Suzanne Belcourt's Marshmallow Girl
January 20th, 2006

See What Tomorrow Brings

I have to see the doctor today; I dread seeing the doctor. Luckily it only takes me twenty minutes to walk to his office. I really only see him to get my prescription written; otherwise I have no use for him. As I am sure he has no use for me either, other than someone whom he writes prescriptions to. I really think that during each session as he jots down notes in his book, he is just scribbling my name over and over to make sure that he doesn’t mess up his next line: “So Suzanne, how do you feel about that?”

I wouldn’t mind walking to his office—even in the dead of winter—if he liked his job. Apparently he doesn’t. I once asked him that question and I guess he couldn’t turn the focus back on me since he knows I’m sitting at home collecting disability, so he answered, “It’s a job.” Like he could be a carpenter, but instead chose to be a doctor ’cause the pay was higher. Or maybe he said it matter of factly because he thinks I’m out of my mind anyway so any answer will do. Like if he said, “It’s a monkey,” I would still sit there, smile and nod and it wouldn’t register.

He is always late. I know doctors are usually late, but this one is approximately an hour late every time I see him. Even when I was staying in the hospital he was still late. I waited in the waiting room, smoking my cigarette (I used to smoke back before they banned it indoors and before I banned it from my lungs) waiting for him to see me. I don’t know why he was always so late. Maybe he thinks I’m sitting in the waiting room laughing out loud to myself and he thinks it might amuse and distract the other patients waiting for their doctors who are also late. So this one time I happened to be late and when I did see him he told me that he was waiting for me all day long. I said, “That’s a switch.” He didn’t laugh. I guess he thinks people with Schizophrenia have no sense of humour and because he didn’t have his little notepad to jot the discovery down when one did, he didn’t know exactly how to react. This, of course, is a guess: he probably doesn’t have a sense of humour of his own. I guess the psychiatrists who have no funny bone are paid more, as they will most likely not be the ones who burst out laughing during sessions. He has, after all, the biggest office.

But this doctor left to get a higher paying job in another part of the country and I had to see a new doctor. He was even worse. After every sentence he would state: “You know, people with Schizophrenia often feel that way.” I’d say, “I’m feeling a little depressed today,” and he’d retort, “You know people with Schizophrenia often feel that way.” I’d say, “I’m feeling a little anxious today,” and he’d say the same exact thing. I could say, “You should go jump in a lake,” and I’m sure he’d say the same thing again.

Some days are better now than others. I don’t see a doctor anymore. I kind of rely on my family to let me know if I’m losing it a little, then I just wait for the day to end so I can take my medication and sleep on it, knowing tomorrow will be a bit better.

When I go to the pharmacy to get my prescription filled, the pharmacist, who’s first language is not the same as mine, hands me my medication and twirls his finger around his temple, saying, “This medication is for your...” And after being a little taken aback, I wonder if I should give him my former doctor’s number.

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