“How are you?” she asked as I sat down.
The walls in Dr. Singh’s office were bare except for this one small picture of a fisherman standing on a beach with a net slung over his shoulder.
It looked like stock photography, like the picture that came free with the frame. She didn’t even have any diplomas up on the wall.
“I feel like I might not be driving the bus of my consciousness,” I said. “Not in control,” she said. “I guess.”
Her legs were crossed, and her left foot was tapping the ground like it was trying to send a Morse code SOS.
Dr. Karen Singh was in constant motion, like a badly drawn cartoon, but she had the single greatest resting poker face I’d ever seen.
She never betrayed disgust or surprise. I remember when I told her that I sometimes imagine ripping my middle finger off and stomping on it,
she said, “Because your pain has a locus there,” and I said, “Maybe,” and she shrugged and said, “That’s not uncommon.”
“Has there been an uptick in your rumination or intrusive thoughts?” “I don’t know. They continue to intrude.”
“When did you put that Band-Aid on?” “I don’t know,” I lied. She stared at me, unblinking.
“After lunch.” “And with your fear of C. diff?” “I don’t know. Sometimes it happens.”
“Do you feel that you’re able to resist the—” “No,” I said.
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