Chapter 58 – The Good Doctor
Friday afternoon June 13, 2008 – 1:45 PM
As Frank Newlan crossed the city limits into his hometown of Medford Massachusetts and approached the fork in the road which would ostensibly take him back to the comforts of his condo, he wrestled with his abrupt decision to drop in unannounced on his primary care physician, Dr. Donald Clay.
Newlan had calmed down considerably by the time he reached the Town Line Inn, and his sudden serenity left him feeling conflicted as to whether an unplanned visit to the doctor was absolutely necessary. Apparently, the extra level of concentration which he had somehow summoned, and which allowed him to continue to drive his car after the near-miss auto accident, had a tranquilizing effect on him.
But the truth of the matter was that Newlan could only fool himself for just so long, because there was no denying the fact that just below the surface of his cool exterior, he was still a bundle of nerves.
In the end however, the storm that had been violently raging in Newlan’s subconscious for days on end now appeared to cast the deciding vote, seeing as how the steering wheel of his red Mercury Mystique instinctively pointed itself in the direction of Dr. Clay’s office, as if it had a mind of its own.
Appropriately enough, the Steely Dan song “Doctor Wu” came warbling out of Newlan’s stereo speakers just as he pulled into the Medford Medical Building parking lot, and right from the very first verse about a woman stepping into your life just when you’ve lost all hope, he was transfixed by the haunting melody; so much so that he closed his eyes to the world, leaned back in his leather bucket seat, and let the words engulf him as he took in every line, like a dope addict inhaling a potent fix of crack cocaine.
And by the time the chorus kicked in, Newlan was singing along, calling out for the crazy, stoned doctor, as if his life depended on it.
Newlan had the mind to take a few hits off of a joint before stepping out of his vehicle, but then he thought the better of it. Besides, sometimes a great song had almost the same calming effect on him as marijuana did, and so for a change he didn’t require the artificial aid of his magical motivator to take on one of the many bureaucracies that he had come to loathe over the years such as the dreaded health care system.
Before submitting his feeble body over to a doctor’s examination, Newlan decided to check himself out in the rearview mirror first, and after a week of nearly constant abuse, it wasn’t surprising that his nervous system was staging a rebellion, which included the sorriest set of bloodshot eyes he had ever seen. To remedy his symptoms, Newlan squeezed a couple of drops of Visine onto the surface layer of his eyeballs, and since it was a sunny mid-June afternoon, he figured that going with his prescription sunglasses wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion.
And so with his failing courage momentarily fortified, Newlan stumbled out of his car, took a deep breath and mumbled “Well, here goes nothing.” However, as he sauntered into an office full of grumpy elderly folks, he seriously considered turning around in retreat right from the get-go. But before his troubled mind could even begin to decide whether to stay or go, Doctor Clay’s pleasant young receptionist cut him off at the pass and greeted him with a warm smile.
“May I help you sir?”
“Umm…well…I don’t have an appointment…but I was wondering whether you could pencil me in for a brief consultation with Doctor Clay?” whispered Newlan. He always made it a point to keep his voice on the down-low whenever he visited the doctor’s office ever since an incident years ago where a foxy babe in the waiting room overheard him as he discussed an embarrassing condition involving a sexually transmitted malady with the receptionist.
“I’m sorry sir, but the doctor is completely booked for today, is it anything urgent?” asked the concerned receptionist.
“Could you please ask him whether he can squeeze me in? It’s extremely important that I see him. I’m a longtime patient,” explained Newlan, but the receptionist just shook her head and politely dismissed his request.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible sir…but if you’d like, I can put in a referral for you at the outpatient clinic of the Medford Memorial Hospital.”
Predictably enough, Newlan was none too pleased with the receptionist’s negative response, and he was getting more and more impatient by the second.
“No, no, no, I don’t need to go to an outpatient clinic. I just need to talk to Doctor Clay for five minutes. Please just ask him if he can fit me in for a quick chat. The name’s Newlan…Frank Newlan. He’s very familiar with me,” insisted our anguished protagonist, and the frazzled receptionist could only frown in return, as if to say; “Doctor Clay’s gonna be pissed off at me if I do this.” But in the end she relented and got up from the receptionist’s desk to go seek out the busy doctor.
