I had my last visit with the shrink. She seemed startled to see me, perhaps she didn’t recognize my name on the chart. The tattoo usually a good reminder We talked about why I hadn’t been back in so long, and where I am with my meds and my health. I honestly forgot to call her.
Honestly.
I kept meaning to, but I just never made it. Then the meds ran out. Then I started to freak a little - albeit - quietly. She asked me what I had done in the past six months and where I was going.

“I’m moving, Dr. S” I said it kind of quietly. I know I’m moving. I’ve said it for months, but for the first time I was telling someone who knew me only on the outside, at the edge of my world.
Without raising her head to look at me. “Really?”

Was that disbelief?
“Yes…. ” and then I explained the reasons, the good ones and the ones I am just making up. I told her about the possibilities out west, graduating, grad school, the future. She stopped writing. Looked up from her notes and smiled. I don’t know if she looked happy because she’s being paid to tolerate my bullshit or because it was easier just to smile. But she looked genuinely happy.

“How are the medications? Are you reacting to them well? Any sleeping issues? Moods?” She laughed at the last on. “Oh, yes. You are bipolar - moods are always a factor.” She has a lovely accent. Her last name is Indian, but there’s a romantic European element in her voice. Her mouth moves around syllables and vowels like a dance. Nothing feels forced, no words…not even - no.

“They are fine…. and so on.” She wrote the prescription. Same old, same old for another six months. Six months of medicated sanity. Six months… more.

Then we started talking, not about madness and medical issues. She told me about a patient of hers, from a family of doctors. They are prejudiced, especially the father. She’s worked with the father/doctor for many years. Being that they are medical professionals, their worlds hovered near each other. He didn’t like my Dr., until his daughter had problems. The Doctor’s Daughter was a lot like me, my Dr. said. I don’t know why she said this, except that the Doctor’s Daughter has tattoos. But the Daughter was bright, she said, with many issues - drugs, sexual stuff (I don’t know what stuff is, but she didn’t elaborate), relationship issues with her family, a feeling of hopelessness, and she was bipolar. After a few months of treatment, the Doctor saw my Dr. in a doctor meeting place of some sort. Perhaps a the cafe downstairs from her office. He told my Dr. that the Daughter changed, and spoke and acted and seemed like my good Dr. He said it with a hint of disbelief, and perhaps awe.

“What is she doing now, Dr. S?”

“She’s in school, doing well. Her medications are working, and I see her regularly, not as a patient, but as a friend. She’s a lot like you, I think.” She smiled.
I wonder what “like me” is.

She asked me about the move, why Portland and why now? “They are more progressive out there. It’s a beautiful city. It will be a good fit for you. I wish I could move. I really do.”

“Why don’t you?”

Her husband, who has a practice across the hall, loves Orlando. They go to Europe twice a year, but that’s not enough for her. She said there is an empty space where she knows that culutre should be. Not her culture, but the culture of the city. She worked to raise funds for a mental health facility with big wigs from the community, and had to go to a banquet to rub elbows. A doctor’s wife whined the whole time… about her door. She (the wife) went to Europe to get a door - a four thousand dollar door, and it didn’t hang correctly. The Dr. listened to the wife, but couldn’t hold her tongue for the whole night.

The Wife rambled on, at a charity dinner, about her door and how people should be worried about the quality of the workmanship coming from Europe. She was convinced that she’d seen all of Europe in her search for the ill-fitting door. My Dr., tired of listening to the beast, finally told her that the door opened into an empty house and she shouldn’t be concerned. The Wife didn’t understand, and my Dr. and I laughed —- big belly laughs.

I stood up to go, thanked her for her pateinece with me and her willingness to work with me. She told me I was her dream patient. I pay attention (according to her) to what is working and am honest about my history. The drug things…yeah… she knows about that stuff too.

The door swung open and I turned to her and smiled — and thanked her again.

And in a motherly way, her palm came up to my cheek. It surprised me. The world stopped for a moment, and I saw her new glasses, and how her smile lines were much deeper than the furrows in her brow. She wore one silver necklace, no pendant or ornament. Just a chain. Both her ears were pierced, but the lobes were naked. No makeup, none of any kind. Unkempt eyebrows battled for distinction with her new gold framed oval glasses. Her hazel eyes stopped me. More yellow, than brown or even gray, they seemed to glitter. Then she smiled.

“I’m proud of you.”

Then, we said goodbye.