Appointment III

“Has the crying increased?” the psychiatrist asked.

“Ya, I think so,” I answered, drying my eyes with my sleeve.

“And how is it going with him?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

I straightened up, swallowed the lump in my throat, and mustered as much dignity as I could. “It’s going well, thanks.”

The psychiatrist hmmed and I see’d, and said finally, “Well, it’s not good that your mood swings haven’t evened out, my dear. We can add another medication to try to stabilize you.” He turned to his computer and entered a new prescription as he continued to mumble toward his keyboard about the mechanism of action and the purpose of the medication.

I interrupted. “Listen, I was thinking about . . . well . . . I think I might be pregnant—would that be a problem?”

The doctor looked up from the keyboard, screwing up his eyes, as if contemplating something.

“Why do you think that?” he asked.

“I took a pregnancy test yesterday that showed—well. I don’t know, maybe it’s just a false positive.”

The psychiatrist picked up his phone and punched in an extension. “Hello. I’ve got a patient here that I would like you to look at . . . yes, exactly, thank you.” He set down the receiver, rose to his feet, and directed me to follow him. We went into the next room and met with an OB/GYN, obviously a close colleague of his. They talked about my potential pregnancy as if I weren’t there. “Patient reports she took a pregnancy test that returned a positive result. I need to confirm before I can prescribe her Diazepam.”

The gynecologist, a lively older man, answered lightly, “Let’s take a look. I’m available till three.”