What It’s Like to be Contacted By Dr. Phil
Not Just Once, But Twice. . .
Every now and then I like to watch Dr. Phil. He’s not a constant in my life, but he’s interesting. And sometimes he’s right on.
We’re about the same age, so our value systems are similar. I can tell because for him it’s all about a good education/vocation, a long-term marriage, children who come first yet have been raised with discipline, and a sense of kinship with fellow human beings, even fairly depleted ones. Dr. Phil has strong ideals. You can’t help but admire him. He’s a lesson-giver, a second-chance champion, a firm believer in repetition and not straying too far from form. He gives advice in whimsical references: “That dog just ain’t goin’ to hunt anymore,” being my favorite.
I guess I’d call him a cross between the down-home cautions of TV detective Barnaby Jones and the strong American authorship of Mark Twain. In short, Phil McGraw has integrity, lots of it. His prime time daily TV show has captivated a nation. . . and maybe even more so during this pandemic. It’s like once every 24 hours, if you tune in, you remember why you’re on this earth. And thus you remember Phil McGraw when things get rough. Because he just might be there for you.
Funny thing is, he was for me. And it was literally all in the space of one afternoon. I wrote him a short letter on his website sometime in the summer of 2017, I believe. Never even kept a copy of the note. . . but it was furtive. Something like: “I’m listing all the bad things that have happened in the last five years and what I did about them.” 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 — — short stanzas about cancer and love, death and writing, losing it and flailing, then starting at scratch all over again. I told him I’d had a mastectomy and would never wear another bra the rest of my life, but that was peanuts compared to our daughter’s breast cancer that had taken her at the age of 28, that my husband had lost track of “us,” that my life was a series of pushes and pulls of endless demands. I didn’t even mention the most spine-tingling thing of all — that I’d written of a pandemic, a small book of speculative fiction published in 2010, not as a predictor of times ahead but as a story of people estranged from normal life. Right then, I had no idea that it would ever really amount to anything in comparison with the rest of my life. Little did I know.
Within two hours of hitting the send button on that email, I heard from a young editor who asked if I and my husband would like to appear as guests on the Dr. Phil Show. Yup, that fast — -a return email both kind and alluring. “We will do some pre-work with you, verify this and that, then set up accommodations here (L.A.) to bring you to our audience.” The only caveat: “You and your husband must both come.” Well, I knew that wouldn’t work. He wasn’t with me on this venture, at all. And that same afternoon I turned down the offer.
But that wasn’t the end of Dr. Phil. Several months later I was sitting at a restaurant one afternoon with a girlfriend. My cell phone rang, and it was that same sweet-voiced editor calling me, asking if I’d changed my mind about coming to the show. I said I was still willing. . . but my husband wasn’t and wouldn’t — — ever. She told me they would remain interested if we ever changed our minds. I reassured her this wasn’t just his refusal that prevented our attending. This was our good fortune. We had worked together to solve our own problems and we were well on our way. She wished me luck.
What’s interesting is I’ve contacted Dr. Phil’s website a few more times since this pandemic began, writing of my past invitation from him and inability to follow through. That things had turned out positively between my husband and I, that we were still together, but even more we had sought our own way through the knothole we were in. I had written a book about a pandemic, I told him. And I felt I might have something to say about life, both before and during such an event, as both a survivor and a writer of a planet’s viral attack. But nothing came of it, not even a peep.
I still watch and still admire Dr. Phil. He’s busy. . . way too busy for me. But what I’ve ascertained, more than anything, is like so many others linked with heavy media presence and the demand for dramatic output, he lost interest once I made it known I had solved my own problems. The news didn’t interest him because it didn’t fit the narrative. The book didn’t interest him because, by that time, everybody had jumped on the pandemic bandwagon. I wasn’t the big squeaky wheel in either camp. It wasn’t about him and his saving graces. It was about me and my quiet, unprovoked step-by-step motions toward overcoming several hard spots in my life. I’d done a Phil McGraw on myself.
Pandemic mentality hasn’t prepared us for what’s ahead. We insist on feeding the gaping maw of self-promotion, many of us. But there are a few who don’t let the bright lights lure them in. They are to be admired because they’re the ones who get the work done, often alone or two-by-two with someone they trust. May they continue. Even Dr. Phil may one day find he can’t keep up without his wife, one of his children or another year’s contract in front of him. He’s reassured me, over and over, it’s all about self-reliance and the low lights of everyday love. That dog still hunts for us all.
