I was granted early release from my job at the hospital last month, which should have been cause for a celebration. But it was gloomy and frigid outside, a rain-snow mix was inhibiting my ability to see a few feet in front of me as I drove along the thoroughfare, and I had a 3:30 pm appointment with my psychiatrist that I had to keep.
It was practically empty inside of behavioral health first floor waiting room that afternoon, save for the two women who sat behind the counter and a harried looking young man who was getting checked in by the younger of the two attendants. The bespectacled, middle aged woman with short curly hair was sitting on the left side, typing something into the computer. Her eyes trailed upward until she saw my face, and she beckoned me forward with a wave of her hand. I smiled and stepped forward, my coat, hat, and glasses drenched from the inclement weather. After confirming my appointment with the attendant I was greeted with a pleasant surprise.
“There will be no charge for this appointment today,” she said. “We just need your card.”
“Oh, really? I said, surprised. I reached into my front pocket, grabbed my ten year old brown leather wallet, flipped it open, pulled out my medical identification card, and passed the card across the counter for the clerical person to take. “It’s usually twenty-five dollars every time I come here. “
“Well then,” she said as she accepted my medical identification card, “It’s a good day for you.”
I broke into a smile. “I guess it is. It would be even better if this weather wasn’t so bad. The skies are dumping snow on the ground.”
“That’s Colorado. What are you going to do?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, what are you going do?”
She handed my card back to me, and I stuffed it back into my wallet.
“Second floor, right?” I said.
“That’s right,” she responded. “But first, we’re going to need you to fill out a survey before you see the doc.”
And then she passed what looked like an Apple ipad across the counter.
I raised an eyebrow while receiving the device from her with both of my hands. I surveyed it for a few seconds and then looked to the clerical person.
“This is new,” I said. “When did you guys start doing this?”
“We’ve been doing it for a while. It just seems new since we haven’t seen you for over a year. You need help with it?”
“Nope,” I said. “I think I’m good. Thanks. I’ll finish this and then go upstairs.”
As I anticipated my psychiatrist’s imminent arrival to the second floor waiting room, an older blond woman rushed in from the stairs. She too wore glasses and a blue coat, her hair was stringy and her face was wrinkled. I knew that she must be a patient because she acted as if she was having some sort of a panic attack. A thought entered into my mind just then: Has she come to see my psychiatrist? Because if she has then I would let her take my place.
The door which opened to the dark corridor is located on the other side of the waiting room. Two minutes before the prescribed start of my appointment, someone turned the doorknob. I looked up from my cellular phone and saw my psychiatrist step through the doorway. I sighed.
“Eze?” she said.
“Yep?” I replied.
“Come on back.”
I stuffed my cellphone into my pants pocket and pushed my two-hundred fifty pound self from the chair. Two-hundred fifty pounds, I thought. She’s not going to like that. Eager to get the appointment over with, I scurried over in the direction of the doorway. My psychiatrist extended her right hand and smiled. “How are you doing?”
I reached out my right hand, and took her hand into mine. “I’m doing well. I’m doing real well.”
She maintained a brisk pace while walking down the dark corridor, encompassing the length of two normal human strides with one of her own. Her arms and legs were long and fluid, and she was tall. I’d guessed she was about six-feet two inches with the shoes she was wearing. I struggled to keep up with her pace.
Once inside Dr. Lacy’s office, I decided that I was going to keep wearing my coat, hat, and glasses. Because I knew that I wasn’t going to be here for very long. I turned to look at the beige couch that had been built too low to the ground, stepped in front of it, and carefully lowered myself down onto one of the cushions.
Dr. Lacy kept the lights off in her office, but her window shades were kept open, which allowed in the natural light. Dr. Lacy’s face was illuminated by the light, and while looking up at her, I couldn’t help but to make the comparison: How had Dr. Lacy changed in between January, 2015 and November, 2019? She’d had a baby recently, however she was still rail thin, which was no surprise to me. Dr. Lacy was somewhat fanatic about exercising regularly and maintaining a healthy diet.
Her face had changed though — a lot. There were groves encircling the area around her mouth, and crow’s feet sprouting in all directions. There were some equidistant dark blotches located on both sides of her nose. The iridescent light in her eyes had dimmed, a common predicament for all experienced practitioners of medicine. All that said, she was still young, vibrant, stylish, tenacious, and attractive.
