ABSTRACT
Suddenly, I was caught unprepared. This 78-year-old man, Leo, was asking me to listen to his stories from the Holocaust – “and this one I haven’t yet told anyone.” It was a special busy day before Passover, and I asked him to come one week later, at the end of the day so I would be able to give him my full attention. I had prescribed Seroxat for him one month previously as I had been doing for the last 10 years around this time of year. Every year, the approaching Holocaust Memorial Day put him in a bad mood and upset and irritated him; two months later he would return to his natural way of being and stop the medication by himself. But this year it was different. He didn’t keep his eyes on me, always looking down. Something was wrong, so I had proposed to him that I would be his listener. One week has passed and here he was.
