“Sheremy… Je taime… My Sheremy,” the pretty Doctor said in my fantasy.
For me, it was coup de foudre. I pictured us on our honeymoon in a French countryside chateau, drinking wine and eating Brea spread over warm baguettes.
However, if I ever hoped to turn my fantasies into reality, I had a few major problems. One, I was bat-shit crazy, a wacko mental patient to her, locked up in Potomac Fields. Two, even if chemistry could develop between us, I’m sure a relationship with me would go against her medical ethics. I also had no idea whether Dr. Bichon was already involved with someone. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring on her finger when I saw her for the first time at group, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t married. I would assume that she had a boyfriend here, a fellow psychologist at Georgetown perhaps, or a long distance relationship she left behind in France.
As for the question of medical ethics, I typed into Google, ‘Ethics of a Doctor/Patient romantic relationship’. I found an article in which the American Medical Association issued a 1992 opinion, stating unequivocally that, “all sexual contact and romantic relationships between current and former patients and their physicians are unethical and constitutes sexual misconduct.”
So I was a mental patient locked up in an asylum with zero chance of developing a romantic relationship with the pretty new Doctor. I have my work cut out for me if I have any chance with Mademoiselle Bichon, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning I was standing by my window staring out into the grounds when Dr. Bichon surprised me by coming into my room, with Head Nurse Butch McAdams in tow. Even before I found out my case had been assigned to Dr. Bichon, I noticed my sexy new Doctor in the hallways on her first day at Potomac Fields, with McAdams showing her around the ward like a devoted puppy. I wished I’d had my favorite French cologne to smell good for her, and to cover the pungent smell of Butch’s underarms.
“You see, Dr. Bishon, I’ve observed him standing there every other Tuesday, not moving, sometimes for hours at a time in this catatonic state, staring out of the window,” McAdams said.
“I see,” Dr. Bichon said. “Interesting. Why on Tuesday?”
“Who knows?”
They talked to each other like I wasn’t there. I felt the good doctor’s quizzical eyes upon me, warming my skin as they studied me.
“What is he staring at so intensely?” Dr. Bichon asked.
“I don’t know. He seems lost. Hasn’t uttered a word in the four weeks he’s been here. I’ve had no problems with him though. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t bother any of the other patients. Just scribbles wavy lines in the notepad all day and types letters and numbers into the laptop. Maybe he thinks he’s some kind of writer. I hear Dr. Billingsley is considering shock therapy on him.”
Shock treatment! Oh shit, nobody mentioned that to me! Better wrap this story up quick before they zap my brain.
“Nurse McAdams, I’d prefer you not to speak in front of the patient regarding his course of treatment,” Dr. Bichon said. “The patient can hear and understand everything you’re saying.”
“Please call me Butch, Doctor Bichon. And I don’t mean to contradict you, but this patient can’t understand what we’re talking about. Watch…”
Nurse McAdams approached me.
“Jeremy. Did you hear what we just said? Nod to me if you heard or understood what I just said… Jeremy? See, Doctor. He’s completely unresponsive. I think ECT would help this patient come out of his depression. I know I’m just trained as a nurse, but if you want my advice, I think they should go through with the procedure. I’ve administered it several times, usually to very good effect on the patients here.”
Christ. With McAdams at the controls, my brain will be fried.
“I’ll take it under advisement,” Dr. Bishon said.
“Oh, let me show you what he writes in his computer,” McAdams said.
“Shouldn’t you ask the patient’s permission before you—”
“He doesn’t even know we’re in the room, Doctor. Look at him.”
Butch opened a Word Document on my laptop, showing pages and pages of random numbers and letters, grouped into small paragraphs.
“See this Doctor? No one has been able to make sense of it.”
“Hmmm,” Dr. Bichon said.
As they leaned over my computer, Butch’s hairy forearm brushed against the starched white uniform of Dr. Bichon. Come on Butch. Really? You think you have a chance with her? Who’s the crazy one here?
“So you’re from France?” McAdams asked.
“Yes,” Dr. Bichon replied.
“Have you been able to do much sightseeing here, Dr. Bichon?”
“I’ve wanted to, but I’ve been much too busy.”
