The Doctor is In

I was visiting a friend in a psychiatric hospital one day years ago and I had a heck of time getting out of there when I went to leave as the staff seemed to think they had a bed with my name on it for me. While I was sorting out all this at the admissions desk and struggling to clear the air, a psychiatrist walked up to me and took me aside to discuss a patient he was treating and, apparently, I had been too. He laid out some details about this unfortunate fellow, a person I had never heard of, and I think I might have thrown in a few diagnostic impressions myself until the poor doctor suddenly realized he had mistaken me for some other learned physician and that he was revealing private medical information about a patient of his to a total stranger.

Maybe not surprisingly, I felt better about being mistaken for a psychiatrist than a psychiatric patient and the personnel at the admissions desk, unaware of the particulars of my discussion with the doctor, seemed impressed and were more than glad to see me on my way when my consultation with the medic was over. One of them might have even mumbled a half apology, though I can’t remember for sure.

If you need any help, my door is always open. All this time later, I have honed my psychiatry look and skills and my rates are reasonable. A slice of pepperoni and mushroom will buy you a half hour private session but if you dare to show up with any pineapple on it, you will be locked up in my shed as you will have thereby demonstrated, with that poor decision, a disturbing degree of instability.

©2019 Jim Hagarty

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.