He sat at the table and invited her to join him by patting the place across from him. “Dr. Jessie McNichol, is it?” he asked.
“Just Jessie is fine,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
He chuckled softly. “I’ve never heard that before.”
“No, really. My father was a therapist. He died recently. Dr. Chad McNichol.”
He looked momentarily stunned. He pulled off his glasses, held them away from his face, closed his eyes softly. “I’m so sorry, Jessie. I met your father on several occasions. I’m sorry to say we never spent much time getting to know each other, but I always heard good things about him.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Perhaps that has something to do with you being here?”
“Not really,” she said with a shrug. “I’m told I have a personality disorder.”
“I see,” he said. He put his phone on the table between them. He had a notebook in front of him, the pen casually resting atop it. He wasn’t writing. Yet. “I’m recording our session because my brain resembles a colander these days. I’ll transcribe from the recording and then delete it. I may take a few notes just to keep me on track. So, who is it that diagnosed you with a personality disorder?”
“My boyfriend,” she said. “Ex-boyfriend.”
He actually laughed, though respectfully. “I hope you benched him when he offered his diagnosis?”
“No, he benched me. Dr. Patrick Monahan.”
He was quiet a moment and then said, “Just the two of us here and yet a room full of doctors.”
“You know Patrick. He said you helped him.”
“That was kind of him,” Dr. Norton said. “Yes, I do know him. A gifted neurosurgeon. And what did you think of his diagnosis? Or would that be better termed disposition.”
“He’s probably right,” she said. “I’m hard to please. I’m easily irritated. I don’t mean to be. I don’t want to be. But I am. There you have it.”
“Is this something you feel like working on?”
“What if I said no?” she asked.
“Then I’m sure we could find something to take up the time. Most of us have multiple issues that could use polish. You would be amazed.”
“No, I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “My father, remember?”
“Of course. So if you could talk about anything today, what would you choose? It’s your hour and I want to be of service.”
“Well, there is one thing I have no one to talk to about. I’m an internist. A good one, some people say. But the thing is, I don’t like being a physician. I haven’t in forever.”
“Hmm. That’s a dilemma, isn’t it? Why did you choose it?”
“I wanted to excel. I wanted to be the best at something. I wanted my father, a PhD, to be proud of me. And yet he was always proudest of my younger brother, who barely got through college.”
“That must be annoying,” Dr. Norton said. “Have you any idea why?”
“I’d be guessing, but because he’s the only boy? And also, he’s so likable—never angry, never irritable...”
“There it is again,” the doctor said.
“Funny how that keeps coming up,” she said dryly.
“Do you mind if I ask—when was the first time you remember being easily irritated and angry?”
“As a child I had tantrums,” she said. “My mother called me her cranky baby. She said she worried about having another baby because I was a lot of work. So I don’t know if this is a problem I’ve always had or something I’ve always been accused of.”
“Tell me something, Jessie. When are you happiest?”
She thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. I think it’s when I believe I’m achieving something, when I expect to be praised.”
“Yet you’re praised for your work as a physician, you told me so. But you’re not happy in your work.”
“Sometimes I am,” she said. “When I can actually make a difference in a life. It’s usually simple and routine—prescribing the right drugs or changing a diagnosis through medical intervention. It’s just that... Well, it seems so simple and brief. Catching an A-fib, for example, prescribing a blood thinner, getting them to the cardiologist, a follow-up, and with the right aftercare, the prognosis is excellent. I do like the feeling of that even if it is routine.”