Doctor’s Notes (Entry 16)
Oh, happy night! After M.’s mother thanked me for apologizing for lying to her, we spent a wonderful fifteen minutes speaking on the phone. Rather, M.’s mother spoke — whispered — about M., about her job at Fort Drum, about her dislike — dislike and, indeed, antipathy—for Watertown, and I listened. I’ve become quite good at this listening business. M.’s mother confirmed this: “Thank you for listening to all that,” she said. I told her she was most welcome, again. After that, it was clear it was my turn to say something, and so I said I was looking forward to our “date.” The minute I said the word, I wondered where I’d gotten the “balls” to say it. My mental health professional is always saying he wishes he could write me a prescription for some “balls.” “Date?” M.’s mother asked. It’s possible she was simply teasing, but nonetheless my heart rose to my throat and began to quiver there. “Yes,” I said, and reminded her of my talk at the NCMHP annual meeting on Thursday, and how she’d agreed to accompany me. “That’s Thursday?” she said. “Shit.” And then she explained that Thursday was also M.’s birthday. “We always go out to dinner on his birthday!” she said. I could appreciate her situation. But I wanted her to appreciate mine as welclass="underline" that I would die if she could not come with me to the annual meeting; that I would die if she would not, after all, be my date.
“Why don’t you take him out to dinner tomorrow or Wednesday?” I suggested.
“Wednesday night is no good,” she said, and explained that she was delivering her own talk that night.
“Tomorrow night, then,” I said. “And then on his actual birthday, you could do something special for him after our date.” I assured her the meeting would be over early. Mental health professionals are early-to-bed, early-to-rise types, I explained.
“Yes, I bet you’re like farmers,” she whispered, and I could hear the wry, slightly mocking laughter in her voice. Instead of curling up into a ball, though, I decided to laugh with her. I do think M.’s mother, like her son, is turning out to be good for me.
“Exactly like farmers,” I whispered, “except we’re mostly vegetarians who don’t like to get our hands dirty.”
She laughed at that and then said good night. Oh, that laugh! It stayed with me all sleepless night. Oh, happy night!
But oh, sleepy day! I am barely sentient when my first patient arrives for her eight o’clock session. She is an African American girl named A. Her father is a soldier stationed in Iraq; unlike M., there is no doubt that A.’s father is a soldier and in Iraq, and unlike M.’s, her problems are relatively simply to diagnose: she thinks her father is going to die.
“Why do you think that?” I asked her in our previous session.
“Because he’s in a place where people want to kill him,” she said.
“Not everyone there wants to kill him,” I said, and A. looked at me like I was “lame” (figuratively).
“I don’t know why he’s even there in the first place,” A. said. “I don’t know why he’s not here with me.” This would have been the time for A. to cry, and for me to tell her that crying doesn’t help anyone, etc. But A. didn’t cry. Very few of my patients whose parents are soldiers cry when they’re supposed to. They say these terribly sad things matter-of-factly and they don’t cry; they don’t even slouch. This is how I know they’re unwell, mentally; I try, subtly, to model correct grieving behavior for them by slouching in my chair as they tell their sad stories. By the end of my last session with A., I was practically horizontal.
I open my front door and find A. standing on my porch. She is not alone; usually she’s accompanied by her mother, but today, standing next to her is a tall, slender adult African American male in military uniform. I am tired enough that one part of my brain actually wonders, Well, who do we have here? while the other part says, It’s A.’s father, you fool. Alas, my mouth appears to be connected to the former part of my brain, not the latter.
“This is my dad,” A. says. She’s smiling. I don’t think I’ve seen A. smile before. I wonder how her father, knowing that he can make her smile like that just by virtue of his “being around,” could ever bear to leave her. This is a question I would like to ask him, among other questions. But I don’t, not immediately. Instead, I tell the father that it’s nice to meet him, and he returns the sentiment. Then I ask A. if she wouldn’t mind waiting in my office while I talk to her father. Her smile disappears, and it occurs to me that now that A.’s father is home, she doesn’t want to let him out of her sight, not even for a brief consultation with her mental health professional. “Don’t worry,” I say. “This won’t take long.” She doesn’t move. “It’s OK, baby,” her father says softly. A. nods, turns, and enters my office.
A general observation about men in military uniform: they look impatient. A.’s father looks even more impatient than most soldiers; in particular, he looks like the kind of man who’d mistake a mental health professional’s time-honored sort of give-and-take as “psychobabble” or “bullshit.” Perhaps this is why I try a different tack. Or perhaps it’s because my normal method of inquiry at the VA hospital turned out so disastrously. Or perhaps it’s my personality that’s the trouble, as my own mental health professional has suggested. In any case, I decide, with A.’s father, to act not as though I am the doctor and he is my patient’s father, but rather as though I am the interviewer, he the interviewee. Or rather, as M.’s mother suggested, as though I’m a detective, and he’s a suspect or a source.
Q: A. is a good kid.
A: (Silence.)
Q: She misses you, though.
A: (Silence.)
Q: But of course that’s normal. Nothing to worry about. She’s fine.
A: If she’s so fine, what am I paying you for?
Q: Yes, well, as I suggested, I know she’s happy you’re home. For how long will you be home?
A: A month.
Q: How long have you been in the army?
A: Eight years.
Q: How long were you in basic training before you were deployed?
A: I don’t remember.
Q: Approximately.
A: Six months, more or less.
Q: How long between when you signed up and when you went to basic training?
A: Four months.
Q: Is this timeline typical?
A: I guess. Why?
Q: (Long pause to make another observation, mentally, about men in uniform: when they ask you a question, you answer it.) Another patient of mine, a boy your daughter’s age, thinks his father went to Iraq. The boy’s mother disagrees. As proof, she’s argued that according to the boy’s own insisted-upon timeline, the boy’s father wouldn’t have had enough time to sign up, train, and be deployed. Your timeline confirms that.
A: Maybe not. I hear they’re short on the numbers.
Q: The numbers.
A: They’re running out of guys. So there’s less time between when they sign up and when they’re shipped out.
Q: Very well. But the patient’s mother also says the patient’s father is too old to be in the army.
A: They’re letting in older guys, too. We’ve got a grandfather in our unit.
Q: But just one, correct?
A: (Long pause.) One’s all we need.
Q: But it is rare. The patient is most likely making the whole thing up.