When the receptionist returned to her post, she shot Newlan a scolding look. But then in the best doctor’s office voice she could muster, she gesticulated her response; “Please take a seat Mr. Newlan. Doctor Clay will see you. But you may have to wait a while. There are quite a few patients scheduled ahead of you.”
To his credit, Newlan heaped a good helping of praise on the receptionist as he sat down in the corner of the waiting room, but all the while he was formulating a cockamamie theory in his twisted mind; “Why do I get the feeling she thinks I’m crazy? I’d bet a million bucks that Doctor Clay told her what a nut job I am.”
With nothing better to do, Newlan immediately began to fidget in his seat, but before he knew it, a half an hour went by…and then an hour….and then another hour.
During the prolonged wait, Newlan attempted to keep himself occupied by sifting through the backlog of magazines which were stacked up on a coffee table in the waiting area; National Geographic, People Magazine, and even The National Enquirer, but none of this so-called doctor’s office reading material held his attention for more than a few minutes.
After a while Newlan was tempted to hike on down to his car and retrieve one of the Rolling Stone magazines that he had been carrying around with him since the start of the trial, and maybe even sneak in a quick hit off of a joint, but once again he resisted temptation.
By the time it reached four thirty in the afternoon Newlan had a good mind to leave in a huff. The endless waiting in a stuffy room full of senile senior citizens was making him almost as jumpy as that the trial itself, and he had just about reached his breaking point.
“This is just great,” muttered Newlan, “We were lucky enough to wrap things up at the courthouse by one o’clock, but instead of getting my weekend off to an early start I end up spending all afternoon watching a bunch of old hags limp in and out of the doctor’s office.”
By the time quarter of five rolled around, Newlan was wondering why he even bothered. What were the chances that Doctor Clay could help him wriggle his way out of his predicament? What were the chances that Doctor Clay could somehow ease his worried mind? What were the chances that Doctor Clay could assist him in any way whatsoever?
Newlan seemed to be answering his own questions as he mumbled to himself with a fatalistic sense of cold conviction; “slim and none…that’s what the chances are.”
Strains of “Doctor Wu” began playing in Newlan’s head, which brought him to the realization that he had had just about enough of this foolishness, and he was visibly miffed as he launched himself out of his chair. However, this time he was definitely going to leave; leave without so much as a warning; leave without even informing the receptionist. He was going to leave without a trace, and he was quite possibly never going to come back again.
“It was a bad idea to begin with,” grumbled Newlan, but just as he was about to make his final exit, a voice called out to him.
“Mr. Newlan.”
It was a familiar voice; it was a friendly voice; it was a soothing voice; it was the voice of Doctor Donald Clay.
Newlan abruptly swung his body around and enthusiastically shoo
k the good doctor’s hand. He was slightly embarrassed by the fact that he may have gotten caught in retreat mode, but he managed to blurt out a friendly hello nonetheless.
Doctor Clay seemed to sense that Newlan was about to abandon ship and so with a somewhat simulated inquisitive look outlining his face, he gently prodded his patient; “Going somewhere Mr. Newlan?”
“Oh no, just getting up to stretch the old limbs,” fibbed Newlan as he lifted his arms into an aerobic stance.
“Sorry for the delay. Please take a seat and I’ll be with you shortly,” instructed Doctor Clay as he pointed Newlan towards an empty examination room.
After a few more minutes of anxious waiting, a nurse slipped into the room and administered the obligatory weigh-in and blood pressure test. But when she inquired about the reason behind his visit, Newlan politely declined to discuss his condition with anyone other than the doctor.
And then finally, at just around 5 PM, the short, balding Doctor Clay, clad in a traditional white lab coat, stepped into the examination room with clipboard in hand and a stethoscope dangling around his neck, and he softly asked, “what can I do for you today Mr. Newlan?”
At that point in his frustratingly long day, it didn’t take much for Newlan to self-combust, and as a matter of fact, he was off and running before the good doctor had even closed the door behind them.
Just the mere sight of the diminutive Doctor Clay, garbed in white from head toe, caused all of the pent-up anxiety that had been building in Newlan’s psyche to explode like a rocket to the moon; just the idea of having an anonymous voice to talk to, to unload on, set him off, ranting like a madman.
