Always Watching

CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning, I woke late and groggy. Though I had no appetite, I made myself eat a muffin on the way to the hospital, washing it down with a tea that I grabbed at the corner coffee shop. I was hoping to talk to one of my colleagues before my rounds. I’d decided it was probably better for Heather if she had a doctor who had no previous involvement with the commune, but I wanted to discuss it with someone first. As I headed down the hallway toward the unit, I ran into Michelle. She smiled and said, “Good morning, Dr. Lavoie.”

I smiled back. “Morning.”

She stopped and looked at my scarf. “I love that. What a pretty color.”

I glanced down at the lavender scarf. I’d been distracted that morning and barely remembered putting it on. “Thanks. I’ve had it forever.”

“You always dress so nice. Well, have a good day.”

“You too.”

She continued on her way, leaving me feeling lighter in spirit than when I’d first come through the doors. Michelle was a lovely person, always positive and complimentary. A few days earlier in the break room, I’d told her I was turning fifty-five this month. She’d paused with her mug halfway to her mouth, and said, “You’re kidding me. I thought we were around the same age.”

Michelle was probably only in her mid-forties. I laughed. “I wish.”

She said, “Well, you look amazing.”

“That’s very kind.” I know that I look young for my age—I’ve taken care of my skin and eat healthy, though I struggle with an addiction to popcorn and peanut M&Ms. I balance it out with bike rides and yoga. Since I stopped dyeing my hair in my forties, deciding that it was just too much trouble, I’d come to like the silver, which was now in all different shades, ranging from nearly snow-white around my face to almost black on the underside. I used to wear it in a short, choppy cut, but I’d been letting it grow, and it now fell just past my shoulders.

To work with my coloring, I wear clothes in shades of gray and steel blues. I favor a bohemian style—long skirts with boots, loose flowing slacks and tunics, chunky silver jewelry, wraps and scarves, which fits with my love of art and traveling. Sometimes I wonder if I was a gypsy in a former life. But there’s another part of me that just loves to be home. Paul used to say, as we bathed together and drank wine straight from the bottle, “You’re a complicated woman, Nadine. I’m looking forward to spending the rest of my life figuring you out.”

My heart panged, like it did every time my thoughts drifted to my husband, Paul, who’d passed away ten years ago from prostate cancer. I had the love of my life, but now my work and my patients were my relationship.

That morning, as I walked down the hallway, I was disappointed that I’d missed Maurice, another psychiatrist who worked in the unit. I’d wanted to talk about Heather with him, but he’d finished his rounds early. Still thinking about what to do, and considering other doctors, I almost bumped into Dr. Kevin Nasser as he stepped out of his office—as the staff psychologist, he had an office on the main ward.

Kevin reached out to steady me, his hand warm on my arm, then said, “Good morning, Nadine. How are you?”

Many people just give the standard greetings without any real meaning behind the words, but from the first moment I’d met Kevin, I got the feeling that when we exchanged pleasantries, he was genuinely interested in my answer.

“I’m well, thanks. Is Erick in today?”

“He’s off for the rest of the week.” My face must have revealed something because he said, “Can I help?”

“I just wanted to get a second opinion on something.” I looked down the hallway, toward the ward. I was going to have to make a decision about this soon.

“Step into my office.” He opened the door.

I hesitated, wondering if I should work this out myself, then, still unsure of how to handle the situation with Heather, walked through. I hadn’t been in his office before and it appeared that he’d tried to fix it up a little: a fern in the corner, a wall tapestry, which looked like it might be from the Middle East.

When Kevin caught the direction of my gaze, he said, “Patients should have something to look at other than my ugly mug.”

He was far from ugly. True, he wasn’t classically handsome, like Daniel Simeon, but he had an interesting face. His features were almost Lebanese-looking, his nose broad, his skin tanned, with deep-set dark eyes, the corners turning down with fine lines radiating out. I knew he was forty-five, but his hair was still inky black, not a trace of gray. He didn’t dress very formal and tended to wear dark denim jeans with a nice shirt and tie, and then a casual blazer. He also wore clear-rimmed glasses with black metal earpieces that suited him. I’d only spoken to him a few times but thought him friendly and intelligent.

He said, “So how are you finding working at the hospital?”

“I’m enjoying it. Everyone’s been very welcoming.”

“Well, if I can ever help in any way, you let me know.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

He said, “So what did you need a second opinion on?”

