“Thank you. We’re wrapping up now,” Dr. Sheila responds. A hiss embraces the conclusion of her remark, emphasizing an irritation. I wonder if Dr. Sheila doesn’t have a high tolerance for assistants, or if the woman isn’t doing her job well.
“I didn’t realize the time was past twelve,” I offer as an apology even though Dr. Sheila was the one speaking most.
This is only the first time I’ve met Dr. Sheila, so I’m not sure I have her figured out just yet. She seems nice enough, but I have the sense she’s all work and not much play. However, if I hadn’t already spoken to her, I might guess she’s a stick in the mud by the sheen bouncing off her glossy hair, held in with a tight knot on the top of her head. Plus, her frameless glasses, and neutral pallet of a complexion don’t offer her a fun and friendly appearance. I suppose I shouldn’t be one to judge since it’s her job to appear perfect, like nothing in her life would give her cause to be in my seat versus hers. I know it’s a myth, though because even doctors need psychiatric help sometimes.
“It’s all right. We can check in next month around this time, but if you encounter any side-effects or new symptoms before then, please call.”
Dr. Sheila tears the paper from the stack and places it down on the desk in front of me. “Thank you,” I reply, reaching for the prescription.
The brief moments of our exchange feel worthless, like I’m just another patient and this is just her job. I want to tell her how lucky she is to leave behind all these problems at the end of the night. How she can forget about everyone’s troubles. However, despite Dr. Sheila’s cold front, I wonder if she shuts her day out that way. Although, it seems like it at this moment since she can’t seem to make eye contact.
I slip the paper into my bag and show myself out, striding as if in a trance. I don’t know if I understand the irony of someone flushing narcotics through my body without hope of finding a solution. I’m not sure the pause button has the same effect on life as it does when watching a video or listening to a
song. The inevitable is still there and part of me wonders if it will be easier once I reach that dark serenity.
The clouds are overbearing today, casting a chill in the late summer warmth. I locate the black Grand Cherokee with the fog lights highlighting the thick air. Mr. H perks up when he spots me walking toward the car and hops out to greet me as if I have a broken leg.
“What did she say?” he asks, hope filling his eyes just as it has every time I meet with a new doctor. I wish he wouldn’t sound so excited to find out what happened. I’ve trained myself to ignore his optimism because I’ve worked hard to adjust my state of mind and to accept what is, knowing there is no good solution.
I reach into my purse and pull out the prescription she gave me. “Here,” I offer with a sigh, handing it to him. “This is the solution given by the ‘infamous’ Dr. Sheila.”
Mr. H glances down at the chicken scratch and shakes his head. “What is so difficult about alternative medicine? I thought that was Dr. Sheila’s specialty? Did you press her for more advice?” I get it. He’s distraught. It’s because he feels hope.
It’s not that I don’t have hope, I’m just a realist. I’d rather not lie to myself.
“There are no other options,” I repeat Dr. Sheila’s words, verbatim.
“Yeah, well, I would have had choice words for her in response,” he says.
“That’s why I asked you to stay in the Jeep,” I explain him with a lifted eyebrow and a slight arch to my lip.
“No more, Dani. I’m coming into these appointments with you. Maybe you’re ready to accept all this, but I’m not. I will fight for you!”
“There’s nothing to fight for,” I argue, heading for the passenger side of the Jeep.
Mr. H snags my arm as I walk past him and he pulls me into his chest, clasping my head against his ribcage. “Do you hear this sound?”
His heart is racing. It’s pounding. “Yes.”
“That’s because of you. It’s always been because of you and I won’t let anything come between us.”
“This is why I’m with you, Mr. H. This is why I fell in love with you.” He has an uncontrollable need to love, and I’ve needed to be the recipient. It has saved me so many times, and I’ve wanted to believe it might be the one thing that always saves me.
“Don’t call me Mr. H right now. It’s not funny anymore.”
“It’s funny to me, so let me have my funny right now.”
What isn’t funny … is that no amount of love in the world can save me from losing my mind.
* * *