“You gotta help me doctor. I swear I think I’m losing my mind. I’m on a trial…a murder trial…bad dreams…nightmares. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Panic attacks…you name it. Oh God help me,” wailed Newlan, and with that he began to sob like a baby.
Newlan buried his face in his hands and ran his fingers though his long, stringy hair which helped to ease his disquiet to some extent. And Doctor Clay, being the sympathetic care-taker that he was, patted him on the back while in a calming voice, he comforted his ailing patient.
“It’s OK Mr. Newlan…everything’s gonna be alright,” predicted the good doctor, but of course, Newlan remained utterly unconvinced.
There were those words again; the same words that people had been preaching to Newlan practically since the day he was born. Every time something bad happens, all you have to do is close your eyes and just like that, by some sort of miraculous act of God, everything turns out alright. Well not for Newlan, not at all. He had learned a long, long time ago that everything doesn’t always turn out alright.
And yet, these same words brought back contrasting memories which were hidden deep within Newlan’s soul. These same words brought back innocent memories of happier times. These same words brought back bittersweet memories of days gone by. These same words brought back painful memories that he’d just assume wash out of his mind forever.
These same words brought back prepubescent memories of being separated from his mother’s bosom and being forced to sleep in a darkened crib where faceless killers haunted his dreams.
These same words brought back memories of his dear mother rocking him to sleep, singing him nursery rhymes, as he cried out in the night.
“Hush little baby don’t you cry, mama’s gonna sing you a lullaby, nighty night, sleep so tight, everything’s gonna be alright.”
These same words brought back adolescent memories of long, peaceful summer days; coming of age memories that he shared with Marianne Plante and no one else.
These same words brought back young adult memories of finding his way in this crazy world; distant memories which could be traced back to the origins of his daily rituals.
And finally these same words brought back recent memories of his serene life before getting caught up in the grueling John Breslin murder trial; before being traumatized by the haunting specter of Marianne Plante’s presence in his world once again.
It seemed that every time Newlan managed to convince himself that everything was indeed going to be alright, it never failed that someone or something would come along and prove him otherwise.
Something, such as the terror of being sent off to kindergarten when all he ever wanted was to be cradled in his mother’s arm, would come along and prove him otherwise.
Something, such as the sadness of finding out at a very early age how children can behave so cruelly towards each other, would come along and prove him otherwise.
Something, such as the indescribable pain of losing the only woman he ever loved and the horrific aftermath which almost cost him his sanity, would come along and prove him otherwise.
And just when Newlan had come to accept his life of mind-numbing routines, he lost his father…and then his mother. In the blink of an eye, the two people he loved more than anyone in this world were gone, leaving him feeling so lost and alone that he could barely get up out of bed in the morning.
But somehow Newlan fought off the devastating depression and now he just wanted to live his remaining days in peace. Now he just wanted to be left alone; but no, it wasn’t to be. Now he was being asked to bear witness to a manipulative competition we call justice, all in the name of someone else’s idea of delusional righteousness. Now he was being compelled to participate in a game that he never wanted to play in the first place. Now he was being forced to comprehend how those same cruel children could grow up to become angry adults who were capable of rage and murder.
In Newlan’s utopia there would be no jealousy, no hatred, no war, no killing. On the contrary, in Newlan’s dreamland, envy and suspicion and violence would be replaced by goodness and hope and people everywhere just living in peace; people everywhere helping their fellow man. Was it so farfetched? Was it so idealistic? Why couldn’t every person, of every race, of every religion, of every color, wake up one day and vow to make this world a better place? In this age of computers and cell phones and wireless devices and 24 hour breaking news coverage, who’s to say why we couldn’t somehow send out the word, informing the citizens of planet Earth that the time had finally come to change our universe for the better.
Of course, in a moment of weakness, Newlan would be the first one to tell you that his ideology was only the byproduct of delusion, and that in the real world, everything doesn’t always turn out alright, which brings us right back to where we started; with Newlan crying his eyes out in the confidential company of a trained professional.
“It is not gonna be alright…not this time Doctor Clay. I swear something bad is gonna happen. I swear it’s never gonna be alright again,” moaned Newlan, while at the same time the good doctor apprehensively looked on. Surely Doctor Clay had witnessed his share of hypochondria-induced outbursts from Newlan over the years, but for the life of him, he could never remember anything this dramatic and intense…and it concerned him greatly.
