wanted to use my body and I knew I needed someone at my side. At least for today.
We walked the full length of the hall and back, and I realized quickly that that was more than enough. “Thanks, Becky,” I said. “I needed that.” By then I was feeling a bit dizzy and needed to get back in the bed.
A few minutes later, as I stared up at the white ceiling again, I found myself contemplating the mysteries of the universe—which was not like me at all. But I couldn’t figure out why I hadn’t felt any fear or anxiety while I hovered over my body in the operating room. I’d known I was dying, yet I felt no regret or sorrow over what I was leaving behind.
It wasn’t what I’d expected.
None of it was, considering I was never the type to believe in souls and heaven and all that silly spiritual mumbo jumbo.
A voice in the room startled me out of my thoughts and caused me to jump. “Did someone order a psych consult?”
I lifted my head on the pillow. There stood Leah at the foot of my bed, wearing a white lab coat with a blue shirt underneath it. The evening sunlight from the window reflected blindingly off the aluminum clipboard she hugged to her chest.
“That’s a definite yes,” I replied, more than a little relieved to see her again, “for the crazy cop in room 604.”
Her face lit up with a smile as she moved to the side of my bed.
Chapter Eighteen
“Let’s get you sitting up so I can do a proper assessment,” Leah said. She laid the clipboard on the side table and raised the head of my bed with the push of a button.
This allowed me an opportunity to admire, up close, the lovely details of her face—and how much she had changed. She sure wasn’t a kid anymore.
“Isn’t there some sort of conflict of interest here?” I asked. “Because we know each other personally?”
“I didn’t mention that to anyone,” she said. “Did you?”
“Not a single soul.”
“Then let’s keep it that way, as long as you promise to be honest with me.”
I raised a hand. “Scout’s honor, Doctor.”
She sat down, reached for the clipboard and pulled a retractable pen out of her breast pocket which she clicked with her thumb. “You were never a Scout, were you, Josh?”
She quickly scribbled something down.
“Looks like you caught me in a lie already. Are you making a note of that in my chart?”
She chuckled. “Relax. I’m just jotting down the time of our interview.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days? An interview?”
I waited while she wrote a few more things down, sat forward and crossed her legs.
“I’m just going to ask you a few standard questions to get us started. Are you ready?”
“Fire away.”
Pen in hand, she looked down at the chart. “Do you have any medical problems?” Her eyes lifted and she winked at me. “Besides having been shot twice in the past week.”
I inched upwards on the bed. “Well, I have no spleen, but otherwise, I’m pretty healthy. I exercise regularly, eat well. My blood pressure’s always good.”
“Have you ever been diagnosed with a mental illness in the past?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen a mental health provider such as a psychiatrist, psychologist, or social worker before? Perhaps at work?”
Again, I said no, and she asked if I was on any medications, or if anyone in my family suffered from mental illness.
“Not that I know of.”
“The next bit relates to your social history,” she said. First she asked about my relationships with members of my family and if I’d ever been abused, physically or emotionally.
“No,” I said. “And I’m very close to everyone in my family.”
“Do you belong to any particular religion?”
“Not really,” I replied. “I mean…I was baptized in the Anglican Church, but we only ever went to services on special holidays like Christmas and Easter. It’s not really a big part of my life.”
She wrote that down as well. “Would you describe yourself as a chronic
We walked the full length of the hall and back, and I realized quickly that that was more than enough. “Thanks, Becky,” I said. “I needed that.” By then I was feeling a bit dizzy and needed to get back in the bed.
A few minutes later, as I stared up at the white ceiling again, I found myself contemplating the mysteries of the universe—which was not like me at all. But I couldn’t figure out why I hadn’t felt any fear or anxiety while I hovered over my body in the operating room. I’d known I was dying, yet I felt no regret or sorrow over what I was leaving behind.
It wasn’t what I’d expected.
None of it was, considering I was never the type to believe in souls and heaven and all that silly spiritual mumbo jumbo.
A voice in the room startled me out of my thoughts and caused me to jump. “Did someone order a psych consult?”
I lifted my head on the pillow. There stood Leah at the foot of my bed, wearing a white lab coat with a blue shirt underneath it. The evening sunlight from the window reflected blindingly off the aluminum clipboard she hugged to her chest.
“That’s a definite yes,” I replied, more than a little relieved to see her again, “for the crazy cop in room 604.”
Her face lit up with a smile as she moved to the side of my bed.
Chapter Eighteen
“Let’s get you sitting up so I can do a proper assessment,” Leah said. She laid the clipboard on the side table and raised the head of my bed with the push of a button.
This allowed me an opportunity to admire, up close, the lovely details of her face—and how much she had changed. She sure wasn’t a kid anymore.
“Isn’t there some sort of conflict of interest here?” I asked. “Because we know each other personally?”
“I didn’t mention that to anyone,” she said. “Did you?”
“Not a single soul.”
“Then let’s keep it that way, as long as you promise to be honest with me.”
I raised a hand. “Scout’s honor, Doctor.”
She sat down, reached for the clipboard and pulled a retractable pen out of her breast pocket which she clicked with her thumb. “You were never a Scout, were you, Josh?”
She quickly scribbled something down.
“Looks like you caught me in a lie already. Are you making a note of that in my chart?”
She chuckled. “Relax. I’m just jotting down the time of our interview.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days? An interview?”
I waited while she wrote a few more things down, sat forward and crossed her legs.
“I’m just going to ask you a few standard questions to get us started. Are you ready?”
“Fire away.”
Pen in hand, she looked down at the chart. “Do you have any medical problems?” Her eyes lifted and she winked at me. “Besides having been shot twice in the past week.”
I inched upwards on the bed. “Well, I have no spleen, but otherwise, I’m pretty healthy. I exercise regularly, eat well. My blood pressure’s always good.”
“Have you ever been diagnosed with a mental illness in the past?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen a mental health provider such as a psychiatrist, psychologist, or social worker before? Perhaps at work?”
Again, I said no, and she asked if I was on any medications, or if anyone in my family suffered from mental illness.
“Not that I know of.”
“The next bit relates to your social history,” she said. First she asked about my relationships with members of my family and if I’d ever been abused, physically or emotionally.
“No,” I said. “And I’m very close to everyone in my family.”
“Do you belong to any particular religion?”
“Not really,” I replied. “I mean…I was baptized in the Anglican Church, but we only ever went to services on special holidays like Christmas and Easter. It’s not really a big part of my life.”
She wrote that down as well. “Would you describe yourself as a chronic
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