She runs back to the counter and runs a washcloth under the hot water. She then brings it to me.
“Tilt your head back,” she says.
I do as she tells me. She gently passes the washcloth over my nose, which still hurts. When she lifts it, I can see that it’s inundated (I love the word “inundated”) with blood.
“I’ll be right back,” she says.
As she leaves me again, I call out, “Who was that? Why did he hit me?” The first question is real; the second one is rhetorical. There is no good reason for hitting someone square in the face like that.
“I don’t know,” she shouts to me across the room. She holds up a hand to a couple waiting at the counter, to tell them she’ll be back in a moment.
“Here,” she says, handing the clean washcloth to me. “Keep your head back and hold this on your nose.”
“I didn’t do anything to him,” I say.
I’ve begun to cry. I can’t help it.
“I know you didn’t. Do you want me to call the cops?”
I don’t like the police. I’m not going to get into it with her, but the truth is, the cops were called on me a few times before my condition was brought under control with Dr. Buckley’s help, and it’s a conditioned response that I just don’t like to see them.
“No,” I tell her.
“Are you going to be all right?”
“I don’t know.”
“OK. Listen, I have to see what these folks want. Let me know if you need anything.”
“OK.”
After she leaves, I stand up, holding the washcloth on my face, and I make my way to the far back of the coffee shop, where the restroom is. I don’t have to pee.
The single bulb in the restroom casts a dim light. I push my face forward until it’s about an inch from the mirror, and I examine the damage. My nose is inflamed, and I see swelling around the bridge of it. Flecks of dried blood line the edges of my nostrils.
I touch the swollen parts of my face, and pain shoots to the spots where my fingers have been. I will have to be very careful until things have had a chance to heal.
All things considered, though, it seems that the damage is minimal, except to my feelings. All I wanted was a snack and a few minutes to relax, and I got a punch in the face.
I didn’t deserve that. It was wrong of that young man to punch me like that.
But then I remember that deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it.
It is 83.15 miles from Bozeman to Harrison Drive in Butte, where my hotel room is waiting for me. The route covers some of the wondrous country Montana is known for—river valleys, mountain ranges (I particularly enjoy the Tobacco Root Mountains, which have a great name), and the sky that is so impressive that the state has been given a special name: Big Sky Country. I take all of this in, but aside from a pee break at the Town Pump in Whitehall, I do not stop. I do not take photos with my bitchin’ iPhone. Periodically, I look at my face in the rearview mirror, and I see that the swollen areas around my nose have not receded much and, in fact, have begun to turn a violent shade of purple. This sucks elephant balls. It’s ruining my trip.
Finally, at 12:37 p.m., I pull into the parking lot of the Best Western Plus Butte Plaza Inn. I retrieve my duffel bag from the trunk and trudge inside to check in.
“Whoa, buddy, what happened to your face?” the desk clerk says.
“I got punched.”
“By who?”
“By whom, you mean.”
“Yeah.”
“Somebody who didn’t like my sweatshirt.”
He peers over the top of his glasses at my chest.
“Huh. Good team.”
“Are they?”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t care.”
He shakes his head.
“Well, they are.”
I start to say something but abandon it. His attention is on his computer screen, and he doesn’t seem interested in talking to me anymore, which is fine. I sigh, and he frowns. Finally, he hands me my keycard. I take it and walk away.
“We have a continental breakfast starting at six in the morning,” he calls after me.
After a shower, I lie across the motel room bed in my robe and close my eyes. I keep thinking about the young man who punched me, and I keep wishing I could see Dr. Buckley again, because this is something she and I would have talked about extensively. My trust in her was complete, and that’s something I don’t enjoy with Dr. Bryan Thomsen—which, I suppose, is why I don’t call him and tell him what happened.
I think back to Tuesday, February 1, the day when Dr. Buckley told me that she would be retiring at the end of April. She said that her husband had already retired from his job as a cardiovascular surgeon at Billings Clinic, which I didn’t realize because, first, Dr. Buckley and I talk mostly about me and not her and, second, my family gets its medical attention at St. Vincent Healthcare. My father was on the board of directors there and was loyal to it. He died there three years, one month, and ten days ago. I haven’t thought about it before, but I hope wherever he is—if he is anywhere at all other than the Terrace Garden Cemetery—he’s happy that he died at St. Vincent Healthcare instead of Billings Clinic. I think that would have mattered to him.
Dr. Buckley said she and her husband wanted to do some traveling before “we’re too old to get around anymore,” and I told her that was silly, that she looked young and vibrant and ambulatory (I love the word “ambulatory”). She said, “You’re sweet, Edward,” but I wasn’t trying to be. She really does look good, or at least she did on Tuesday, April 26, which was the last time I saw her. It would be conjecture to say what she looks like now. In any case, I have no way of knowing whether her husband is healthy, as I have never met him. Maybe he’s about to die. Maybe Dr. Buckley’s haste is warranted.
Before Dr. Buckley and I parted ways, we had five joint sessions with Dr. Bryan Thomsen. Dr. Buckley said this would allow me and Dr. Bryan Thomsen to “ease into” a patient-doctor relationship. She said that she was sure we would “hit it off” and that Dr. Bryan Thomsen, being more my age, might even relate to me in a way that she could not. I had my doubts about this, because I never saw any evidence that the age gap between me and Dr. Buckley was an impediment (I love the word “impediment”), but I told her that I would try.
I’ve been right so far in my suspicions about Dr. Bryan Thomsen. He’s been a poor substitute for Dr. Buckley. Most of the time, that doesn’t bother me, but it sure does right now.
Unable to sleep because I keep touching the part of my face that hurts, I decide to watch Adam-12 on my phone. I am so far behind. I have not been good about watching this show daily like I used to do with Dragnet. But I’m trying to hang in there. Dr. Buckley and I worked diligently to break my destructive compulsions while properly channeling those that brought balance to my life, like the daily complaint letter I used to write. But in this shitburger of a year, it seems that many of my routines have been shattered. I hope that reestablishing a balance with my show watching will help settle me down. Hope, of course, is fleeting and unpredictable. I’d rather have facts.
I’m watching the twenty-second episode of the first season, called “Log 152: A Dead Cop Can’t Help Anybody.” I should have watched it two days ago, but I fell asleep, and then the excitement of planning my trip overtook me.
It has taken me a while to figure out things about Adam-12, and while I still think it is vastly inferior to Dragnet, I’m starting to warm up to it. Neither Officer Pete Malloy nor Officer Jim Reed is as wise and logical as Sergeant Joe Friday, but between the two of them, they make almost the perfect cop. Malloy is older and more crotchety (I love the word “crotchety”), while Reed is a young hotshot. Their respective attributes—wisdom and reserve, youth and strength—serve them well as they tackle crime in the streets of Los Angeles.