The address was in an upscale part of Pittsburgh called Shadyside, where the yuppies liked to live. The psychiatrist’s office adjoined his home. I sat in the small waiting room, reading an old National Geographic, until his last patient emerged from behind the closed door. She was clutching a tissue in her hand. When she saw me, she must have assumed I was another patient because she gave me a faint, heartsick smile. Dr. Soderberg extended his hand. He was a thin, long-limbed man in his fifties whose face revealed nothing except weariness.

“So here you are, Mr. Truell,” he said, leading me into his sitting room. There were two easy chairs and a couch. His chair had a small footrest in front of it. He motioned for me to sit in the other chair. “Perhaps now you can tell me what is on your mind.”

“I want to ask you about Senator Abelard.”

There was a barely perceptible tremor on his face, at the edges of his eyes and mouth. It was almost as if he had winced, with physical pain. “And what would you like to ask me about Senator Abelard?”

“About his treatment.” It was hard to say it, but not so hard that the words didn’t come. “I have been told that you treated him for depression. I have been told that he was hospitalized in 1982 at the Sewickley Institute. I have been told that he continues to take medication for depression.”

Dr. Soderberg shook his head. He looked so profoundly disappointed in me, in my newspaper, in a world in which we could exist. “Why are you asking me these questions? You know I cannot answer.”

“Because Senator Abelard is running for president,” I said. The psychiatrist had probably heard every rationalization and self-delusion there was, but I offered him mine. “In choosing to run for president, Senator Abelard has invited scrutiny from the news media. The public has a right to know about the medical history of someone who wants to be president. Those are the rules of the game.”

“Get out of my office,” the psychiatrist said.

I rose from my chair. He wasn’t kidding. I had one last shot. Now it was my turn to shake my head sadly, just as he had a few moments before.

“Dr. Soderberg, you know far better than I do that depression is an illness, which can be treated. I have to tell our readers about Senator Abelard’s treatment for depression, just as I would have to report about a cancer operation or heart bypass surgery. It’s part of his record, not a horrible secret to be concealed or lied about. Honestly, Doctor, your refusal to talk with me only reinforces the shame and stigmatization that surrounds mental illness. I think that’s wrong.”

He looked at me and blinked. He wanted to believe that I was sincere.