“A patient, Heather Simeon, was admitted a couple of nights ago after an attempted suicide, and during our initial interview she revealed something that made me realize I might not be the best doctor for her. I’d like to refer her to someone else.” Though we need to keep the patients’ information confidential outside of the ward, the doctors can discuss them because we work as a team.

“Can you tell me what she revealed?”

“We have a mutual acquaintance….” Why was I dancing around this? I was a professional, he was professional. There was no reason to be embarrassed.

“And you think this might make it difficult to be impartial?” His tone was kind and matter-of-fact. I could see why he was so popular with the patients.

“Yes, but it’s more complicated than that.” I took a breath. “She and her husband were recently living at a commune in Jordan River.”

He wrinkled his forehead. “You mean The River of Life Center?”

“You know them?”

“I attended a yoga retreat there years ago.”

“What did you think?”

“They were a little intense and called a few times after, wanting me to attend other retreats, but besides that, they were okay. They seem to be heavily influenced by Eastern philosophy, mysticism, Hinduism, and Buddhism, and they’re also dabbling in some Gestalt Therapy, but I didn’t get the feeling they were married to any one belief.” He added, “They’ve done some good things for the community, recycling and conservation programs, planting a public garden.”

I thought over everything he said, which matched with what I’d learned from Heather and my own online research.

“So how does the center fit into your dilemma?” he asked.

“My patient and her husband lived there for a while as full-time members, and since they’ve left, it seems like some members have been harassing them.”

He looked concerned. “What kind of harassment?”

“From what I can tell, it’s mostly phone calls, similar to what you received, but they appear to be of a more pressuring nature. The center wants them to come back.”

“Do you know why they left?”

“She was pregnant.” I explained what Heather had shared about the center’s beliefs and that she felt members were blaming her for the miscarriage.

“How’s she doing now? Has she been showing any signs of paranoia?”

“She’s understandably depressed. She also has some symptoms of complex post-traumatic stress syndrome, and she’s very dependent on her husband.” My mind drifted back to the commune, the way my mother didn’t want to go into town alone after we returned home, how she made my father go everywhere with her.

Kevin said, “Is that what you wanted an opinion on?”

“No, it’s about the center. I knew the leader. When I was growing up…” How much did I want to reveal? This wasn’t something I talked about, even with my closest friends. “My mother joined the commune with my brother and me when we were children. We lived with them for eight months.”

His eyes were sympathetic. “I take it you don’t have happy memories.”

The thing is, there were some good moments, swimming in the river, running around barefoot with the other kids, animals everywhere, but it was all clouded in darkness and a feeling of dread when I thought back to the commune.

“It was a difficult time in our lives and something I’d put behind me.”

Kevin said, “And that’s why you don’t want to work with this patient?”

“I’m just concerned I’m not the right doctor for her.”

He gnawed on his lower lip. “All the psychiatrists at the hospital are good, so any of them would be fine, and I understand why you might want to walk away, especially if you think there’s any risk of countertransference.”

I nodded. “Of course, that’s one of my main concerns.”

Kevin said, “But as long as you think you can maintain objectiveness and appropriate self-disclosure…” Another thing psychiatrists had to be careful of was not to share their own feelings. We can tell them we’ve had experiences with pain or abuse, to show we empathize, but we can’t share specifics. “I don’t see any ethical issues involved with you continuing to treat her, do you?”

I thought over what he said while studying the books on his shelf, noticing that he had a few on meditation. He specialized in Dialectical Behavior Therapy, which blended standard cognitive behavioral techniques with acceptance and mindfulness, mostly derived from Buddhist meditative practice. Judging by other titles, he was also interested in philosophy. But I was avoiding his question.

“No, I suppose not….” I’d been worried that my having memories of an upsetting time in my life might make it hard to be objective, but he was right—there was no ethical reason I couldn’t keep working with Heather.

“Maybe I should stay with her and play it by ear.”

Kevin nodded in agreement. “If you need to talk about it again, just let me know.”

“Thanks. I’ll see how she does over the next couple of days.”

In the cafeteria, refilling my tea, I thought over the conversation. I’d left in an odd mood, uncomfortable somehow, but I wasn’t sure of the source. Was it because I’d shared something personal with a coworker? Someone I barely knew? I reminded myself that I hadn’t said much, and there was no reason to worry, but I still had the feeling that I’d just opened another door, one that it was too late to close.