“Relax Mr. Newlan,” counseled Doctor Clay, but Newlan practically laughed through his tears as he babbled on like the tortured soul that he was.
“Relax you say? How the hell am I gonna relax? I can’t relax. I feel like my mind is being raped. Every waking hour I feel like I’m being abused. And when I finally do fall asleep it’s even worse; the bad dreams, the nightmares. I swear something bad is gonna happen.”
“Let me get this straight Mr. Newlan. You’re a juror on a murder trial and you’re finding it rather stressful. Am I making a correct assumption?” inquired Doctor Clay in a whispered tone, and in a strange way, his mannerisms were beginning to remind Newlan of Breslin’s attorney, R. J. Gleason.
Newlan helped himself to a box of tissues which the good doctor had offered him, and he confided in him like a murder suspect who finally spills his guts out to a probing detective.
“Yes Doctor Clay, I suppose you could say that I’m letting this trial get to me. As much as I hate to admit it,
I guess I’m just not cut out for this type of stuff. I don’t know why, but I’m taking it too much to heart and the responsibility is overwhelming me. I mean, we’ve got a couple of old ladies on the jury, we’ve got a couple of kids in their twenties on the jury, we’ve got a bunch of intelligent professionals on the jury, and not one of them, not one, seems to be taking it as hard as I am. What the hell is wrong with me doctor? Maybe I’m just not normal.”
“Well Mr. Newlan, I took a peek at your records and clearly you do have a history of anxiety…separation anxiety over a former girlfriend…substance abuse…an abnormally long period of grieving over your parents’ deaths. Now I know that I’ve recommended you see a therapist in the past, and you’ve consistently declined any type of formal counseling, but I really think you should give it some consideration,” advised Doctor Clay.
However, as one might expect, Newlan was totally offended by the good doctor’s professional opinion and he completely dismissed his recommendation outright, without so much as a second thought.
“So you think I’m crazy again? It never fails. We always end up back to that conclusion, always the same convenient fallback plan.”
“Mr. Newlan, your decision to participate in counseling is strictly voluntary, but I just so happen to believe in the value of psychiatric therapy,” patiently explained Doctor Clay. “But in the meantime I’m going to write you a prescription for Lorazepam. It’s a mild sedative used to treat cases of anxiety brought on by emotional stress. It should help you to relax, which in turn should help you to get some sleep.”
Before sending Newlan on his way, Doctor Clay had him remove his shirt and he gave him a quick once-over; touching here, prodding there, shining a flashlight down his throat, in his ears, and last but not least, into his pupils.
“Mr. Newlan your eyes look terrible. Is that swelling and redness due primarily from a lack of sleep, or have you been over-imbibing again?” asked the perceptive doctor, and Newlan couldn’t help but smile as he confessed to his sins.
“If by imbibing you mean drinking heavily and smoking marijuana, then I plead the fifth. No, on second thought I take that back. I’m gonna come clean. I plead guilty,” admitted a contrite Newlan.
Doctor Clay was busily scribbling his John Hancock onto a prescription pad when Newlan blurted out his confession, but he stopped his shorthand just long enough to recommend that his longtime patient slow it down a tad.
“Mr. Newlan, you know I’m not one to judge, but I think you should cut back a hair on your alcohol consumption. Granted you don’t smoke cigarettes, and your blood work and cholesterol is consistently within acceptable range, but I think you would be in much better shape if you could just curtail some of the extracurricular activities and get yourself a bit more exercise instead.”
And as the good doctor lectured him, Newlan wistfully thought back to their very first meeting. One of Newlan’s early treks into adulthood involved the task of finding a doctor of his own after his parents’ previous physician had retired, and he meticulously researched the qualifications of numerous MD’s before choosing Doctor Clay some twenty years ago. He even went so far as inquiring about the specific medical schools that each candidate had attended, what they specialized in, and whether they were board certified or not. Today of course, this information can be easily retrieved over the internet, but back in the day, digging up a doctor’s history required a lot more legwork.
When Newlan showed up for his introductory consultation, Doctor Clay was duly impressed by his thoughtful questions…but it didn’t take long for him to start pushing the good doctor’s buttons. In fact, all it took was a simple question regarding his new MD’s age.
