Brief “messages” at the beginning and end of each session.  I guess we’re all pretty used to the notion of being advertised to.  I just kind of tuned it out after a while.

Which maybe led to the escalation.  I was reporting a dream, and scary one, where I watched with horror as my baby daughter was swept over a huge waterfall.

“I felt as if I’d been run over with a steamroller,” I said to Doctor.  “The dream was really vivid.”

“Vacations at Club Med mean you can be sure your children are safe… even when you’re on your own,” he said.

It went on like this.  You can imagine the effect these ads had on me, on my confidence in Doctor, on my visceral feeling that he was on my side.

And then it came time for Doctor’s vacation.

You may have heard the canard that all Doctors take their vacation in August.  And you may have heard that they do so because that’s when Freud took his vacation.

I’ve heard both of those things.  I don’t know whether or not they’re true.

But Doctor takes his vacation whenever he damn well feels like.  Or whenever Mrs. Doctor damn well feels like.  Whoever wears the vacation pants in the Doctor family, it’s a different vacation time every year.  It’s always a surprise.

Except that this year, of course, there was a banner ad along with the announcement.

“I’ll be out of the office from May 1 to May 25,” he said.

“Holiday made possible in part by Travelocity?” I said helpfully.

I couldn’t see his facial expression, but he didn’t say anything to this remark.  And so we parted for the annual hiatus without clearing the air about advertising.

While he was gone I did some hard thinking about the analysis and where it was going.

“Hard thinking” when Doctor is away usually translates to wanting to terminate the analysis.  Oddly, this time I didn’t want to quit.  I just wanted to get rid of the advertising.