I stayed with him for six years and would probably still be with him today if he hadn’t upped and died on me. By then I was old enough to be on my own and couldn’t imagine finding another counselor I liked as much as Mr. Jekyll. Convinced I no longer needed psychiatric help, I quit seeing anyone.
The stresses of college cured me of that way of thinking, and when one of my roommates threatened to turn me in if I didn’t quit stealing her food—acts I had no memory or awareness of—I decided it was time to find another counselor. Of course, now that I was no longer part of “the system,” I had to pay for it myself. I did poorly enough in my life’s circumstances and well enough in school to earn several scholarships that fully paid for my education, but I didn’t have much in the way of spending money, so my counseling choices were limited to what I could get through the university. For the most part I saw psych grad students who were supposedly supervised by psychiatric advisors, none of whom I ever saw, talked to, or even met. The grad students treated me like a study project and/or a guinea pig, but they were at least sincere in their desire to help me, and they got me through six years of school.
Once I finished school and walked away with my brand-new shiny MSW degree, I entered the working world and prepared to become an adult member of regular society. I decided to go without counseling again and did okay for a few years. But over time, stressors like boyfriends who dumped me and jobs I got laid off from led to unrealized pocketing of lots of items, and it made me realize that a counselor was likely going to be a lifetime thing for me.
Finding a counselor you feel comfortable with, someone who understands you and fits your style, is a challenge. Sometimes it can take a few tries. It took me five this time, and except for the woman who told me she was working on a new version of scream therapy, I gave them all six sessions to make sure we had time to work out the kinks. But the kinks stayed until I moved to Sorenson and met Dr. Maggie Baldwin.
Maggie, as she insists on being called, reminds me a lot of Mr. Jekyll. She is an attractive woman who dresses nice, wears a lot of perfectly applied makeup, and looks both hoity-toity and professional. I’m not sure how old she is. My best guess is mid-forties, and that’s based mostly on events and topics she seems familiar with, but I could be off by a decade or more in either direction. My first impression of her was that we’d never click. And yet click we did.
Maggie has always treated me more like a colleague than a patient, in part because I’ve consulted with her on some of my cases. In fact, that was how I found her. Our professional relationship came before the one of doctor and patient. I’ve been seeing her for a little over two years now, and I continue to consult with her and refer patients to her. It would be easy to blur the lines, given our multifaceted relationship, and yet I always know where I stand with Maggie and what level we’re on. She makes it easy.
Feeling a strong need to talk to Maggie, I give her a call from my car. When she doesn’t answer, I leave a message stating that I’d love to be able to talk with her about a couple of things sometime this weekend if possible and let her know it’s a personal need.
When I arrive home, I find P.J. in the kitchen with Roscoe. P.J. is sitting at my island counter drinking a bottle of water, her face flushed, the edges of her hair sweaty. Roscoe is lapping away madly at his water bowl, slurping puddles all over the floor.
“Looks like you two had a nice walk,” I say.
“More of a run,” P.J. says. “Roscoe looks a little pudgy to me lately, so I’m backing off on the treats and ramping up the exercise. Plus, I’m in track at school now, so I need the practice.”
“Just be careful as the weather gets warmer. Golden retrievers are known for being so eager to please that they keep going and going until they drop. Plus, they overheat easily.”
P.J. reaches down toward her feet and comes up with a backpack. “I have it covered,” she says, zipping open the pack. She pulls out a collapsible plastic dish, four full bottles of water, and something that looks like a short, narrow condom that has a plastic spray head attached to one end of it.
“I have water for him to drink and I can squirt him down if it gets too hot,” she explains. She then takes the condom-looking thing, rolls the open end of it over the water bottle she’s drinking from, picks the bottle up, aims the spray head at me, and gives the bottle a squeeze.
I manage to back up in the nick of time, though a few drops hit my top. “Very funny,” I say as she laughs. The sudden movement reminds me that my muscles are currently engaged in a major uprising, but P.J. interprets my wince as being from the water rather than pain.
“Hey, Roscoe likes it,” she says with a shrug. “And it does the work of keeping him cooled down. Though I’m thinking I’ll start running along the river path and letting him go in for a swim from time to time, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine. He loves to swim. Thanks for taking such good care of him, P.J.. What do I owe you for this week?”
“Just the usual twenty,” she says.
I dig out my wallet, sort through the bills I have, and slide two tens across the counter to her. I consider it a heck of a deal. On occasion, I offer her extra money for helping me with odd jobs around the house, like raking leaves, shoveling snow, pulling weeds . . . that sort of thing.
“How was today’s date?” P.J. asks me, stripping her spray top off her bottle and grabbing a paper towel to dry it and clean up the water mess. To my delight, she also goes about cleaning up the slurp puddles Roscoe has left on the floor. One of the reasons P.J. and I get on so well is that we both like things neat and orderly.
“It wasn’t a date,” I tell her. “I did a ride-along with Detective Richmond. We went around and talked to some people in a case he’s investigating.”
P.J. frowns at this, returning her squirt attachment, the water bowl, and the extra water bottles to the backpack. “But weren’t you with the same cop you went to dinner with last night?”
