know what to tell you, Luce. I guess this place is just getting to me or something.”
“Julie,” she says in her charming Southern accent, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to consult our friendly CPEP Bible on this one. We’ll let the good word of the Lord tell us how you should’ve handled this guy.” She opens the copy of the New Testament which has been hanging around the bookshelf in the nurses’ station for the past few weeks.
“I’ve been using the New Testament like the
I Ching
recently, and it hasn’t let me down yet. I’m going to pick a random verse from the book, and that will give us holy, divine guidance on what to do with this sort of patient. Okay, here we go.” She reads the verse into the phone:
“Away with such a fellow from the earth, for he is not fit to live.”
Acts 22, Chapter 22, Verse 22
“Well! I guess now we have our answer,” she hoots. I am amazed. The Bible. Yet there’s no “Turn the other cheek,” no “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”
“All right, then,” I say. “I guess that’s that.”
“Yep. That is that.”
“But Luce, seriously. Think about what I did.”
“Don’t worry about it, baby. We all go there at some point. Well, you and I go there, anyway. Remember the time I totally attacked that patient who was being a dick to everybody? And how Chuck had to pull me off him?”
“How can I forget?” I say. “Between you and Chuck, I’ve heard about it enough times.” I’m probably a little jealous: When Chuck tells how Lucy manhandled the guy, his eyes mist over at the memory. Instead of proving our manhood to our fathers, now Lucy and I are unconsciously using Chuck to judge the competition. Lucy is winning. “Anyway, I’m sorry about the razor. I truly have no idea how it got by me.”
“No harm, no foul, right?” says Lucy.
“Right. No one was hurt. You letting that guy go or what?”
“It’s already taken care of,” she chirps. “He is O.T.D.”
Out the door. Good. “Back to the cops?” I ask, though I know the answer. He’s an arrested prisoner. There’s nowhere else he could go.
It’s just that I don’t want to hang up the phone yet. I always love talking to Lucy. Her down-home drawl envelops me, like a mint-julep blanket.
“Hell yeah! You think I’m gonna let the razor man back onto the street?” she crows. “Hey, Julie.”
“Yeah?”
“Happy birthday, girl.”
“Thanks, pal.”
The Wind Cries Mary
A fter our Thursday morning faculty meeting, I’m hanging out with Lucy in her call-room down the hall from the CPEP. In her cramped office is a small bed beside a chair and desk, a telephone and reading lamp on its edge.
I need to talk with her about what happened with the razor man. I’m worried about my level of sadism, how quickly I can transform from Dorothy to the Wicked Witch.
“I went through the same thing when I first got here. Eventually it settles down, you find your pacing. Talking about it helps. I’ve got a great shrink for you if you want. I know she’s got an opening ‘cause I just wrapped up with her.” She writes the number of her therapist down for me on a rectangular Post-it note, emblazoned with the name of a new antipsychotic drug, courtesy of one of the many visiting drug reps.
My new therapist’s name, written in Lucy’s commanding capital letters, is Mary Shears. Lucy is handing me a savior named Mary. Mother of God. That’s gotta be a good sign, right? From a psychotherapeutic point of view, it will be easier for me to have the corrective emotional experience of a caring and articulate mother if she’s got the ultimate maternal name. The Shears part triggers images of gardening, pruning, weeding—the next best thing to a machete, which might be preferable for hacking through my psychic jungle. And how does her garden grow, I wonder?
“What’s she like?” I ask Lucy. “Typhoid Mary? Is she quite contrary?”
“Ha! Not! You’ll totally dig her.
“Julie,” she says in her charming Southern accent, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to consult our friendly CPEP Bible on this one. We’ll let the good word of the Lord tell us how you should’ve handled this guy.” She opens the copy of the New Testament which has been hanging around the bookshelf in the nurses’ station for the past few weeks.
“I’ve been using the New Testament like the
I Ching
recently, and it hasn’t let me down yet. I’m going to pick a random verse from the book, and that will give us holy, divine guidance on what to do with this sort of patient. Okay, here we go.” She reads the verse into the phone:
“Away with such a fellow from the earth, for he is not fit to live.”
Acts 22, Chapter 22, Verse 22
“Well! I guess now we have our answer,” she hoots. I am amazed. The Bible. Yet there’s no “Turn the other cheek,” no “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”
“All right, then,” I say. “I guess that’s that.”
“Yep. That is that.”
“But Luce, seriously. Think about what I did.”
“Don’t worry about it, baby. We all go there at some point. Well, you and I go there, anyway. Remember the time I totally attacked that patient who was being a dick to everybody? And how Chuck had to pull me off him?”
“How can I forget?” I say. “Between you and Chuck, I’ve heard about it enough times.” I’m probably a little jealous: When Chuck tells how Lucy manhandled the guy, his eyes mist over at the memory. Instead of proving our manhood to our fathers, now Lucy and I are unconsciously using Chuck to judge the competition. Lucy is winning. “Anyway, I’m sorry about the razor. I truly have no idea how it got by me.”
“No harm, no foul, right?” says Lucy.
“Right. No one was hurt. You letting that guy go or what?”
“It’s already taken care of,” she chirps. “He is O.T.D.”
Out the door. Good. “Back to the cops?” I ask, though I know the answer. He’s an arrested prisoner. There’s nowhere else he could go.
It’s just that I don’t want to hang up the phone yet. I always love talking to Lucy. Her down-home drawl envelops me, like a mint-julep blanket.
“Hell yeah! You think I’m gonna let the razor man back onto the street?” she crows. “Hey, Julie.”
“Yeah?”
“Happy birthday, girl.”
“Thanks, pal.”
The Wind Cries Mary
A fter our Thursday morning faculty meeting, I’m hanging out with Lucy in her call-room down the hall from the CPEP. In her cramped office is a small bed beside a chair and desk, a telephone and reading lamp on its edge.
I need to talk with her about what happened with the razor man. I’m worried about my level of sadism, how quickly I can transform from Dorothy to the Wicked Witch.
“I went through the same thing when I first got here. Eventually it settles down, you find your pacing. Talking about it helps. I’ve got a great shrink for you if you want. I know she’s got an opening ‘cause I just wrapped up with her.” She writes the number of her therapist down for me on a rectangular Post-it note, emblazoned with the name of a new antipsychotic drug, courtesy of one of the many visiting drug reps.
My new therapist’s name, written in Lucy’s commanding capital letters, is Mary Shears. Lucy is handing me a savior named Mary. Mother of God. That’s gotta be a good sign, right? From a psychotherapeutic point of view, it will be easier for me to have the corrective emotional experience of a caring and articulate mother if she’s got the ultimate maternal name. The Shears part triggers images of gardening, pruning, weeding—the next best thing to a machete, which might be preferable for hacking through my psychic jungle. And how does her garden grow, I wonder?
“What’s she like?” I ask Lucy. “Typhoid Mary? Is she quite contrary?”
“Ha! Not! You’ll totally dig her.
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