“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(Peggy and I had a couple of hurried conversations this afternoon, concerning Jane’s condition, and before leaving Peggy had her say to Jane as we sat at the card table. I can tell that she’s appalled at my wife’s condition, and said outright that she’s not doing Jane any good at all any more. She wants me to call Dr. Kardon to come to the house to examine Jane, saying we owe it to Dr. K., who couldn’t know the extent of Jane’s symptoms these days. “She deserves to be informed.” Of course. I told Peggy I’d think it over, and we’ll probably make a decision this weekend. The only thing that’s stopping me at the moment is Seth’s latest comments on the bedsores clearing themselves up automatically as Jane releases inner motion. This may be a case of pure wishful thinking, for I don’t understand how the sores can possibly heal themselves without outside help—possibly even surgery—of some sort.

Now: we will see what we can do with what we have. (Glasses off.)

What he needs immediately at this point—which you have already been providing—are “bandages” of honest affection—for these help allay some of the original childhood panic, which rises in different form. He does seem to have it well within his head, however, that the time to change is now, and he is determined to do so. Some of the old panic is also threatened, of course, and hence shows itself in altered form at different times. Do remember this. Again, take a very brief break, and I will continue.

(8:58. “Me. I don’t know what to do. I just want to put my head up. I’m scared, though....”

(“You’re doing better,” I said. Jane hasn’t been able to cry, although I have the definite feeling that she’d like to.

(9:07. Jane still spoke for Seth with her head down for the most part. Voice strong but muffled, eyes usually closed. “I found your face,” she said then, staring at me straight on. “I wanted to hold my head up—do something—because I’m so scared.” I helped her lean back against the pillow in her chair.

(9:10.) This will be an entirely therapeutic occasion, so do bear with me. I will return again therefore very shortly.

(“It’s okay to scream,” I said. “The idea of doing it would scare anybody.”

(9:20. “I’m going to have to start crying, or do something.... I don’t know what to do. I hope he gave you instructions.”

(“Because I’m going to have to let go or do something pretty quick.... Boy, am I scared.” Jane said this often. I rubbed her back low down on her spine. She was very restless. I wasn’t sure whether or not she’d let the tears come through. “I’ve got to put myself out, like I did the other night,” she said at 9:28. I wasn’t sure of what she meant by that. But it seemed that now she would try to shut off the crying, or sidetrack it, at this time. The charge, built up and/or saved since childhood, must be terrific. Ordinarily the crying would hurt me, but now, this time, I really wanted her to let it come through.

(9:30. “I’ll have to try something different now,” she said. “Try to think of something.... I’ve got to get up some—I know that—change position or something. You can help me there.” She kept repeating this until I grew irritated: “How in hell am I going to help you change position? You can’t move.” Finally, I pulled her cushion back in her chair as she sat on it. I do this occasionally. The movement, less than half an inch, I’d say, did change physical relationships of body to chair. Jane sat quietly, head down, eyes closed.

(I didn’t really know what to do for her. “If I don’t make it, I’m going to die,” Jane burst out. “And I want to make it—I don’t want to die....”

(“Where you are,” she said cryptically. I thought she might be getting ready to erupt, but instead she sat finally with her face almost down to the tabletop. Then: “I’m safe here in the chair, but I’ve got to get back over there somehow.” She meant leaning to her left. But she was very restless. “All right, I’ll see what I can do this time.... I do it every morning—I’ll try to do it now,” she said, restlessly shifting from side to side in the chair. More and more I was concerned about getting her off her ass and into bed, but I was afraid to mention it yet. I turned off the television’s sound.

(10:06. “You’ve got to help me somehow. I don’t care what you do....”

(Yet, five minutes later she was objecting when, in answer to her question about whether I had any suggestions, I repeated my goal to get her into bed. “Yes, I’ve got something to suggest—that you get off your ass and give your poor, poor body a rest,” I said, with some heat. “You can’t abuse the house you live in like that—your feet and legs are terribly swollen. What gives you the right to do that to your body?”