I just reached into my pocket to pull out a piece of paper that reads "Farmers Mkt: Magazine and Girod." Confused, I looked to find the name of the bar printed along one side of it. A blank receipt, apparently, on which my final bartender of the night had written directions to the question I must have asked: where can I find some good groceries around here? It seemed like everywhere I've been in the past week, people are offering me directions, opinions, and downright orders to go do all the best places in the city. So much so, that I guess one of them went to the extent of writing it down for me because he figured I'd forget it. New Yorkers make a life out of rating their favorite pizza or bagel shop and assuming a lifetime loyalty to never go anywhere else, but here it seems like people are genuinely proud of what their city has to offer, and want to make sure I see it.

hold on..

I'm at a coffee shop right now, which has a chalk sign next to it that reads if you can name who said today's quote, you'd get a free cup of coffee. Today's quote: "All that we are is the result of what we have thought. The mind is everything. What we think we become." I walked in and said "Carl Jung." Wrong answer, it was Buddha. $1.85 for my coffee. I've been sitting here with my laptop and in walks an older man who says "Carl Jung." Before giving me time to feel proud of myself for thinking along the right lines, another older man speaks my new theme riddle to the barista on his way out the door:

as I was walking down the street
I met a man
who tipped his hat and drew his cane
in this riddle was his name

Bunch of Wackos in this town.


Anyway, I meant to relay the story of a perfect monologue I heard the other day while in clinic. As it turns out, just about everybody round here has a story to tell, sometimes several. Older black people in particular, it turns out, have had it rough in the past few years. Between the crime and the hurricanes, and the culture of violence they happened to raise their children in, they've really got the short end out here. One old lady was telling me that her son locks her in her room in the house and throws things at her if she ever enters the "house." Literally, a prisoner in her own home. The police and hospitals keep taking him away for short periods, but "never long enough."
But the story I wanted to write down came from a different lady, who prided herself on raising a good family that didn't "do" drugs and violence. I'm not going to try to relate the story word for word, but here's an idea:

Her son was in his early 40's, living well and working hard in a factory. He drank alot, but only because he enjoyed life so much. He had many, many friends and was well loved by them and his wife and daughter. She started to notice a few years ago that he had started to lose weight. He didn't believe her when she said so (probably thought she was being overly motherly), but eventually he started to look sick. At some point, he finally went to the doctor and they found his liver was already swollen from all the cancer. They never even found out where it came from originally, but by the time they found it he was on death's door. He died last December. His funeral was absolutely packed, because this man was so well loved in his community. This woman had outlived all 12 of her brothers and sisters, or as she said it "I buried the last of my sisters two years ago, but when I had to bury my son last December, I lost it. But I'm feeling better now." Worst part is, the son's wife remarried immediately. "too soon" according to the old lady, who figures this means a long history of cheating before the cancer.
It's a sad story, like a lot of sad stories are, but this one was given as a completed monologue, the kind of which I'd only seen actors try for. It was complete with pauses, introspective mood swings, and the kind of eyes that didn't cry but became just a tiny bit shinier at the most poignant moments. But the thing that made this visit special was that the monologue was instantly therapeutic. She looked different after she said it, like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. The whole visit could have come straight out of a play, as it started in the classic form of a "regular checkup." I started by running the gambit of what you ask when old hypertensive diabetics come in, and when I she told me that her son had died almost a year ago, I told her a few things I'd been reading about Love and Survival, and how it was in her best medical interest to make sure she kept some of the connections she still had. I put my stethoscope on her heart ("How's the old ticker, doctor?"), and then she began the monologue. I figured the heart exam could wait, so I just my stethoscope away and shut the hell up for the next 5 minutes. All I had to do after that point was sit back and enjoy the play. It was like being in the presence of Shakespeare. When it was over, I finished the physical exam, told her that her thoughts about her son being cheated on before his death weren't going to help anything, and suggested she keep a strong relationship to her late son's 17-year old daughter. Then I left, and the "real" doctor came in and adjusted her medications.
Psychiatry?