A world of thanks

Oh jeez… this could get maudlin.

I had my typical pre-move day today – lots of cleaning, packing and organizing. But (interspersed with the 400 change-of-address calls to every company we have an “account” with) I could detect the growing scent of inevitability.

Tomorrow is my last session with my psychiatrist.

I’ve really liked working with this guy and I don’t know how I’m going to say goodbye. I worry it could go like this.

When I first met him four and a half years ago, he sort of reminded me of a young Santa Claus - heavyset and jolly with a graying beard and thinning hair. But THOROUGH. In all the years of meeting new doctors, I'd never had such a thorough intake. Besides the usual medical and administrative paperwork, we talked about my entire history. He asked me about each phase of my life: how it felt, what did others think of me, and what problems did I have. I gave him a sketch of my parents and all my other relatives. The interest he showed was so intense that he almost seemed a little hyper.

But that’s just what he’s like. Every day. So engaged he’s almost… wired.

We shared a relentless determination to figure problems out. When we made a discovery our smug satisfaction couldn’t be contained – it was like discovering an extra limb. I’d get pissed when I couldn’t make use of every second of our time. Our discussions could get pretty abstract, filled with odd metaphors and references. We traded favorite psychology books. Like sleuths, we traced my deepest motivations back through action, motivation and behavior. We decoded my history like a puzzle - discovering the structure of my oh-so-labile emotions. He always seems glad to have a patient who was analytical and smart.

He could be a bit too bold at times but I liked that he had opinions about things. We didn’t always agree - my job as a patient was to exaggerate my misery and explain how things weren't working. His job was to exaggerate his competency and confidence. Normally, I liked how his sense of humor contrasted the extreme seriousness of our task. Sometimes though, it gave me the sense he didn’t think my problems were a big deal, that I was making a lot out of nothing. I'd get annoyed and so we’d fight and bicker. I hated that he had all this experience and information I wasn’t privy to. He’s seen hundreds of patients so maybe my problems seemed tiresome. Maybe I was freaking out while he was just screwing around.

Most importantly, he let himself be warm and genuine and close in an appropriate way. When I was going through a particularly rough patch, he’d call me while he was driving home from the office. Doctor-patient bullshit be dammed. We were both living, breathing, human beings and treated each other like such. Were we a good match? Yes. Was it good luck? Sure, probably. Did he do a good job? No question about it.

Sometimes it made it harder, knowing that under any other circumstances we’d be friends. And I didn’t want to NEED his attention because… well, what would I do with all the other hours of the week? Besides, I was tired of being sick. I wanted to be better. And he wanted me to be better.

And so,

gradually

and with his help,

I got better. Finally.


Thank you Mike. When nothing else did, our conversations gave me a sense of purpose.