She didn’t get it. I could tell. And she looked pissed.
“I mean….it’s so nice outside,” I said as I pointed to the thunderstorm. “Warm, I mean. Little early for snowflakes, don’cha think?” I tried to chuckle it off.
She closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. She was not having me.
“There you go,” Sunshine said as she handed over my coffee. “Merry Christmas!”
A few minutes later, I was sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Emily Prince. There were a lot of forms to fill out, and I happily checked the “no” box off the list of physical and mental illnesses suffered by myself or a family member. Us Poles are a healthy breed, I guess.
But suddenly I felt nervous. I was about to lay myself bare to a trained professional. Well, not bare. I was really just looking for career advice. But it’s like the body---everything’s connected.
I tried to assure myself that as a mental health professional, she’d probably heard it all. Schizophrenics, bi-polars, obsessive-compulsives, murderers, suicide attempts, people who liked eating their own feces----really wacky stuff. In all her years of therapy, surely someone like me with career difficulties would be a piece of cake. Easiest job of her day. Like a gynecologist explaining recent symptoms to a patient by uttering the words, “You’re pregnant.” In fact, easier---as I certainly wouldn’t need nine months of pre-natal care.
Nevertheless, I was about to completely hand over my life to an experienced, well-trained professional who would be my comfort, my support, my guide, and my everything for as long as I needed----or until my insurance ran out.
“Yo!---you gotta tell me when I have a six o’clock. Damn!” a small Dominican woman who didn’t look a day over twenty-five yelled down the hall.
“Eugh!” she groaned as she took off her red leather coat to reveal a flashy, purple dress, fishnet stockings and black fuck-me pumps.
“I’m sorry,” she said, whipping her leather coat over her tattooed arm. “I’m Dr. Prince. I’ll be right with you.”
5
“So, just have a seat on the couch,” Dr. Prince said in a thick Bronx accent.
I looked around for the couch. But all I saw was a futon.
“Here?” I asked, hoping she would point me towards a nicer couch.
“Yeah, yeah. Have a seat.”
“Oh…” I said uncomfortably; trying to make conversation. “It’s a futon. Wow. I had one of these in college.”
“I’ve had that one since my freshman year. Good times. Good times.”
Being a creative person, my head immediately began visualizing “good times”.
“Maybe that chair would be more comfortable,” I offered.
“Yo!---it’s not like I didn’t wash it,” she snapped. “Oh, sorry---are you here for like some O.C.D. shit or something?”
“No. I guess not.” So I sat back down on the futon.
According to astrologers, those born under the sign of Sagittarius are supposed to be gifted with tremendous luck. It’s considered the luckiest sign of the zodiac.
I’m a Sagittarian. I’ve never won the lottery. Never won a prize in a raffle or at a county fair. I’ve never even opened a soda bottle, looked under the lid, and won another bottle of soda.
As I watched Dr. Prince reading over my information on the clipboard, I became firmly convinced that my parents had lied about my date of birth.
This would never happen to Celia.
And as I looked at the clock on the wall, I was suddenly keenly aware that I would have to spend the next hour with this woman. She’d want to get to know me. Hear my problems. Want me to trust and confide in her.
I began hoping for a fire drill.
“So, um…Dorota?”
“Dorrie.”
She made a note on her yellow legal pad as she said out loud, “Patient calls herself ‘Dorrie’”.
“I don’t ‘call myself Dorrie’,” I corrected her. “It’s short for Dorota. Everyone calls me Dorrie.”
“What is that like Italian?”
“Polish. It’s Polish,” I said as I began to squirm in my seat.
“You seem uncomfortable. Relax.”
“Oh, it’s the futon. I was never comfortable on these things.”
I had a couple of choices. I could leave. Make up something about deciding that therapy wasn’t right for me and politely exit. Or I could come up with a phobia.
No---she’d probably want to cure that. Then I’d have to spend the next hour letting her cure me of something I never had.
I could try to stall. Spend an hour rattling off some basic facts about my life. Where I was born. What my parents were like. I have one brother and no sisters. Studied theatre at the University of Wisconsin. I’m a Sagittarius. I enjoy reading and walks in the park.
Like a bad blind date without the beer and mozzarella sticks.
Or I could take the offensive. Before I tell you anything about me----why don’t you tell me about you? Hmmm? But that wasn’t my personality. And besides, she was kind of scary.
In any case, I knew that this would be the one and only hour I would ever spend with this woman in her office filled with leftover dorm furniture and a shag carpet.
“Okay---don’t think. Just answer. Honestly. What are you thinking about right now?”
I didn’t think. I just answered.
“I think I have pretty lousy insurance.”
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I felt bad.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“No. It’s okay. That’s good. Don’t deny your feelings. It’s honest. And that’s what I asked for,” she said as if she’d asked for a punch in the face. “It’s good that you feel comfortable enough with me already to share that.”
I didn’t feel comfortable. But nice spin job.
Most likely, she was already aware of the fact that I wouldn’t be coming back. Surely this had happened before. I couldn’t imagine
