“Let’s hope that means she knows what she’s doing.” I chuckle nervously.
“Everything’s going to be fine.” Her smile is reassuring even though I notice her sigh. When we reach the building, it takes us another ten minutes to find parking. I wanted to keep looking but we ended up in a parking lot that cost us twenty-five dollars for three hours. What a rip off! Lauren didn’t even flinch. I show Lauren the address and she confirms we’re parked three blocks from the building. As we make our way down the busy street, I take it all in.
There are so many people: men, women, old, young, all different nationalities and ethnicities. There are three guys dancing in front of a fast food restaurant and people are putting money in a bucket in front of them. On another block, there’s a man dressed in a suit and tie telling people they’re going to hell. According to this guy, literally everyone is going to hell.
Lauren looks up at me, amused by my amazement. I’m surprised when she slips her hand in mine but I don’t hesitate to give her a gentle squeeze. I’m amazed at how her hand seems to fit so perfectly in mine. You’d think it was meant specifically for me. She quickly pulls me through the crowd and we make our way to the tall, gold and black building with the address printed on the front. Once we enter, the atmosphere is quiet, a stark contrast from the hustle and bustle outside.
“There should be a directory near the elevator,” Lauren says, letting go of my hand. I wish she hadn’t, but I remind myself I’m a grown man and not a scared little boy. We reach the elevator, and sure enough, the practice’s name is on the directory. Good thing she’s only on the 5th floor. The elevator ride goes faster than I want it to.
“It’s going to be fine, Chris,” she reassures me again. I must look as nervous as I feel. At least we’re the only people in the elevator. When the doors open, there are large embossed letters with the name of the practice on display. We walk through the door and head to the receptionist's desk.
“Good afternoon, welcome to New Horizons.” The receptionist seems cheerfully.
“Hi. I have an appointment with Dr. Clemons at three,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Excellent. Your name please?”
“Christopher Scott.” I’m tapping my fingers on the desk.
“Dr. Clemons is usually booked months in advance. You were really lucky to catch a cancellation,” she says with a bright smile, and I smile too. They must have hired this girl for her voice, because I already feel a little better. Lauren touches my shoulder before heading to what looks to be the waiting area. The receptionist takes my ID and insurance card. I glance over at Lauren and see her flipping through a magazine. She’s sitting with her legs crossed, but one leg is wiggling back and forth. I’m not the only one nervous.
“Okay, Christopher, there are a couple of forms. The first few are the standard confidentiality agreement, HIPPA form, and authorization to bill your insurance. After those are done, you’ll be directed to an assessment screen. Some of the questions may not apply to your visit and you can feel free to not answer them,” she explains, handing me an iPad and a stylus.
“Cool,” I say a little impressed.
“Dr. Clemons will be alerted once everything is complete and she will be right with you. If there is anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask. If you’d feel more comfortable in a private setting we do have an intake room that is available,” she offers.
“No, I’m fine,” I say gratefully, and I make my way to a seat near Lauren.
“iPad?” she kids.
“Fancy.” I laugh, feeling a little more at ease. I scroll through the paper work and sign. Everything starts off smoothly enough until I get to the health questionnaire. That’s when my head starts to hurt.
Do you have frequent dizzy spells?
Do you have obsessive feelings to communicate, but are fearful to do so?
Do you have frequent panic attacks?
Do you feel isolated even at social gatherings?
Do you have seemingly unshakable addictions (drugs, tobacco, food, or sex?)
Do you seem to hear voices when no one else is around?
By the time I’m finished, I’m expecting to see: Your results are in and you’re bat-shit crazy flash across the scene. I let out a deep sigh and run my hands across my face.
“Was it that bad?” Lauren asks with a smile.
“Worse,” I joke. After answering all these questions, the doctor should have a complete treatment plan all set up before she calls me back there.
“Did the questions seem relevant?” she asks curiously. That’s the bad part.
“Almost all of them,” I nod before getting up and returning the iPad to the receptionist.
“Dr. Clemons will be right with you,” she promises, taking it from me. ‘Right with me’ has turned into almost forty minutes. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until my stomach starts to growl. I left all my candy in the car.
“You want me to run and grab you something?” Lauren asks, hearing the monstrous growl it just made.
“No. Hopefully this will be over soon,” I say, though the optimism I had at the beginning of the visit is fading fast.
“Mr. Scott, Dr. Clemons will see you now,” the receptionist calls out to me. I look at Lauren and she pats my leg before I stand. Once I’m standing, I see that a door near the reception desk is open. Standing at the door is an older woman with a long braid, wearing a white sweater and long grey skirt.
“Dr. Clemons?” I ask to be sure.
“That would be me.” She seems warm and pleasant, like the receptionist. “Thank you for being patient. I apologize for the wait. Right this way,” she says, gesturing towards her office. I look back at Lauren who is smiling widely and giving me two thumbs up like I’m about to be up for bat in an all-star game.
When we enter the office, my nerves ease up a little. The atmosphere inside her office is a lot different than the waiting area. The waiting room was cool and modern but her office is warm and welcoming. Well, as much as an office can be. The walls are tan with two brown chairs in front of her desk. Off to the right is the proverbial couch the one you see in the movies. The wall behind her desk has the obligatory degrees hanging but her office doesn’t come off as snobbish or imposing. It’s comfortable and homey.
“You can have a seat here,” she says, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of her desk. I guess it’s not time to lie on the couch and tell her how screwed up I am.
“Are you comfortable? Would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Water?” she asks and my eyes drift to the bowl of candy on her desk.
“I’ll just have one of these,” I say, taking four mini snickers from the dish.
“They are addictive, aren’t they?” She chuckles as she puts on a pair of square black glasses. “Well, I’d like to start by saying that anything that you say to me in this room will be kept strictly confidential. Unless, of course, you ask me to speak to someone on your behalf.”
“Also I record all sessions in case I need to go back over them later,” she states.
“I understand,” I say, pushing my hands down in my coat pocket.
“Have you worked with a lot of patients with my condition?” I ask, eying the picture of her and two little boys.