After two days in the hospital, I was eager to return home under any circumstances. My patience had been worn paper-thin and the lack of sleep was making me irritable now. When I saw Dr. Miles entering my room, it took all my resolve not to tell her to get out.
“How are we today?” she asked in a singsong voice. This was new. Where had the iceberg gone?
I wanted to say ‘we’ were close to the point of biting unwanted visitors but thought that probably wasn’t the best thing to say to my psychiatrist. “Fine,” I mumbled.
“Good,” she replied as if I’d chirped a happy welcome. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve made some modifications to your meds in light of what’s happened.”
“So you changed them to not interact with my pain medications?” I asked.
“Well, that, and I want to avoid any more hallucinations,” she added.
“Hallucinations? What hallucinations?” my voice was rising as I got angrier.
I spoke to the police. They asked me if it was possible you hallucinated being attacked and I had to tell them yes, it was possible with the medicines you were taking,” she added in her now prim, icy voice.
I shot up in the bed, “I did not hallucinate,” I hissed. “How dare you tell them that?”
She adjusted those thick glasses and pushed a strand of limp hair behind her ear, “I had to tell them the truth. It is a known side effect.”
“Get out!” I yelled at her.
“Now there’s no reason—” she began.
“Get out! Get out!” I screamed.
A nurse rushed in, “What’s going on?” she asked in alarm.
“I want this guest out now,” I said enunciating each word.
“I’m her psychiatrist-” Dr. Miles began.
I saw the nurse’s face change and she glanced at me worriedly as if I was having a mental episode.
“I went to her one time and no, I’m not crazy,” I said calmly before I got injected with something. “I don’t like her and I want her removed.”
The nurse still didn’t look completely convinced I wasn’t about to fly out of the bed and start throwing things but she said, “Maybe it would be best for the moment.” I saw her make a small motion to Dr. Miles.
If I wasn’t careful, I was going to find myself in a psych ward. I called my mother, “You have to talk to the doctor and get me out of here. If he won’t release me, I’m checking myself out.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” she asked.
“Wise or not, I’m leaving,” I replied.
She knew that tone and gave in, “Alright, I’ll see what I can find out.”
It was pitch black by the time the paperwork was finally fixed and I was rolled out in a wheelchair to Mom’s car. My body ached in protest as I left it to sit on the passenger’s seat.
My mother saw the wince. “I think you should have listened and stayed a few more days.”
I snapped, “That little witch, Dr. Miles, came by and told me she’d spoken to the police that I could have hallucinated being attacked.”
“Well, honey, she is a doctor. Could it be possible—?”
“Really? Do you think I made these bruises up?” I asked her next page