The doctor’s office was still open when Bill arrived. Bill had never liked going to the doctor, ever since he was a child. The worst part was the waiting room. He would look at all the other patients and wonder what was wrong with them, and whether it was contagious. Then he would look at all the surfaces and think of all the bacteria and viruses multiplying on each one. The supposedly helpful posters on the walls detailing the warning signs of stroke and recommending flu jabs only served to make everything worse. This was the downside to having an imagination.
Today he did his best to ignore the mothers with their sticky-fingered children spreading their germs everywhere, and the elderly people with their, he assumed, weeping sores, and made his way to the reception desk.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ asked the receptionist. Bill didn’t recognise him, he must be new. He was a youngish man with a large neck tattoo.
‘No,’ said Bill, ‘but it’s an emergency.’
‘What kind of emergency?’
‘I’m mad.’
‘OK,’ said the receptionist, ‘and how long have you been mad for?’
‘Just since today.’
‘Right. Well, I’ll put you on the list. Take a seat.’
Bill scanned the seats and tried to figure out which one would have had the least exposure to other human beings, and sat on that one. There were piles of old magazines to read, but he resolved not to touch any of them. They were a contamination hot-spot. He wondered whether anybody had ever done a study of disease transmission rates from magazines found in doctors’ surgery waiting rooms. He got out his phone and googled it. They had. The results were not encouraging. Then he googled whether anybody had ever done a study of disease transmission rates from mobile phones. They had. The results were even worse. Soon he had fallen down a black hole of disease transmission studies from everyday objects and situations and was making a mental list of things to avoid in his future life (door handles, children, seat-back tables on aeroplanes, shaking hands, bean sprouts) when his name was called.
‘Ah, Bill,’ said the doctor, closing the examination room door behind him.
‘Dr Patel,’ said Bill.
Dr Patel held out his hand for Bill to shake. Bill looked at the hand, and at the door handle. ‘Would you mind if I didn’t shake your hand?’ he said. ‘Nothing personal.’
‘Of course,’ said Dr Patel, as if this happened all the time. ‘Please, sit. Unless you would prefer to stand?’
Bill considered the likelihood of the chair being toxic, before resolving that even if it were, he would be unlikely to catch anything by having it touch the backs of his thighs. Christ, he thought, I really am losing it. He crossed everything off his previous mental list of things to avoid and replaced them with one word: googling. Then he sat down.
Dr Patel also sat down, behind his desk. An electric fan on the desk slowly moved back and forth, blowing cool air at Dr Patel, then at him, then at Dr Patel, then at him.
‘So what can I help you with today?’ said Dr Patel. ‘I understand that you are …’ He glanced at his computer screen. ‘Mad.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Bill.
‘And you’ve been mad for one day?’
‘That’s right,’ said Bill again.
‘And how has this “madness” manifested itself?’
‘I think I might be having blackouts. People keep telling me that I’ve said things or done things or been places that I haven’t said or done or been.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Things like … that I saw them earlier on, when I know I didn’t, or that I told them to buy train tickets.’ It sounded puny, said out loud.
‘I see,’ said Dr Patel. ‘And this has only been occurring today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you under any particular stress at the moment?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ Bill took a deep and, he hoped, not germ-saturated breath. ‘Can I count on your discretion?’
‘Of course. Anything you say to me here is entirely confidential.’
‘Dr Patel. As you know, I am a married man, but the truth is that I also have – or had – a lover. And today both my wife and my lover have left me.’
Dr Patel looked momentarily shocked, but swiftly concealed it. Bill knew it had been a mistake to come to his regular surgery. Still, it was too late now. All he could do was try to get the sympathy back to his side.
‘I caught Thandie in bed with another man,’ he said. ‘She kicked me out.’ True, it hadn’t happened in that order, but he couldn’t help but give in to his instinct for drama. ‘My lover rejected me when I went to him for help. Yes! “Him”! And now I have to live in a B&B where the landlady is my ex-lover’s mother. The B&B is filthy, by the way.’
Dr Patel nodded. ‘That does sound like a stressful day.’
‘It is!’ Tears sprung to Bill’s eyes – was he turning into one of those men who cried a lot? Was that a symptom of his infirmity?
‘Have you taken any drugs today?’ asked Dr Patel.
‘No,’ said Bill. ‘I never take drugs. Although I did have a whisky and ginger earlier. Around lunchtime.’
‘At lunchtime? And what did you have for lunch?’
Bill tried to remember. Nothing came to mind. ‘I can’t remember,’ he said. ‘Sal said that I had lunch with Thandie, but I don’t think I did. You see? This is what I mean! In fact, I think I might have forgotten to have lunch. I’m really hungry.’
Dr Patel nodded again. ‘Are you accustomed to drinking at lunchtime?’
‘No, not really. Well, sometimes. Yes.’
Dr Patel typed something into his computer.
‘Have you been experiencing any delusions?’ he asked.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Hearing voices?’
‘No.’
‘Feelings of grandiosity?’
Bill hesitated. Then he said: ‘Sometimes I think I am a truly great writer. I mean, Shakespeare-great.’
‘I’ll put that down as a “maybe”,’ said Dr Patel. ‘Have you had any thoughts of harming yourself or other people?’
‘No.’
‘Have you been having any symptoms at all aside from these lapses in memory?’
‘No. Unless you count getting really freaked out about all the germs in your waiting room.’ Bill was beginning to feel slightly foolish. He found himself wanting to convince Dr Patel that he was mad, rather than that he wasn’t.
‘I don’t count that,’ said Dr Patel. ‘It’s not entirely irrational. Indeed, I would advise all patients wash their hands before they arrive and after they leave. It’s a basic precaution. I wash my own hands between every patient, of course.’
This seemed slightly pointed. ‘I can shake your hand now, if you really want me to,’ said Bill.
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘So …’ said Bill. ‘Am I mad?’
‘Mr Evans, “mad” is not a clinical term. It’s really a layman’s expression for a range of mental health conditions, perhaps encompassing schizo-affective disorder, schizophrenia, psychosis and so on. None of which describes you. It is my professional opinion that you are suffering from low blood sugar combined with extreme stress, possibly exacerbated by dehydration due to the unusually warm weather conditions today. You appear to have some issues with health anxiety, perhaps generalised anxiety too, and you might want to give some thought to your drinking habits. I suggest that you return to your bed and breakfast, have a sandwich and a drink – no alcohol – and get an early night. If your symptoms continue to bother you, do by all means make another appointment to see me, and we can consider whether a course of antidepressants or CBT might be of use. For now, try to relax. Maybe do some yoga. And don’t forget to wash your hands after you leave.’
‘We’re not allowed to eat at the B&B,’ said Bill, feeling peculiarly disappointed.
‘I’m sure that you will be able to work your way around that particular difficulty without my guidance,’ said Dr Patel. ‘Have a pleasant weekend.’