“If you’d like, I’m off this weekend. I could show you around the monuments, museums, some important historical buildings. If you’d like to get out into nature, there’s a nice hike up Sugarloaf Mountain or better yet, we could go to Great Falls National Park. It’s beautiful there. It drives me crazy being cooped up in this place all week.”
“That’s kind of you, Nurse McAdams, but I need to study for my Board Exams this weekend.”
“There’s no need to be so formal with me. Call me Butch, Dr. Bichon. Here’s my card with my personal cell phone number on the back. Just send me a text if you’d like a break from studying.”
“OK. Merci.”
I felt Dr. Bichon approach me. My heart started beating faster, the closer she got to me.
“Sheremy… Sheremy, can you hear me?”
“You see, Dr. Bichon. He’s unresponsive to—”
“What are you looking at out of the window, Jeremy?”
I turned to Dr. Bichon and gestured with my eyes toward Butch. She immediately knew what I wanted.
“Nurse McAdams, would you mind giving me a moment of privacy with my patient?”
“Dr. Billingsley instructed me to watch over you until he returns from—”
“Thank you, but I will be quite all right alone with—”
“Though he’s been stable on his meds, some male patients admitted into this hospital have been known to—”
“I no longer require your assistance, Nurse McAdams,” Dr. Bichon said with emphasis. “Please return to your nursing duties.”
“OK, Doctor Bichon, if you wish.”
Butch glanced at me before he turned to leave. Just to fuck with him, I gave him a little victorious half smile and made direct eye contact with him for the first time. He looked at me suspiciously before leaving the room.
I turned to face Dr. Bichon.
“Alone at last. Bonjour, Doctor…” I said.
“Bonjour,” she replied.
I smiled and stared directly into her eyes. With one deep look I tried to convey that, for me, this was not just a random moment in my life, but the special time when I found, by some miracle of good fortune, the woman I truly loved, hidden within the white antiseptic walls of this asylum. She took a small step back under the heat of my deep piercing gaze.
“You look so pretty today, Dr. Bichon. One look at you and I’m cured. Merci, Chantelle, merci…” I said with an innocent smile.
I saw the blood rush to her cheeks when I told her she was pretty and she broke eye contact with me instantly. I wondered if I had cracked through the hard outer shell she built to protect herself, or if I had gone too far with her. She took a breath, recovered her composure and looked back at me with a clinical stare.
“It’s Dr. Bichon, Sheremy. Please address me as such.”
“Of course, Dr. Bichon, of course. My apologies.”
“No need to apologize…”
An awkward moment passed. I looked out the window again
“So, do you speak French, Sheremy? Parlez vous Francais?”
“No, sorry. I’m afraid not, Dr. Bichon. Oui, Merci and Bonjour are about all I remember from high school French class.”
“No matter. We can converse in English. I’m happy you’ve chosen to open up to me. Can you tell me what you’re staring at out of the window, Sheremy?”
“Oh, at nothing in particular. I was just watching the maintenance crew mow the grounds of the clinic…”
“I see. Well, we can talk further in your individual session. Perhaps you could direct me to the room where the sessions take place. I am a bit lost within the passageways of this hospital.”
“It is a labyrinth here, for sure.”
“I believe our session starts in a few minutes, no?”
“Oui,” I said, smiling at her.
I finally got her to crack a smile, even if it was a small one.
“Follow me, Dr. Bichon.”
We walked silently down the bright corridor, as if in a dream. I had the sudden urge to hold her hand, but of course I restrained the impulse. It didn’t seem natural to be walking with her without holding her hand. The white linoleum tiles under our feet seemed to elevate us off the ground, like we were walking side by side in the clouds.
We sat down together in the private room. She organized the papers on her lap. One sheet fell on the ground and sailed gracefully toward me, landing near my feet.
“I hope this isn’t the order for my lobotomy. I overheard what Nurse McAdams just said. He seems very anxious to pull the trigger on me. Since I’m talking again, can you guys not tie me up on the table and send volts of electricity through my brain please? It’s a little too close to the plot of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest for me. I’m depressed, but I’m not that depressed,” I said, smiling and handing the paper back to her.
“I must apologize for what the nurse said, Sheremy. Of course, now that you are communicating with us, the plan of treatment will be reevaluated. I will discuss the situation with Dr. Billingsley when he returns tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t mind undergoing the shock treatment, it’s just I’m worried that all that shaking may mess up my perfect hair, Doctor.”