“Why do you ask?” wondered Doctor Clay, and being the smart-aleck that he was, Newlan replied with tongue placed firmly in cheek; “Well, we look to be about the same age, so as we grow older we’ll probably be facing the same issues, which can only help us relate to one another on an even plane, if you know what I mean. You know…the old prostate test…with the finger up the old you-know-where.”
“Mr. Newlan, you have many years ahead of you before you have to deal with that issue…and besides it’s a routine test, nothing to be embarrassed about,” retorted Doctor Clay, even though his face began turning red. In any event, as it turned out, their ages were in fact within a year of each other, which, as far as Newlan was concerned, was an important factor in making his final decision on the doctor of his choosing.
And now all these years later, with his prostate exam just around the corner, Newlan continued to give as good as he took.
Newlan patted Doctor Clay’s belly and playfully asked, “What about you, doctor? You look like you could use to lose a few pounds yourself. Maybe you need to join me in the exercise room. And don’t forget, that little test we talked about 20 years ago is finally coming due soon, so I hope that your doctor is gonna treat you as gently as I’m sure you’re gonna treat me.”
“Never mind me…you’re the patient today,” good-naturedly chided Doctor Cay.
“OK, but hey, maybe we should go out for a few drinks sometime. Then we’d be on equal terms. I’m buying…what do you say doctor? Besides I feel like I need to get to know you better before I let you violate me like you’re gonna have to do when I come in for my next physical,” countered Newlan.
The two men, who met as young adults and who were now facing middle age together, genuinely did respect each other, but that didn’t stop Doctor Clay from playfully rebuking Newlan’s mock advances just the same.
“I make it a practice to never socialize with my patients,” replied the good doctor. “But if I did, you’d be the first one I’d call. You are quite the character Mr. Newlan.”
And in return of what he considered to be a high compliment, Newlan feigned humbleness and exclaimed, “And you sir are one hell of a doctor.”
Doctor Clay shook Newlan’s hand, and he was just about to exit the examination room when Newlan remembered why he had come to see him in the first place.
“But wait…doctor, what about the trial,” pleaded Newlan, and Doctor Clay gazed at him for a moment, as if he was trying to read his mind, before replying.
“Let me guess…you want me to write a note for the judge, don’t you?”
Newlan could only sheepishly nod his head in admiration at the perceptiveness of his hand-picked physician, and he replied in kind.
“You are something else,” reiterated Newlan as Doctor Clay mulled over his request.
“Mr. Newlan, in all my years of practicing as a physician, I’ve never once been asked for this type of referral. But as far as I’m concerned, your inability to serve as juror due to health issues is a legitimate claim. I’m not sure whether the judicial system is going to go for this, but if anyone calls and asks me about my diagnosis, I will surely state your case. Now get yourself dressed and I’ll have your note waiting for you with the receptionist,” commanded Doctor Clay.
Newlan was absolutely giddy over his doctor’s willingness to help him out of this larger-than-life jam that he had somehow gotten himself into through no fault of his own, and he pumped the good doctor’s hand in appreciation, while at the same time exclaiming, “I can’t thank you enough Doctor Clay.”
And so with his spirits lifted, Newlan hastily put his shirt back on, tucked in his pants, and hustled his way out the door, and as promised, Doctor Clay’s note was waiting for him at the front desk.
Newlan was practically floating on air as he waltzed down to the parking lot; so much so that when he got back inside his car he lit up a victory joint. But before he pulled out of his parking space, he pulled out the good doctor’s handwritten letter, which was scribbled on one of his prescription forms, and he read the note with a conflicted mixture of amusement and repulsion.
To whom it may concern:
Mr. Frank Newlan has been a patient of mine for over 20 years, and in that time he has suffered from numerous bouts
of severe anxiety. I am afraid that the stress and rigors of serving as a juror on such a serious trial has exacerbated his anxiety to the point where he is unable to sleep, or in fact even function adequately.
I would respectfully request that Mr. Newlan be medically excused from his civic duty, since not doing so could have serious and harmful repercussions on his overall health.
If there are any questions regarding this diagnosis, please don’t hesitate to contact me.
