It had been almost enjoyable, seeing Dr. Barghoutian.
Obviously, his benchmark for what was and was not enjoyable had been lowered considerably over the last few weeks. Nevertheless, talking about his problems to someone who was being paid to listen was oddly soothing. More soothing than watching Volcano or The Peacemaker, during which he could always hear a kind of churning bass note of fear, like someone doing building work across the street.
Strange to discover that describing his fears out loud was less frightening than trying not to think about them. Something about seeing your enemy out in the open.
The pills were less good. He had trouble sleeping that first night and noticeably more trouble the second night. He wept a great deal and had to fight back the urge to go on long walks in the early hours of the morning.
He was taking a couple of codeine at breakfast now, then drinking a large whiskey mid-morning, brushing his teeth vigorously afterward so as not to arouse Jean’s suspicions.
The idea of going into a psychiatric hospital was beginning to seem more and more attractive. But how did one get into a psychiatric hospital? What if you drove your car into a neighbor’s garden? What if you set light to your bed? What if you lay down in the middle of the road?
Did it count if one did that kind of thing deliberately? Or was pretending to be insane itself a symptom of insanity?
And what if the bed was more flammable than expected?
One could perhaps pour water over a large circle of carpet around the bed to act as some kind of barrier.
The third night was pretty much unbearable.
Nevertheless, he doggedly continued to take the pills. Dr. Barghoutian had said that there might be side effects and, on the whole, George preferred treatments which involved pain. After falling off the stepladder he had gone to see a chiropractor who did little more than clap her hands at the back of his head. After several more weeks of discomfort he went to an osteopath who gripped him firmly from behind and hoisted him violently making his vertebrae crack. Within a couple of days he was walking normally again.
Nevertheless he was grateful when his appointment with the clinical psychologist rolled round on day six of the medication.
He had never met a clinical psychologist, professionally or otherwise. In his mind they were not that far removed from people who read tarot cards. It was entirely possible that he would be asked about seeing his mother naked and being bullied at school (he wondered what had happened to the infamous Gladwell twins). Or was that psychotherapy? He was a little unclear about these distinctions.
In the event, his meeting with Ms. Endicott entailed none of the touchy-feely nonsense he was expecting. In fact he could not remember the last time he had had such an engaging conversation.
They talked about his job. They talked about his retirement. They talked about his plans for the future. They talked about Jean and Jamie and Katie. They talked about the forthcoming wedding.
She asked about the panic attacks, when they occurred, what they felt like, how long they lasted. She asked if he had considered suicide. She asked precisely what frightened him and was endlessly patient while he struggled to put into words things which were difficult to put into words (the Orcs, for example, or the way the floor seemed to give way). And if he was embarrassed by some of these things, her attention was earnest and unwavering.
She asked about the lesion and said Dr. Barghoutian could refer George to a dermatologist if that might help. He said, “No,” and explained that he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was only eczema.
She asked whether he had any friends with whom he had discussed these things. He explained that one did not discuss these things with friends. He certainly would not want any of his friends bringing similar problems to him. It was unseemly. She nodded in agreement.
He left the surgery with no tasks to perform and no exercises to do, only the promise of a second appointment in a week’s time. Standing in the car park he remembered that he had failed to mention the side effects of the medication. Then it dawned on him that he was not the person who had got on the bus that morning. He was stronger, more stable, less frightened. He could cope with the side effects of a few pills.
Later that afternoon he was lying in bed watching some golf championship on BBC2. The game had never really appealed to him. But there was something reassuring about the sensible jumpers and all that greenery stretching into the distance.
It seemed unjust that all his efforts at sorting out the mental aspects of the problem had done nothing to sort out the physical aspect of the problem.
It occurred to him that if the lesion were on a toe or a finger he could have it removed and simply be done with it. Then he would have to do nothing except take the tablets and return to the surgery each week till everything returned to normal.
A plan was forming in his head.
The plan, it seemed to him, was rather a good plan.