“Yes.”
“But it wasn’t a date?”
“Not really.”
“But your dinner last night was a date?”
I shrug. “I suppose. Sort of.”
“You’re not very good at this dating stuff, are you?” she says with her usual bluntness.
“I’m a little rusty,” I admit. “But I must be doing something right because I have a date tomorrow with someone else.”
“Really? Do tell.” P.J. waggles her eyebrows at me.
“He’s an evidence technician for the police department. His name is Jonas Kriedeman.”
“What kind of date will it be? Are you going somewhere to eat again like you did with the cop?”
“Yes, we’ll be eating, but at his place. His daughter, Sofie, who I think is around seven, will be with us.”
P.J. scoffs a laugh. “He’s not looking for a romantic partner, he’s looking for a babysitter.”
“No, he isn’t,” I say. “And for your information, it was me who suggested that Sofie join us.” This isn’t exactly how it happened, but I don’t want P.J. thinking I was outmaneuvered by a seven-year-old.
P.J. gapes at me. “Why?”
“She asked,” I say with a shrug. “I thought it would be fun to let her.”
“You thought it would be fun to have a seven-year-old kid along with you on a first date?” P.J. says, her voice rife with disappointment and skepticism. She shakes her head sadly. “Man, you do suck at this dating stuff.”
“And you’re some kind of expert?” I toss back. “How many dates have you been on?”
“None,” she says matter-of-factly. “I may not have personal experience, but I read a lot and I remember everything I read. Those women’s magazines my mother gets are full of advice for this kind of stuff. And I’ve read some of those romance novels she has, too. Maybe we should try to put together a plan for you.”
I look at P.J., a smile on my face. This discussion would be ridiculous under most circumstances, but P.J. has a near photographic memory and
is much older mentally than she is physically. She is also practical and, for the most part, unemotional. Despite her age and lack of experience, her suggestion is not without some merit.
“Thanks, but I’ll manage,” I tell her.
P.J. doesn’t respond to this, but she cocks her head to one side and regards me with narrowed eyes for a moment. Then she hops off her stool and heads for the front door. “I’m going home. Should I come and walk Roscoe later?”
“Anytime,” I tell her. “He always welcomes your visits, as do I.”
She exits with no further response, shutting the door behind her.
Roscoe watches her leave, his head resting on his front paws, his huge, dark eyes staring at her with unmitigated adoration. As soon as the door closes, he sighs, lifts his head, and looks over his shoulder at me.
“I know,” I tell him with a smile. “She’s a sweetheart.” He gets up and walks over to me, nudging my hand with his nose. I stroke his soft head, letting my palm settle between his shoulders. His touch is instantly relaxing and calming to me. Roscoe is a sweet-tempered, affectionate, and intuitive dog who always seems to sense what any human in his sphere of existence needs or wants. It makes him the perfect therapy dog. Though his size could be intimidating—he weighs just under ninety pounds—his dark eyes, soft fur, and sweet nature make him come across like a big, cuddly teddy bear. Then it dawns on me that there might be a therapy use for him with the police social worker job, as well.
“You might be my secret weapon,” I tell him, and he thumps his tail eagerly, his tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. With this thought, I realize I should buff up my résumé and have it ready in case—No, when, I tell myself, trying to think positively—I get my interview with Chief Hanson.
I settle in with my laptop and get to work. It’s a simple matter to update my résumé, since I did it just before getting my job at Mercy Hospital here in town. I add my current position to it, along with a list of the duties I think would be most relevant to the police job, and then I print it out on some thick vellum paper. After reading it over and trying to judge it, and myself, as objectively as possible, I decide it needs something more. When I talk to Chief Hanson, I want him to know that I’ve given this position a lot of thought, pondering exactly how social work services might be of benefit to both the police department and the community it serves.
I start a new document on my laptop, type SERVICES, centering it at the top of the page, and then start a bullet list. I include all of the typical social service duties, but cast them in terms related to police business and possible scenarios I might encounter. Included in my list is the potential for using Roscoe and canine therapy to comfort people in distressing situations, particularly children.
When I’ve accumulated a list of a little over twenty services, I sit back and start playing back episodes from the various Law & Order franchises in my head to try to think of other situations I might encounter and what I could potentially do with them. My concentration is broken when my phone rings. It is facedown on the table and my first impulse is to ignore it. But I realize it might be Bob or Dr. Baldwin calling, so I give in and pick it up to look.
It is Dr. Baldwin. “Hi, Maggie,” I say. “Thanks for calling me back so quick.”
“No problem,” she says. “I would have called sooner but I was in session with someone. Do we need to get together?”
“That would be great, if you can manage it. I have some personal issues I need to talk about. It’s not emergent, but there is a time constraint of sorts for part of it, so if we could talk sooner rather than later, that would be better for me.”
“I’ve got plans for this evening,” she says. “But I’m totally open tomorrow. Why don’t we meet at my office around eleven in the morning? Will that work?”
“That’s fine. Thank you. Should I pick up some croissants and coffee on the way?”
“Will the sun rise tomorrow?” she replies with a hint of laughter in her voice.
