"That's just crazy talk."
“I’ll let you get that,” I say to my mother as I nod towards the door leading to my doctor’s office. The green handle practically smelt of Ebola virus and death.
She shakes her head, “You’re so insane.”
“I’m not!” I protest, eyeing the handle hesitantly. My mother deserved a medal for touching it. “You know how I feel about other people’s hygiene and doctor’s offices.”
“I can’t believe I raised a crazy,” she shakes her head. The nurse asks us to sign in and my mother does it for me, mostly because she still thinks I’m three. “I’m not crazy,” I say, as she checks the clock, noting we’re five minutes early.
She clicks her tongue, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree though,” I note.
At twenty, I still need my mother to accompany me to the doctor’s office, but I swear it’s just so she’ll pay for the visit. Not because I am absolutely terrified of needles in a big way.
“Just in here for your HPV shot today?” A nurse eyes my chart with skepticism and flips through a few pages once I am taken back into an exam room. It’s almost like she knows I’m destined to live a life of Cat Lady-dom and shouldn’t bother. “Have you had your MMR booster?” she asks.
“My what?”
“Measles, mumps, and rubella.”
I look to my mother who shrugs.
“You might need a booster,” the nurse scrunches her nose.
My brain goes through its Time Magazine archives and alerts me that I could end up autistic from an MMR shot. Or brain dead. Or something. Just like Holly Robinson Peet’s kid. I think.
“Wait,” my voice is shaky with fear, “Um, I’m not going to end up autistic or anything from it, am I?”
The nurse and my mother turn and stare at me sitting on the papered doctor’s exam table. It crunches under my weight as I shift uncomfortably. The nurse fake laughs first, “What? Of course, probably not!” she dismisses me, before sashaying out of the room. “Doctor Schwartz with be with you in a minute,” she calls over her shoulder.
The second the door closes my mother kicks me from her chair in the corner, “You idiot! I can’t believe you asked that!”
I rub my shin, “It happens! Maybe. Sometimes. Possibly.”
She shakes her head and looks around the office at the posters of foot bones and the kidneys. “Terrible posters.”
I nod in agreement, “The least they could do is put up a photo of Matt Damon asking me not to smoke. That’d be much more effective than that disgusting lung poster. Or just put up a picture of Britney Spears, that’ll deter kids.”
“She could probably save a million lives,” my mother sighs.
The doctor enters then looking flustered, like Kramer from Seinfeld, except less expressive, “I hear you might need an MMR?”
“Stephanie wants to know if she’s going to become autistic from it!” my mother tattles.
I pretend to laugh, but it’s stifled. “I was just kidding!” I insist.
Dr. Schwartz looks concerned, not in on the joke. “I’d rather be safe than sorry. It probably won’t happen because you’ve already had the shot once, so you have the anti-bodies, which means you’re less likely to become ill after having it again. Also,” he leans back in his chair, “You might want to think about the meningitis vaccine? College kids are more susceptible to it. Are you living in a dorm?”
“God no!” I practically exclaim, “I wouldn’t ever.”
“Why not?” He sits with his pen poised in position, ready to write in my chart.
“You don’t think she could ever possibly share a bathroom do you?” jokes my mother, sort of. “Too many germs!”
Eyebrows raised, he begins to write. “Mm-hmmm. Let me ask you another question,” he flips through my chart, “Do you have any rituals? Like, do you count a lot of things?”
“Uh, no…” I know what he’s getting at.
“Do you ever separate your food? Maybe you don’t like them to touch?”
“I’m not saying I’d eat that KFC’s famous redneck bowl or anything, but I don’t have a problem, no.”
“She won’t touch anything!” my mother giggles, delighted.
“Only at the doctor’s office!” I plead.
“And the grocery store!” She adds, becoming animated. “You should see her! She walks around like this,” my mother demonstrates, posing her arms like a doctor scrubbed in for surgery. She laughs again. She thinks this is a funny game: to exaggerate and joke with a man who has absolutely no sense of humor. My doctor’s face grows concerned. The more my mother speaks, the more he writes.
