There was more. A man called and said his wife had locked herself in the bathroom with a gun and was about to shoot herself. By the time I arrived, he had talked her out of the bathroom and into bed. I sat on the edge of the bed, and she held on to me so tightly it hurt. She told me I was her only link to life. Now who was I? This identity question got murkier and a bit frightening. I really didn’t didn’t want that kind of responsibility. I began to intensely dislike the identity question.