Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

Appointment

New York City

1974

Dena woke dreading her doctor’s appointment that day but she had to go. He would not prescribe any more medicine unless he saw her. It was just her bad luck to have picked out a doctor who was completely thorough. After her examination she sat in his office dying for a cigarette while Dr. Halling went over his findings and read the results of the GI series tests he had forced her to go through again. He did not look happy.

“Dena, your ulcer is not healing as it should. In fact, it looks worse.” He looked at her. “And you’re not smoking?”

“No.”

“No coffee, no alcohol?”

“No.”

“And you are watching your diet?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She had eaten a bowl of oatmeal last week.

He sighed. “Well, I’m baffled. The only thing I can figure that is causing this is just plain old stress. So all I can do at this point is to put you on complete bed rest.”

Dena’s alarm system went off. “Bed rest! What does that mean?”

He looked at her again from over his glasses. “Dena, it means just what you think it means. I’m going to put you to bed for at least three weeks. I have a feeling that’s the only way I’m going to get you to slow down. We are approaching a dangerous stage as it is. You don’t want to wind up with a bleeding ulcer and have to have emergency surgery. Or worse, bleed to death.”

“But it’s not bleeding yet, is it?”

“No, but that’s what we’re headed for if it gets any worse. And I am not going to let you kill yourself.”

“But I have to work. Really. I’ll lose my job if I stop now. I’m just getting my foot in the door.”

“Dena, this is your health.”

“Look, I promise. I’ll come straight home and get right in bed and drink milk shakes and eat mashed potatoes—really take it easy. I promise. I’ve worked all my life to get to this point. Can’t we just do something … isn’t there some sort of medicine I can take?”

Dr. Halling shook his head. “No. You’re taking everything I can give you and it’s not helping.”

“Look, I think that now and then I might have not eaten like I should have. And I smoked a little. I have been running around, maybe too much, but I promise I’ll do better. The next time you see me I will be a hundred percent better. Please?”

He sat back. “This is against my better judgment but I’ll make a deal with you. I want you back here in two months … and if it’s not better, I’m going to order you into the hospital, do you understand?”

“Oh, yes. I understand.”

“But in the meantime, I want you to talk to a friend of mine. See if he can’t do something to help you try and figure out what’s causing all this stress. You’re too young to be in this condition. Talk to this fella and let’s see if he can’t find out what’s … eating you. It might be more than work.”

He took out his pen from the holder and wrote a name and address. Dena was relieved. “Fine. I’ll see anybody you say.”

When he finished writing he held out the paper. Before he let her take it he said, “I want you to promise me that you’ll go to see this man at least twice a week—or I’ll put you in the hospital now.”

“I swear I will. I’ll call as soon as I get home.”

She would have run out of the office if she could have.

She called this O’Malley that afternoon and three days later she walked into his building and looked on the wall directory in the lobby. DR. GERALD O’MALLEY, PSYCHIATRIST. 17TH FLOOR.

Dena was appalled. A psychiatrist! What in the world was Dr. Halling thinking about? She wanted to turn around and leave. But she was stuck. Halling would find out if she didn’t show, so she might as well go on in and humor them both.

She got out on seventeen, knocked on his door, and heard a voice say, “Come in.” Dena walked in the office and a young man, not much older than she, stood up and shook her hand.

“Hello, Miss Nordstrom, I’m Dr. O’Malley.”

He was a neat, preppie-looking man in horned-rimmed glasses. He had blue eyes and fair, almost baby skin. He looked as if his mother had dressed him and combed his hair before he left this morning.

“You’re the doctor?”

“Yes. Won’t you have a seat?”

“I don’t know why,” she said, sitting down, “but I was expecting an older man with a beard.”

He laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you but I haven’t had much luck with beards.”

He sat down, took out a pad and pen, and waited for her to speak. This was something she would soon find out he did a great deal.

Finally she said, “Umm, I’m not here to see a psychiatrist. I mean, I’m not here because I think I need a psychiatrist, believe me.”

He nodded. Something else he would do a lot.