“She won’t drink out of anyone else’s glass!” she exclaims.
“Neither will you!” I argue back.
She dismisses me, “Oh, that’s different,” she says.
“Oh, that’s- that’s diff- right,” I clench my teeth, but keep a smile, “You’re making me sound crazy!”
My mother cackles, “But ya are, Blanche. Ya are!”
I flash my eyes at her. I desperately want her to shut up.
“Look,” he says, “You can try to justify it with, oh, well they have sanitizer for the carts now, or, I was trying not to get sick, but the fact of the matter is, and this isn’t a dig by any means, but it sounds like you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.”
I want to kill my mother.
“I don’t,” I say, fidgeting with hem of my plaid jumper, realizing that was probably also making me look crazy. I stop immediately.
“I know you say that,” my doctor says, “But from what your mother says… All I’m saying is that, if you want, I can give you some medication, maybe some Prozac, give it a try. A lot of people think OCD isn’t controlling their life, and even if you think it’s a minor case, medication can just, free you. I have so many patients say they feel ‘normal’ now.” He uses air quotes to punctuate his point.
“I’m fine,” I say, “But thank you.”
“It just sounds to me like you have a bit of an OCD problem. It’s not a knock!” he says again.
“I really don’t have it,” I maintain my stance.
“Wait a minute, is that hereditary?” my mother asks with panic in her voice.
The doctor ignores her and returns his attention to me, “I think you might.”
“I’m OK.”
“Well, I see you in a month again anyway, we can revisit it then.”
Oh, great.
He writes a few more words, then exits.
I can only stare at my mother.
“What?” She asks innocently.
“God, he thinks I have OCD now because of you!” I whisper to her sternly, “Thanks a lot!”
“Don’t you?” She laughs.
“No! But I wish I did so that I’d have something to write about!”
She opens a drawer and shoves a fistful of extra long Q-tips into her purse, “Well,” she says, “Now you can write about this.”
She shakes her head, “You’re so insane.”
“I’m not!” I protest, eyeing the handle hesitantly. My mother deserved a medal for touching it. “You know how I feel about other people’s hygiene and doctor’s offices.”
“I can’t believe I raised a crazy,” she shakes her head. The nurse asks us to sign in and my mother does it for me, mostly because she still thinks I’m three. “I’m not crazy,” I say, as she checks the clock, noting we’re five minutes early.
She clicks her tongue, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree though,” I note.
At twenty, I still need my mother to accompany me to the doctor’s office, but I swear it’s just so she’ll pay for the visit. Not because I am absolutely terrified of needles in a big way.
“Just in here for your HPV shot today?” A nurse eyes my chart with skepticism and flips through a few pages once I am taken back into an exam room. It’s almost like she knows I’m destined to live a life of Cat Lady-dom and shouldn’t bother. “Have you had your MMR booster?” she asks.
“My what?”
“Measles, mumps, and rubella.”
I look to my mother who shrugs.
“You might need a booster,” the nurse scrunches her nose.
My brain goes through its Time Magazine archives and alerts me that I could end up autistic from an MMR shot. Or brain dead. Or something. Just like Holly Robinson Peet’s kid. I think.
“Wait,” my voice is shaky with fear, “Um, I’m not going to end up autistic or anything from it, am I?”
The nurse and my mother turn and stare at me sitting on the papered doctor’s exam table. It crunches under my weight as I shift uncomfortably. The nurse fake laughs first, “What? Of course, probably not!” she dismisses me, before sashaying out of the room. “Doctor Schwartz with be with you in a minute,” she calls over her shoulder.
The second the door closes my mother kicks me from her chair in the corner, “You idiot! I can’t believe you asked that!”
I rub my shin, “It happens! Maybe. Sometimes. Possibly.”
She shakes her head and looks around the office at the posters of foot bones and the kidneys. “Terrible posters.”