I brought lattes and croissants from a new coffee shop in town for my first visit with her, and somehow it became something of a ritual. I don’t bring them every time, but often enough to make it a special treat and to provide me with a way of saying thank you to Maggie for her willingness to be so readily available to me whenever I need her. I know that her handling of me is outside of the norm for her profession, but my relationship with her has never been your typical psychiatrist and patient association.
“See you at eleven,” I say, and then I disconnect the call.
When I try to get out of my chair to head for bed, I discover rigor mortis has set in. My back feels tighter than an over-tuned guitar, and every time I try to move it seizes up even more. I realize I should have taken some ibuprofen when I first got home. It’s in the medicine cabinet, some thirty feet away, and right now that might as well be thirty miles.
I try several stretches and movements, experimenting with combinations of leg, arm, and back muscles until I find the one that hurts the least. It still makes me grunt and groan in agony, causing Roscoe to eye me worriedly. Eventually I manage to hobble my way to my bedroom, and from there into the bathroom, walking like I’m fifty years older than I am. The bottle of ibuprofen has a child-proof cap on it, and my hands hurt enough that it’s a struggle to get the darned thing open. After several tries I finally manage to get it off, but also manage to drop the bottle. Little round pills fly out and scatter over the bathroom floor.
I curse to myself, make a half-hearted attempt to bend over and pick up the bottle, which has landed close to my foot, and quickly abandon the idea as my back muscles seize up. Roscoe, who is lying in the doorway, picks his head up and looks at the pills, then at me.
“No,” I say. “Leave it.” This command is one of the first ones I taught him, one of the requirements for a therapy dog who might be exposed to any number of dropped pills or food items in a hospital patient’s room. He sighs, drops his head back onto his front legs, and watches me.
Plan B, I decide, and I scan the medicine cabinet shelves. I find a bottle of aspirin, manage to get it open without dropping it, and take two of them.
I’m not a very religious person, and none of my foster families were church-going people. But when I finally get settled in bed for the night, I say a prayer to whoever or whatever might be listening, hoping that I’ll be able to walk come morning.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I hate being late. I hate it so much that I often arrive for appointments ridiculously early. That’s why I got out of bed at six this morning even though my appointment with Maggie isn’t until eleven. Okay, truth be told, pain might have played a small role in my early rising, as my body made it crystal clear somewhere around five that it was still rebelling against all the things I did to it at the gym yesterday.
The aspirin I took last night helped some, but my back, thigh, and upper arm muscles are about as loose as an oak plank and feel like they’ve been beaten with one. I took a dose of acetaminophen first thing this morning, and when P.J. showed up at eight to walk Roscoe, I asked her if she would do me an extra favor for an extra buck and pick up the ibuprofen pills scattered all over the bathroom floor.
She did so without asking any questions and handed me the bottle with the pills and a small amount of dog hair inside it when she was done. I handed her a dollar in return, which she stuffed into a pocket. Then she leashed up Roscoe and took off. I downed four of the ibuprofen tablets and made myself a piece of toast to go with them. My body still feels achy and sore, but the medication is helping some, and the more I move, the better I feel. Getting dressed is a slight challenge—let’s face it, it takes a contortionist to put on a bra on a good day—but I manage.
Fortunately, the coffee shop/bakery has a drive-through window, so it doesn’t slow me down much. I arrive at Maggie Baldwin’s office at ten minutes before eleven. Good thing, because getting out of my car and into the building takes twice as long as usual. I feel like I’m a hundred years old, b
ut my aversion to tardiness is greater than my physical agony, so I push myself on.
If I’m ever late for anything it’s because of circumstances beyond my control. I’ll do everything humanly possible to mitigate these situations, but sometimes it can’t be helped. When that happens, I know I’m likely to find myself straightening things an extra time or two, counting footsteps as I cross a room, or discovering odd food items stashed inside one of my pockets. Lateness is a trigger for me and my obsessive compulsions, and the step counting, organizing, and stealing are my coping mechanisms, my way of handling these situations and maintaining some level of control over my environment.
I was diagnosed with OCD—obsessive compulsive disorder—when I was nine. Over the years, my shrinks agreed that my case was milder than some and likely brought on by being thrust into the foster system. I was warned that it could worsen at any time, particularly in the event of certain stress triggers. I’ve worked hard as an adult to find ways to mitigate my symptoms that don’t involve medications, as the ones they tried on me as a kid left me feeling stuporous and weird. I quit the meds as soon as I was old enough to do so, though truth be told I became adept at not taking them when I was a kid. I can cheek pills like a squirrel collecting acorns for winter. So far, I’ve managed my symptoms well on my own, and I hope to keep it that way. I’ve seen too many people drugged into a near zombie state by modern medicine’s attempts to help people like me.
Maggie is never late, either, one of the traits I like best about her, and she is waiting for me. She is dressed casually today, or at least what passes as casual for her, as opposed to her usual professional dress. Most days she wears suits—skirt or pants—and sturdy but fashionable pumps with just the right accessories in terms of jewelry, belts, and such. But when we get together on an off day, she dresses down, which for her is close to my version of dressing up.
Needled to Death Page 23
