Page 110 of Our Long Days
A wave of déjà vu hits me, reminding me when Dex took me to urgent care. I shake it off because today is a good day. Only positive things can come from this.
A middle-aged man with a very dramatic side-part stands at the end of the corridor.
“That’s me.” I shoot to my feet and scurry after him when he pivots on his heel, marching away.
My Vans slap against the tile floor. I catch up to him before he disappears through a door withDr. Milton Abrams - Psychiatrist, MDengraved into the metal sign. A little breathless, I tumble into the office and stand awkwardly in the entryway.Prestigious awards and college degrees line one wall, but other than that, the room is sterile and bleak.
Without a glance in my direction, Doctor Abrams gestures to a plastic chair across from where he settles behind the large wooden desk. “Take a seat.”
I collapse into the chair, my tote bag filled with God-knows-what clattering to the floor as I stare at him expectantly.
He doesn’t look up as he scans what I presume to be my patient file. “I’m Doctor Abrams, one of the lead psychiatrists here at Crescent Medical Center. So, you went for your assessment…” His voice is monotone.
“Um, two years ago.”
He peers at me over the edge of the paper, hiding his judgment poorly. Heat crawls up my neck.
“Right. Yes. Here it is.” He purses his lips. “Your assessment showed a persistent pattern of inattention and hyperactivity-impulsivity tendencies that have likely been present from the age of twelve. Paired with your anxiety, there was sufficient evidence to diagnose you with Attention-Deficit slash Hyperactivity Disorder.”
He just recited a lot of big words—facts I already know—as if reading the back of a cereal box. “That sounds right.”
An indignant sigh blows past his lips. “And what brings you in today? Two years is a long time to arrange treatment.”
I blink. “I went traveling. Sorry.” Why am I apologizing? “I was hoping to discuss medication options and maybe therapy. I recently transferred to my employer’s insurance company?—”
“Transferred?” he interrupts and studies the paperwork. “It says here you’re on your mother’s insurance. Is that not the case?”
My stomach drops. Shit. I forgot to switch over insurance providers. Bending down, I fumble through the contents of my bag. “Oh, I have the new insurance card with me. Somewhere. One second.”
I’m a rambling mess, cheeks aflame, stomach in knots. How did this happen?
“Miss Sandler,” Doctor Abrams says. I’m too mortified to correct him. “You’ll have to rearrange another appointment.”
My head shoots up. “What? But I’m here today.”
“With the wrong information,” he chastises. “Anything we discuss today could be a total waste of time if your new provider doesn’t cover the treatment. It’s in your best interest.”
No. It’s in yours. The spinner ring on my finger works overtime.
He taps the blue folder. “Speak to my receptionist on your way out. Please note, I’m on vacation for three weeks, and my next availability for an appointment is likely to be early September.”
He glances at his watch in dismissal, making me feel one foot tall.
Embarrassed and dejected, I leave his office on wooden legs.
I blink back my tears, my lip bruised from my teeth. With my chin tucked to my chest, the waiting room blurs as I bypass the reception desk and escape to the parking lot. A horn blares, the siren from an ambulance screams, and the roaring in my ears is so loud.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
The sticky heat causes my hair to stick to my sweaty neck. After losing track of time this morning, my creased Bon Iver T-shirt sits half tucked into my leopard print midi-skirt, which I now see has a mysterious stain on it.
Two years, I waited, and because of my Swiss cheese brain, I now have to wait another two months for answers. How could I be so stupid? The idea of finding a therapist and sourcing medication was daunting enough already.
With a text to my mom telling her I’m ready, I wait for heron a bench. Pulling out my compact mirror, I find tired, green eyes staring back at me.
Whatever I saw in my reflection this summer was an illusion.
I’m still me.