Sincerely,
Dr. Donald Clay, MD
Newlan plowed through the harsh reality of letter over and over again, and the cutting words left a bitter taste in his mouth every time. Apparently, the mere mention of his weaknesses, put down on paper for prosperity, had a sobering effect on him. But on the other hand, although the act of confronting his frailties left him feeling rather dumbfounded, in the grand scheme of things, he was more than happy with Doctor Clay’s conclusion just the same.
“I didn’t think I was that messed up…but hey, if it gets me off of this fuckin’ trial then I don’t care if the good doctor tells the whole world that I’m as crazy as a loon,” indifferently reasoned Newlan as he headed directly over to the local pharmacy to get his prescription filled.
Within a half hour Newlan had his medication in hand. But as he sat in his car and skimmed through the accompanying literature, he became a bit alarmed by some of the side effects of the “mild sedative” as Doctor Clay had put it.
“In a sample of about 3500 patients treated for anxiety, the most frequent adverse reaction to Lorazepam was sedation (15.9%), followed by dizziness (6.9%), weakness (4.2%), and unsteadiness (3.4%). The incidence of sedation and unsteadiness increased with age.”
“Other adverse reactions to benzodiazepines, including Lorazepam, are fatigue, drowsiness, amnesia, memory impairment, confusion, disorientation, hallucinations, depression, and on and on and on.”
To be precise, the pamphlet included a full page of side effects, but Newlan got the point after a few sentences, and it had him comparing the list of adverse reactions to a lyric from one of his favorite Grateful Dead songs entitled “The Wheel” which stated something to the affect that if the thunderbolts don’t do you in then the thunderclap will.
By the time Newlan made his way home he was totally spent, so he fixed himself a snack, smoked a joint, popped down a couple of his newly purchased little helpers, and put himself to bed by 9 PM.
Moreover, as Newlan lowered his head onto his soft fluffy pillow, he was comforted by the bliss of knowing that his days as a member of the jury on the John Breslin murder trial were numbered; not to mention the fact that tomorrow was a Saturday, which meant that he could sleep for as long as his little heart desired.
And sleep Newlan did. Aided by his anti-anxiety medication, Newlan feel into a deep lethargy, complete with vivid, colorful, circus-like dreams of clowns and acrobats and jugglers…but also lions and tigers and bears, oh my.
For some reason, Newlan’s mind had reverted back to his childhood, and his quixotic subconscious fed him with visions of scarecrows and tin men and witches and munchkins and great wizards of Oz.
Newlan wasn’t sure exactly where he was, but he surely knew that he wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Not surprisingly, he found himself in the company of none other than his high school sweetheart, Marianne Plante, along with Toto, as he wound his way down the yellow brick road of life, searching in vain for a homeland that had long since passed him by.
Even in his drug-induced dream state, Newlan wondered whether he would ever find his way back to that illusionary dwelling, which he had longed for so badly and for so many years. Even in his chemically ravaged condition, he wondered whether the pursuit of that elusive peace of mind, which had come to define his very being, was truly an attainable goal. Even in the rarified air of his fantasies, he wondered whether unfeigned serenity was something that ever really existed in the first place; for anyone, at any time.
As Newlan took Marianne Plante by the hand and set about his journey, he wondered in vain why the wicked witch always seemed to seek him out; always hovering over him on her broomstick like a great black cloud.
And with these dark shadows following his every move, Newlan wondered when the world had become such a barren place; a place more frightening than the desolate enchanted forest of the evil Wicked Witch of the West.
Newlan wondered why it had all come down to this.
Newlan prayed that he could go back to those innocent times when he could simply repeat three times “there’s no place like home” and everything turned out alright.
Newlan wondered and he worried and he pleaded and he prayed; as always, hoping for the best but expecting the worst.
Despite the powerful sedatives which were coursing through his veins like a rush of water through a fire hose, Frank Newlan tossed and turned all night. Even in his comatose state and despite the fact that he had learned long ago that everything doesn’t always turn out alright, Newlan seemed to be hoping against hope, on a wing and a prayer, that his wildest dreams might yet come true.
And as such, somehow, in the tear-stained darkness, Newlan seemed to understand that tomorrow, with all its wonder and surprise…was only a heartbeat…away.
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 68