“So what’s going on with you Eze?” she asked.
“Everything is really good,” I replied. “I’m settling into my routine now. I’m still taking my medications every single day. Work is good. Everything is real peaceful at the house too, which I really love.”
“That’s really, really, great. I need to ask about the medications though. Are there any side effects that I should know about? Or are things still the same?”
“Nah, things are the same. I’ve gotten used to them, so nothing new to report.”
“All right.” She swung her swivel chair until she was staring at my EMR (Electronic Medical Record) on her computer screen. “I see that you’ve had your annual wellness check with Doctor Green. Let’s take a look at your vitals.”
My heart began thumping as I leaned forward. “Sure.”
“Your vitals look really good. Perfect actually. But your weight though? You’re two-hundred fifty pounds, Eze. That’s a bit over the top.”
“I know. I know. Doctor Green is concerned too. Can I just say that it’s not all fat, and that I am working out? And I haven’t gained much weight since last year.”
She turned to face me. “How many days a week do you work out?”
“Two to three days per week. Cardio and weights.”
“Are you running? A consistent running routine is what will help you lose the most weight.”
“Yeah. I am, along with the body pump class, which combines weights and cardio!”
“Okay, but I’ve done body pump. It’s not the best cardio workout.”
Maybe it’s because you don’t use as much weight as I do?
“I know that I can lose a few. How about I make losing ten pounds my New Year’s resolution?”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
I sighed. “Now everyday I’m going to see your face when I’m exercising.”
She laughed.
“How is your mom?” she asked.
“She’s good. She’s still on me about getting married, of course.”
“And how is that going?”
“What?”
“Finding a significant other?”
“Nothing to report, I’m afraid,” I said. “But I’ve assured my mother that I am still looking.”
“What about the rest of your family? Any luck for them?”
I folded my arms against my chest. “I don’t really ask. If there is someone, they’ll let me know when it is the right time. Meanwhile, I’m going to keep on searching for that special individual.”
“Remember to go at your own pace.”
“I know.”
She turned to face her computer once again and began typing. “Well,” she said, “I’m going to order your medications for the next year.”
“All right.”
After ordering my medication, Dr. Lacy arose from her chair and walked toward the door. My appointment with Dr. Lacy had been scheduled for thirty minutes. We were done with each other in less than fifteen. I’d estimated that five of those fifteen minutes was spent talking about issues related with my bipolar depression, which is a very good thing.
We engaged in more small talk as we walked along the dark corridor to the door that opened to the waiting room.
“Thanks again for all of your help,” I said.
“It’s no problem and it’s my pleasure,” she said. “Give yourself credit for doing a lot of work. You’re definitely my best patient.”
And just then, my mind traveled back to a distinct time period: October, 2013, when my dad was lying in the hospital bed dying of cancer. The certified nursing assistant who’d been caring for my father offered a compliment as he exited the hospital room. “Your father is the best patient that I’ve worked with”. My father died from cancer and kidney disease less than a month later.
“Thanks,” I said.
When we’d reached the waiting room door, she reached for the knob, twisted, and pulled the door open, and light from the waiting room flooded into the dark corridor. I stepped forward into the light.
“Don’t forget to set up your next appointment,” she said. “Keep up the good work.”
I wheeled my head around until I was facing her. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll see you next year.”
As I walked across the waiting room, I was struck by another thought: During my second session with Dr. Lacy in 2015, she’d said that I was frozen in place when I’d met her for the first time, tortured over when it was the right time for me to speak, breathe, or step forward in any direction. Well, I’ve moved beyond that point and am ready to advance further, and make a change.
I’m like Magic Johnson with HIV. I know that the illness is always lurking beneath the surface, but it’s contained now that I am consistent with my medications, enjoying a stable job, and writing every single day. If I’m Dr. Lacy’s best mental patient, then perhaps it’s time for our relationship to end, or at least drastically morph into another stage. I think that I will thank her the next time I see her and ask if we can place a hold on our sessions — I’d only need her to prescribe the medications — and ask if she can refer me to a therapist, or a life coach of some kind.
I hope she takes it well.
Friends. Support my writing on medium.com and give me as many claps as you can(look for the hands on the left side of the story and click, click, click. It’s completely free. The more applause and followers I get, the more money I make. Here is the link: medium.com/...