Doctors without borders

This morning, I had a doctor’s appointment.  With PsyPHOB (my psycho-pharmacologist).  Not only because it is de rigueur in New York but because I am the poster child for better living through chemistry.  Nothing serious, just an anti-hyper-neurotic protocol.

(Those who know me wonder whether the protocol is working.  Fair question.)

About ten years ago, I determined that I didn’t want to change my then-existing character flaws and (medically toned down) neuroses because they make me who I am.

Anyway, since PsyPHOB is not my therapist, we can talk about life, etc., in a more conversational, participatory way.

He asked me if I had had a check-up recently.  Well, I was here in his office, wasn’t I?  And, I was going to have a tax check-up with my accountant later. Wasn’t that enough?

PsyPHOB thought a general check-up was a good idea, with a blood work-up.  Why?  Because he says I am middle-aged and peri-menopausal.  Ok, when did he have license to use those words with me?  Fortunately for him, he is 15 years my senior, so it is probably from personal experience with his wife.

Seeing the look on my face, PsyPHOB switched to another topic.  Taxes.  Oh, great.  He started reminiscing about bad tax shelters of 1980s.  Oh, good.  I mentioned jocularly that the only way to get out of a tax problem is to die and, even then, there could be consequences for the decedent’s estate.  Ok, a conversation stopper.

All right-y, then. Let’s go straight to matters at hand.

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At the end of the session, he reminded me about getting a general physical and the usual battery of tests.

I told him “head” and “wallet” were enough for one day.  Maybe, I will have my blood and guts checked out another day.  For now, I was tapped out.