Against my better judgment, I climb through the brush into the dark tunnel, of leaves and perhaps a furry woodland creature or two, after my client who is already 30 yards away. She is fast, almost too fast for someone suffering from whole body arthritis. I follow her voice to a clearing looking down upon a small creek. Theres a rock about the size of a child-size bean bag chair and my client motions for me to sit on the other half of the rock...patting it and smiling. The rock, you should know, is at the bottom of a steep slope and with one wrong step I would be taking not-so-elegant swan dive into this magical frickin creek. The rock, you should also know, has as much sitting surface a small decorative couch pillow--half of which, is now taken up by my petite client's ass. My ass, on the contrary, is not as petite. Needless to say, I make my way down to the rock and ever so gently balance my one cheek on the stone while using all of the muscles in my lower body to keep me from rolling off of it down to my watery demise in the creek.
We are now back to back, as there is limited room on the rock, and I'm holding the tape recorder up by my shoulder to catch what she's saying. She's been going on this whole time about the stress management techniques she's been using and how Clark dropped in this week to get his life together after AA. I have to admit, the forest was quite lovely. The air smelled clean and the light was soft as it broke through the leaves. We sat there for some time and talked. Things were fine until Ms. G mentioned seeing bobcats and mountain lions in the area. I shot up as if I sat on a tack, nearly tumbling into the water below. "You're kidding right?" I ask, nervously. "Nope. I most certainly am not, " she responds with a smirk on her face. "Oh, uh. I see. Um." This is all on tape, mind you. "Shall we start heading back?" I ask trying to hide my panic. I don't like not having control over my environment when working with clients. That's the luxury of having an office where clients come to you for sessions.
We headed back to the homestead, over the river and through the woods. Ms. G's husband and Clark were standing outside and waved at us. "We're just about to go shootin'" Clark yucks. Ms. G and I go inside, I go into the den where we have our sessions and she goes to the bathroom. As I'm sitting there, getting my things together, Ms. G's husband comes in, "Just getting my kit and things. I'll be out of your way before you know it." He's rummaging in a closet and swings around with what looks like a tackle box in one hand and a long, dark rifle in the other. I gasp. He has progressive Alzheimer's and he's holding a rifle about three feet away from me. He smiles and leaves the room. I, on the other hand, sat there frozen. I start to breathe when Ms. G comes back to the room and sits brightly next to me, under the bust of a stuffed deer with large, kind eyes. I'm still in a state of shock as we wrap up our bizarre session--bizarre to me, not Ms. G.