She replaced the page in my medical file, without responding to my little joke. She appeared nervous around me. Perhaps that was a good sign.
“You can smile once in a while if you’d like, Dr. Bichon. I don’t mind. Unless humor isn’t permitted in the field of psychiatry,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes, and finally cracked a smile. I smiled back. Ah, a breakthrough! We began the session.
“OK Sheremy. I’d like to ask you why you haven’t spoken to anyone at the hospital here, besides me, in the last four weeks. Do you know why?”
“I guess… I was waiting for someone I felt comfortable with, someone I could talk to, someone like you, Dr. Bichon.”
Dr. Bichon cocked her head to one side, studying me. She took a few notes on a pad.
“I wonder what it is you just wrote in the file about me. Seeing you taking notes on what I say makes me feel like a lunatic, even if I know I’m completely rational. You know, when you’re admitted into a psychiatric hospital, Dr. Bichon, even if you’re communicating in the most coherent manner, everything you say sounds crazy, no matter what it is. I think it’s due to the surroundings. Hey, I’ve got an idea! As we talk, could you picture me in a Hawaiian shirt, sipping a Pena Colada with a big chunk of pineapple on the glass, or better yet, on a beach in the South of France, say in Nice for example, sipping on a glass of Bordeaux—”
Dr. Bichon looked up from her notes.
“Nice?”
“Yes, Dr. Bichon. It’s a quaint little town on the Mediterranean Sea. If you haven’t visited the south of France you really must go. The water is so warm there; it has one of the greatest collections of museums of any city in the—”
“I was born in Nice. I grew up there.”
“Ahhh. Wonderful! Nice! How lucky you are to be born there. It’s one of my favorite places in the world. Magnifique! That explains the warm breeze I feel every time you say my name, Sheremy…”
Dr. Bichon stared at me without speaking.
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Who’s the one not talking now, Doctor? I know you’ve lost control of the interview. You broke the cardinal rule of psychiatry and revealed some personal information about your private life to the crazy patient. Don’t worry, I’m not Hannibal Lector and I won’t follow you to Nice, though I do enjoy a good glass of Chianti on occasion… I’m just kidding! You know I’m just kidding you, right?”
“Of course, of course, Sheremy. I know you’re just joking.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t be quoting from ‘Silence of the Lambs’ if I’m trying to gain your trust! It’s just that you take yourself so seriously, Dr. Bichon. I just have this irrepressible desire to make you laugh, to make you smile. Please try to relax around me. My diagnosis is quite simple, really. I’m just an underachieving son who feels responsible for his dad’s heart attack. If I was there to help him with the yard work, he never would’ve died… I’m depressed about it and feel guilty being here, rather than comforting my Mother, who I know is even more devastated by his death than I am. But I know in order to help her; I have to get my shit together, right?”
“Yes, that is correct. Very good, Sheremy.”
“Contrary to what everyone may think, I feel like I am slowly healing here. How was I to know Dad had a weak heart and blocked arteries? My parents never told me. If I had known, I never would’ve let him exert himself by mowing the back yard. Perhaps you’ve read in my medical file about my unfortunate episode with the lawn mower?”
“I have, Sheremy.”
“It wasn’t some failed attempt at suicide on my part. I cut my hands slamming it against the tree because I wanted to destroy the goddamn old thing with my bare hands. I suppose I looked like some kind of nut to everyone at the funeral, slamming the lawn mower against the tree in the backyard, over and over. No wonder I ended up here. My Dad was only sixty six when he died, you know. He was too young to die… Ah well, he’s gone and there’s nothing I can do to change that now. I suppose it’s time to forgive myself for his death and move on, right, Doctor?”
“Yes, Sheremy, exactement. I’m mean, exactly. Perhaps you have heard of the Seven Stages of Grief. As we mourn the loss of a loved one, we work through the stages of pain and guilt, especially guilt. It sounds like you are attempting to work through the stages, from guilt and depression about your Father’s death, toward reconstruction, acceptance and hope. I’ll give you some printed materials to look at that may help when we meet at group tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I’ve heard of those stages and would like to study them further. Also, when Dr. Billingsley returns to his office, I’d like to meet with him before our group session and apologize to him. I know how hard he’s tried to talk to me and I haven’t given him much of a chance. Could you arrange that for me, Doctor Bichon?”