Shrink

I forgot the appointment, first time ever. But the stresses in this season of life caused my semi-annual visit to the psychiatrist to slip my mind. I was diagnosed clinically depressed, with anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorder twenty years ago, so I’ve regularly seen a doctor to get Prozac, a helpful coping tool. Surprisingly, the doctor’s office didn’t call when I no-showed. They did, however, send a $40 bill, which I promptly paid. It was several months later, faced with both of my children and their families moving further away, and nearly out of my wonder drug, that I called to reschedule. This is where the trouble began. “It looks like you were last seen in January,” the receptionist said. “No, I forgot that...

Call

My head has been a mess. I don’t know if it’s allergies or a simple cold but my head goes from perfectly fine one minute to a raging river the next. When that river flows, all the nose-blowing in the world won’t help—unless I’m willing to sit by the tissue box all night. I was too tired to do that last night, so I blew out all I could then went to bed. But it kept coming, faucet on full throttle, with me constantly snorting stuff back up my nose and down my throat. Not only was I on the verge of drowning, but I sounded like a goose honking.   Lovely sounds. My husband, who had been sleeping soundly, thought so. “Gettin’ excited over here,” he said, “listening to your mating calls.” That’s one way of casting a problem in a better...