Waiting: Questions for a New Patient

The waiting room at the doctor’s office might hold upwards of thirty people when it’s full. Today it holds four and a kid. The glass that separates the secretary from the rest of us has pink and turquoise owls with big eyes taped all over it. Speech bubbles emerge from their beaks to say things like “Love you owlways,” “Whooo loves you,” and “You’re a hoot!” Arrows and hearts are shot and pierced, as well.

I’m here because of my latest breakdown.

It’s late January, and I’ve brought the cold in with me. My jacket inhales the warmth of my torso and exhales the cold up at my face as I fill out a new patient form. The form asks me things like Do you feel like you’re a useful part of things, If you need emotional support, do you have someone who can help you, and What is your family’s history with mental illness? The last question takes several minutes to complete. The litany of schizophrenia, bi-polarity, depression, and anxiety makes me feel like someone’s elbow is pushing into the back of my neck. The five people suddenly feel like fifty.

I close my eyes and try to let that feeling fall away, try not to let my pulse rise in panic. I take deep breaths and try to forget about the other people.

When I open my eyes again, the form tells me to rate the severity of my depression from one to ten. I want to knock on the secretary’s glass window and tell her that pain is subjective, that I don’t know how to rank it. I don’t know how other people feel, I want to tell her. I want to tell her that another fear I have is overstating my pain. I want to tell her that I would probably want to put down a two even if my eye was dangling out of my head.

I want to tell her about this crazy article I read reporting on a guy who rated the pain of different bug bites by getting bitten or stung by over seventy of them. He described the pain he felt from each bite or sting like a sommelier might describe wine: light, ephemeral, almost fruity. As if a tiny spark has singed a single hair on your arm; or rich, hearty, slightly crunchy. Similar to getting your hand mashed in a revolving door; or even pure, intense, brilliant pain. Like fire-walking over flaming charcoal with a three-inch rusty nail in your heel.

I want to forget the numbers, to describe my pain in the same way. Buzzy, metallic, unrelenting. Like piercing tinnitus in the ears, eyes, and neck.

Instead, I write down a five. Average. I’m willing to say that I’ve got at least as much pain as everyone else. No more, no less. Besides, I’ve got to leave plenty of room for things to get worse.

The form asks me if I’m contemplating suicide. Again, I don’t know how to answer. I want to ask the woman across from me, the woman with the small boy sitting next to her, if she knows what the form is asking me, precisely.

Doesn’t everyone at least consider suicide? I want to ask her. After all, Camus said it was the only serious philosophical question: Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?

I just write down yes.

I continue filling out the paper, but am now irritated with the questionnaire. So I start to answer enigmatically. The form wants to know if my suicide is imminent, and I write, I chose coffee today. Tomorrow, who knows? It asks me if I have had little pleasure in doing things within the last month. I answer, Hard to say. I have never done things which give me pleasure. I do only the things that make me miserable.

The form won’t take the hint. It keeps pestering: Do you feel that you’re a failure? That you’ve let yourself or your family down?

Do you talk to at least one person every day?

Are you having trouble falling or staying asleep, or sleeping too long?

Why don’t you ever open your blinds or speak to your neighbors?

Do you have a poor appetite or overeat?

Why did you hide in the hallway when the delivery man knocked?

Are you having trouble concentrating on things, like watching television or reading the newspaper?

Are you ever going to invite anyone to your home?

Quick! Name the last five therapists you’ve had and describe the stupidest sweater you saw each of them wear!

Why don’t you talk to your family anymore?

I close my eyes and shut out the buzzing, metallic questions and the small boy’s incessantly swinging legs in his oversized chair. I sign my name and stand, walk to the glass with the owls and arrows, and give the secretary my filled-out form.

She nods at my hands and takes the form without looking at me. Says, Someone will come for you shortly, and closes the window. I look for a moment at her muddled outline through the distorted glass, then turn, walk back to the place I started, and wait for someone to come.