“I have an ulcer, and this was Dr. Halling’s idea. I just have a little stress, job related.”

He nodded pleasantly and made a few notes. She sat back and waited for him to speak.

He didn’t.

“Anyhow, that’s why I’m here, because of job-related stress.”

“Uh-huh,” he nodded, “and what is it you do?”

“About what?”

“What is your job?”

Dena was taken aback. “Television!”

“What do you … do?”

“I’m on it.”

He nodded and waited for her to continue. There was a longer, more awkward pause. “You might have seen me. I do interviews on an evening news show.”

“No, sorry. I’m afraid I don’t get the chance to watch much TV.”

Dena was thrown. “Oh, well. Anyhow, it’s an important job and …”

Suddenly Dena felt irritated at having to explain who she was and what she did. “I’m sure you spoke to Dr. Halling about my ulcer. He thinks that I should talk to somebody about stress.” Dena glanced over at the couch. “Should I lie down … or something?”

Dr. O’Malley said, “Not unless you want to.”

“Oh. Well … can I smoke?”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

Dena hated this already. “Are you allergic or something?”

“No. But it’s not a very good idea for someone with an ulcer to smoke.”

Dena, more and more irritated, began to bounce her right foot up and down, legs crossed. This guy was a real jerk.

“Look, the only reason I came was because I promised Dr. Halling I would.”

He nodded.

“So, I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Don’t you want to ask me some questions or something?”

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” he said, in that maddening noncommittal way.

“I told you. I am under a lot of stress and I am having a hard time sleeping and I thought you might prescribe something to help, that’s all.”

“Suppose we talk a little first.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Is there anything in particular bothering you, anything you’d like to talk about?”

“No, not really.”

He looked at her and waited. She looked around the room. “Listen, I’m sure you are a nice person and I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I don’t really believe in all this stuff. All this whining and bellyaching about what your mother and daddy did when you were three. It may be all right for some people but, really, I’m the least screwed-up person I know.”

Dr. O’Malley continued to listen.

“I know exactly what I want, I knew from the time I was twelve what I wanted to be. I’m not weird or have some strange sexual attraction to my mailbox or something. Nothing is bothering me, I just have a small stomach problem.”

He nodded again. She continued.

“I’m not depressed, my job is going great. I have no desire to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, I don’t think I’m Napoleon. My parents didn’t beat me—”

Dr. O’Malley, making more notes, said, “Tell me a little about your parents.”

“What?”

“Your parents.”

“They’re fine, they’re dead, but they didn’t tie me to a bedpost or anything. I’m very well adjusted. One of the things people have always said about me is that I am confident and mature. People come to me with their problems. In fact, everybody says I’m the most normal person they have ever met—and believe me, in my business that’s hard.”

“Any siblings?”

“What?”

“Brothers or sisters?”

“No. Just me.”

“I see,” he said and wrote only child. “How old were you when your parents died?”

“My father was killed in the war before I was born.”

He waited. She looked around the room. “How long does it take to become a psychiatrist?”

Dr. O’Malley said, “A long time. And your mother?”

“What?”

“How old were you when your mother died?”

“I forget. Does it take less time to be a psychiatrist than it does to be a real doctor?”

“No, it doesn’t. What was the cause of death?”

Dena looked at him. “What?”

“Your mother.”

“Oh, hit by a car.” Dena began to rummage around in her purse.

“I see. How did you feel about that?”

“Just like anyone would feel if their mother was run over. But you get over it. Do you have any gum or anything?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

He waited for her to continue but she did not. After a minute she became more agitated. “Look, I’m not here to be analyzed. I don’t need it. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Doctor, but I basically am a very happy person. I have everything I want. I’m in a very nice relationship. Things couldn’t be better; all I have is a bad stomach.”

He nodded and made notes. What was he doing, playing tic-tac-toe? When the session ended, Dena couldn’t wait to leave. She wondered what the hell was she going to talk to this cold fish about for the next two months. How could she possibly talk to this guy? He was an idiot, a Neanderthal.

He didn’t even watch television, for God’s sake!