Editor’s note: Alison Gilbert is a journalist and the author and co-author of six books, including, with Dr. Ruth K. Westheimer and Pierre Leff, “The Joy of Connection: 100 Ways to Beat Loneliness and Live a Happier, More Meaningful Life,” due to be published September 3. The opinions expressed in this editorial are Gilbert’s own. Read more at CNN.
CNN
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Dr. Ruth Westheimer, the pioneering sex therapist who was named an honorary New York City Ambassador for Loneliness last year, died on Friday at age 96. The historic appointment, which Dr. Westheimer broke political convention to secure, was the culmination of a lifetime of making something out of nothing, including having a family of her own. After her parents were killed by the Nazis during the Holocaust, she said, “I had an obligation to leave something behind in the world.”
Elena Seibert
Alison Gilbert
And she made a difference. In her early fifties, Dr. Westheimer (known as Dr. Ruth) was the first therapist to use the mass media to educate adults and hormonally active teenagers about sex. For more than four decades, she spoke confidently to radio and television audiences about orgasms, premature ejaculation, and sexually transmitted diseases, without mincing words. She singlehandedly made it acceptable for millions of people to talk openly about topics that had previously been limited to bedside talk. “You changed sex in America,” comedian Jerry Seinfeld joked as a guest on “The Dr. Ruth Show,” three years before “Seinfeld” first aired. “Sex is like a sport now. Now people wear uniforms for the games.”
When Dr. Westheimer began her radio show, Sexual Speaking, in 1980, it was a pre-recorded 15-minute program that aired just after midnight on Sundays, and aired only on WYNY-FM in New York City. A year later, the famously impatient and ambitious therapist petitioned the Director of Community Affairs for permission to expand the show to a live hour-long program and take phone calls from listeners. The answer was yes, yes, yes. Then, three years later, Dr. Westheimer pushed again, this time to make the show national. “If you want me, we’ll make it national,” she told another boss. “If not, I’ll go somewhere else.”
Dr. Westheimer’s show was soon broadcast on more than 90 radio stations across the country. She brought her frank sex talk to the radio. She wrote a popular syndicated newspaper column, and her first book, “Dr. Ruth’s Guide to Good Sex,” was published in 1983, followed by dozens of other books, including “First Love,” “Dr. Ruth’s Guide for Married People” and “Dr. Ruth’s Guide to Safer Sex.” She worked tirelessly to reach new audiences, and successfully expanded her fan base to television with shows like “The Dr. Ruth Show,” “The New Dr. Ruth Show” and “You’re on the Air with Ruth.” At a petite 4′ 7″, she became a mega-celebrity.
“She had a gift for speaking frankly and openly, making people feel safe and vulnerable,” recalls Peggy Orenstein, author of the New York Times bestselling books “Boys & Sex” and “Girls & Sex.” “And because she wasn’t a bombshell or overtly sexy (no disrespect to Dr. Ruth), she communicated that we all have the right and the potential to have a satisfying sex life, regardless of age, body type, gender or appearance. There’s no one like her.”
Debbie Herbenick, director of the Center for Sexual Health Promotion at Indiana University, writes, “Countless of us have been called ‘the next Dr. Ruth’ at various times, but of course there is only one Dr. Ruth. She was an extraordinary human being who cared not only about sex but also about ethics, relationships, intimacy and peace.”
Carol Queen, founding director of the San Francisco Sex and Culture Center and author of several books on sex and sexuality, including “The Book of Sex and Pleasure,” recalls Dr. Westheimer’s early and strong support for gay rights. “During a very tense decade in the 1980s, when the AIDS scare gripped most Americans, Dr. Ruth did the most reassuring thing by talking compassionately about sex, of all kinds,” Queen said. At the time of the AIDS epidemic, anti-LGBTQ sentiment was rampant, but Dr. Westheimer said, “Let’s raise awareness and find a cure.”
Born Carola Ruth Siegel, Dr. Westheimer last saw her parents at age 10 while living in Frankfurt, Germany. Hitler was on the run, and as an only child, she escaped alone on a Kindertransport train with other German Jewish children in 1939. She was placed in an orphanage in Heiden, Switzerland, where she remained until the end of the war.
With so many orphaned children living under the same roof, they eventually came to rely on each other like siblings. Dr. Westheimer tried to keep in touch with these friends throughout her life. According to the doctor, their “common experiences” bound them together forever. She kept in touch with her first boyfriend in Switzerland, Walter, for over 80 years. When they met, she was still using her real name, so he continued to call her “Corolla” whenever they spoke on the phone or met in person for decades. Reflecting on their enduring connection, Walter wrote in an email on Saturday about her friend’s death, “I knew it had happened. I felt it.” Throughout her life, she gathered dozens of people who were substitutes for family like Walter, each of whom helped her to calm down and move forward.
Dr. Westheimer went on to marry three times, give birth to two children, raise four grandchildren, and amass a jewel of a collection of friends: neighbors, co-workers, publicists, lawyers, accountants. Once drawn into her web of charm, people were caught willingly. She worked hard to forge these connections. With dedication and purpose, she cherished these friendships and molded them into relationships that lasted across distance and time. “I don’t just consider myself a good friend, I consider myself the best friend,” she once told me with a laugh. “I’m like the best friend anyone could have!”
When Dr. Westheimer had a mild stroke last year, her daughter emailed a few people, including me, with updates on her health. I thought my inclusion was perfunctory. Dr. Westheimer and I had just begun to get to know each other when I was covering my appointment as New York State’s Ambassador for Loneliness. Unlike the other relatives and friends on the list, I assumed our email correspondence was because we were writing a book together at the time. After all, I was her co-author and her business partner.
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That was a false belief. Our relationship was changing, but the change was so gradual and intangible that I still didn’t realize it.
During her brief stay in the hospital, Dr. Westheimer invited me to visit. A few weeks later, long after she had been released from the hospital, we celebrated my birthday with vanilla cupcakes. Then, a few months after that, she invited me to an intimate 96th birthday party with friends and family. That night, perhaps during a toast or dinner, I sat in a plush chair, enjoying the celebration, smiling, feeling so blessed to have been invited. Something magical happened. Without much fanfare, Dr. Westheimer decided to include me in her chosen family.
