I heard nothing. There were days, then weeks, and then a month passed. And in all of that time, I hadn’t heard anything about an appointment with a new nurse practitioner/psychiatrist. A half-filled prescription bottle of Prozac sat on my table, unopened since that last meeting with the Cat Lady. I could have easily picked up the telephone to call, but the recent experience of “don’t call if you don’t want to be here” just echoed in my mind. I did not want to be there, but I most certainly should have been there.
All I hear now are two Californians, complete strangers before hand and now friends, talking and sharing their individual passions. We’re standing in some semblance of a long line, curving around the terminal hall, as we wait for our turn to check in to our flight to Reykjavik.
There is a memory from last year that stands out amidst it all in my time in New York– the no-context statement by the Cat Lady. “Koreans smile when they’re angry,” she said. Smiling was simply politeness on my part; nothing cultural or ethnic. Her “save,” in light of my confused expression, was something along the lines of “I know that you’re not Korean, I was just making an observation.” That moment clings to me most because it best concluded and surmised our relationship.
There is no particular memory here. No particular anecdote seems worth noting in my memory. Perhaps something interesting is when I was helping a friend with her overweight luggage fees, since the airline booth only took cards with a chip, and I hadn’t cancelled my HSBC account yet. It is more likely that I only find this to be pertinent now that I am in line worrying that my suitcases are grossly overweight.
Someone had to write to the Head Honcho for me, so as to address the dropped line of communication between the Cat Lady and everyone else. I eventually got an appointment with someone more competent, the Outsider (the name is more associative with the location of the office, as opposed to a social thing), and I was prescribed Trazedone to sleep; it didn’t work very well. That nurse practitioner soon left for vacation (NPs, or at least with NYU, work only ten months per year), and I was passed on to work with the Psychiatrist, who prescribed me Celexa.
I nudge my suitcases with my knees and continue typing on the laptop. This is probably the best place finish what I wanted to say about my student health fun in New York. There seems to be some kind of solace in writing all of this, as though in recanting all of what has happened, I am able to better distinguish what really had transgressed.
In Paris, I spent two sessions a week with the Shrink throughout the two semesters in an attempt to work through it all. I wasn’t necessarily direct in what I said, but in conjunction with this, I was able to let go of what had infuriated me a little.
Now I sit here in the lounge, waiting. I’m not so much living in both only past and present at this particular moment, but rather living in the current and just accepting of what has happened.
Image courtesy of flickr.com (user: jeremie-gisserot)