I nod in agreement, “The least they could do is put up a photo of Matt Damon asking me not to smoke. That’d be much more effective than that disgusting lung poster. Or just put up a picture of Britney Spears, that’ll deter kids.”
“She could probably save a million lives,” my mother sighs.
The doctor enters then looking flustered, like Kramer from Seinfeld, except less expressive, “I hear you might need an MMR?”
“Stephanie wants to know if she’s going to become autistic from it!” my mother tattles.
I pretend to laugh, but it’s stifled. “I was just kidding!” I insist.
Dr. Schwartz looks concerned, not in on the joke. “I’d rather be safe than sorry. It probably won’t happen because you’ve already had the shot once, so you have the anti-bodies, which means you’re less likely to become ill after having it again. Also,” he leans back in his chair, “You might want to think about the meningitis vaccine? College kids are more susceptible to it. Are you living in a dorm?”
“God no!” I practically exclaim, “I wouldn’t ever.”
“Why not?” He sits with his pen poised in position, ready to write in my chart.
“You don’t think she could ever possibly share a bathroom do you?” jokes my mother, sort of. “Too many germs!”
Eyebrows raised, he begins to write. “Mm-hmmm. Let me ask you another question,” he flips through my chart, “Do you have any rituals? Like, do you count a lot of things?”
“Uh, no…” I know what he’s getting at.
“Do you ever separate your food? Maybe you don’t like them to touch?”
“I’m not saying I’d eat that KFC’s famous redneck bowl or anything, but I don’t have a problem, no.”
“She won’t touch anything!” my mother giggles, delighted.
“Only at the doctor’s office!” I plead.
“And the grocery store!” She adds, becoming animated. “You should see her! She walks around like this,” my mother demonstrates, posing her arms like a doctor scrubbed in for surgery. She laughs again. She thinks this is a funny game: to exaggerate and joke with a man who has absolutely no sense of humor. My doctor’s face grows concerned. The more my mother speaks, the more he writes.
“She won’t drink out of anyone else’s glass!” she exclaims.
“Neither will you!” I argue back.
She dismisses me, “Oh, that’s different,” she says.
“Oh, that’s- that’s diff- right,” I clench my teeth, but keep a smile, “You’re making me sound crazy!”
My mother cackles, “But ya are, Blanche. Ya are!”
I flash my eyes at her. I desperately want her to shut up.
“Look,” he says, “You can try to justify it with, oh, well they have sanitizer for the carts now, or, I was trying not to get sick, but the fact of the matter is, and this isn’t a dig by any means, but it sounds like you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.”
I want to kill my mother.
“I don’t,” I say, fidgeting with hem of my plaid jumper, realizing that was probably also making me look crazy. I stop immediately.
“I know you say that,” my doctor says, “But from what your mother says… All I’m saying is that, if you want, I can give you some medication, maybe some Prozac, give it a try. A lot of people think OCD isn’t controlling their life, and even if you think it’s a minor case, medication can just, free you. I have so many patients say they feel ‘normal’ now.” He uses air quotes to punctuate his point.
“I’m fine,” I say, “But thank you.”
“It just sounds to me like you have a bit of an OCD problem. It’s not a knock!” he says again.
“I really don’t have it,” I maintain my stance.
“Wait a minute, is that hereditary?” my mother asks with panic in her voice.
The doctor ignores her and returns his attention to me, “I think you might.”
“I’m OK.”
“Well, I see you in a month again anyway, we can revisit it then.”
Oh, great.
He writes a few more words, then exits.
I can only stare at my mother.
“What?” She asks innocently.
“God, he thinks I have OCD now because of you!” I whisper to her sternly, “Thanks a lot!”
“Don’t you?” She laughs.
“No! But I wish I did so that I’d have something to write about!”
She opens a drawer and shoves a fistful of extra long Q-tips into her purse, “Well,” she says, “Now you can write about this.”