Tag Archives: psychiatrists

THE WAITING ROOM

Now that I’ve slept on yesterday for a day (!) I can remember the waiting room.  From way down the hall before anyone walked into the tiny waiting room, I could hear a repetative thud, click, then swoosh.  About every other thud, click, swoosh, came a grunt.  It was enough of a sound to make me wonder if someone needed help.  As I was just about to go see if someone needed assistance, the elderly man turned the corner of the long hallway with a white-haired miserable looking woman.   He had an oxygen tank on a three-legged pole along with his regular cane.

I smiled at them and went back to my reading.  By the time they made it into the waiting room, he huffed and puffed out to me:

Man: I like those boots.  Women don’t know how to dress anymore.

Me:  Oh, thank you.

Man:  You look mighty fine.  I watched Victoria’s Secret the other night and went through two tanks of oxygen.

Wife: Shut up, quit talking, you can’t even breath.

Man: What do you know, she looks nice.

I looked at the wife, smiled, she didn’t smile back.

Then another man walked in who, I kid you not, was a replica of that guy from the Bob Newhart Show who went for treatment, Elliot Carlin

Toupe and all.  Actually, when I just looked up recent pics of him, maybe it was him!

Elliot Carlin from Bob Newhart Image from Rankopedia

He came up to the oxygened man and said:

Elliotman:  I lost my brother to smoking, you know.

Man:  I don’t wanna hear about it.

Man turns to me:  I got hooked on cigarettes in the War.

Me:  Yeah, they gave them to you guys like candy back then, didn’t they.

Wife:  Shut up, leave her alone. Stop talking to her.

Man: What?  She doesn’t have holes in her jeans, she looks nice, nobody dresses nice anymore.

The wife then talks to Elliot Carlin, who had the same mannerisms as the character on TV.

What the hell was I doing there?  Then my doctor called me in.  With 20-20 hindsight, I’d have better of staying out in the waiting room with the normal kookadoodledoos.  Since he was Dr. EEEEVVVVVILLLL.

Going back to bed, even though he told me that if I was so fat, why don’t I do something about it.

Love, Little Miss Sunshine

HOLY CRAP, PSYCHIATRIST

Do not EVER send me to a psychiatrist again.  This particular dingbat is Dr. T.

Now, I should preface this blog with:  I met this more wonderful well-published knowledgeable greatest bedside-mannered psychiatrist who sent me to this new dingbat, so there are some good ones out there.  Psychs are supposed to be neuropharmacologists, that’s why I went.  This #$%^&, Dr. T,  was not.    Why are the good ones with a good bed-side manner, Dr. D, similar to my Sciencegirl, more into research vs. people?

First, I spent hours on the forms I needed to fill out which were sent to me before my appointment.  Being truthful on the forms made me tearful, I was being so nakedly honest,  how would I handle the appointment?  I was actually warned by a friend that this guy was an arrogant prick.  I thought to myself, “I can’t fight this one”.  This is very unlike me.  Well, he won.  I lost.  I battled him in the beginning – guess what his third question was?  ”What is your highest level of education?”  I replied, “I left it blank for a reason.”

“What’s your reason?”

“Are you going to judge me on my degree?  Could you just judge me on how “smart”  I am by talking to me?”

Okey dokey, I put this appointment in the dumpster straight off.

Later in the painfully long appointment  he said, “I see you’ve tried ecstasy.”

“I most certainly did not.”

“Well, you checked it here that you did, and more importantly, you signed it at the bottom stating all of the above statements are true.”

I said, “I think we should go build a cross and nail me to it.   I made a mistake.  I’ve never tried ecstasy.  Though I appreciate you pointing out how I made a mistake.”

In the end, he diagnosed me with “Sarcasm”.

Puuuleeeeeese, my blog readers know that.  And I have a PhD from G of U telling me exactly what’s wrong with you (you arrogant prig), and exactly what you need to prescribe for me, so screw you.  Have a good day, buddy.  He perscribed shit that I won’t fill.

Timely call from Libbylicious.  We are sending him a book on neuropharmacology since he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about with my migraine meds.  Our note will say, “To keep up with your profession”.

In Sarcasm,

Little Miss @#$%ing Sunshine