Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

Shrinking

New York City

December 15, 1974

For months Dena had dragged herself to Dr. O’Malley’s office two times a week, and two times a week she sat there bored to tears. He too just sat and waited for her to say something interesting or something he could analyze. When she did talk it was about the weather, current events, or her job. Today, fatigued with her own conversation and staring at the ceiling as usual, she decided to use her skills.

“So, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself. You seem a little young to be a doctor. Where are you from? Are you married? Children?”

He looked up from his notebook. “Miss Nordstrom, I’m the doctor and you’re the patient. I’m here to talk about you.”

“What do you want me to say? Tell me what you want me to say.”

“Anything you want, Miss Nordstrom, this is your time.”

“I find this very uncomfortable.” He was jotting down something on the pad. Uncomfortable. “You just sit there, and … I mean … I’m paying you. Shouldn’t you be the one who’s talking to me, asking questions? I came here for you to help me get rid of stress, not to get it.”

He smiled but continued writing. After a moment she decided to try another tack. “You know, Dr. O’Malley, you are a very handsome man, did you know that? Are you married?”

Dena thought she saw a faint blush but he put his pen down and said matter-of-factly, “Miss Nordstrom, you have tried everything that patients usually try but we will eventually talk about you. We can either start today or next week or the week after. It’s up to you.”

“I have been talking. Every time I come here I talk,” Dena said, full of frustration.

“Miss Nordstrom, you only talk about what you do. I am interested in how you feel.”

“How do I feel about what I do? I like my work. It’s what I have wanted since I can remember.”

“No, how do you feel about you—outside your work?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not getting a clear picture of you, unrelated to your work. I need to know how you relate to people, how you feel people relate to you.”

“But they relate to me … about my work.”

“I think you are mistaking a profession for a personal identity. Who are you other than what you do, that’s what I’m trying to get at.”

“I think you are trying to fit me into some box. What I do is not that simple. It’s who I am. I am not a plumber or a construction worker who quits at five o’clock. What I do is a twenty-four-hour career. I think it’s hard for people to understand. Wherever I go, I’m on television; that’s how people ‘relate’ to me.”

“I’m not saying that other people may not be able to separate you from what you do, I’m wondering if you can.”

Dena looked out the window. Snow was falling, luminous against the yellow glow of the streetlights. It reminded her of another late snowy afternoon when she and her mother had walked in the streets of New York, all the way from midtown to her mother’s apartment building, but she quickly pushed it out of her mind. She did not like to think about her mother. And it was certainly not something she wanted to discuss with O’Malley. It was none of his business.

At the end of the session, he closed his notebook. “Miss Nordstrom, I am afraid we have a problem.” He corrected himself. “Well, no, I’m afraid I have a problem, a scheduling problem. A former patient of mine is in a serious crisis and I am going to be forced to give up your time.”

Hooray, thought Dena.

“But,” he continued, “I’ve spoken to Dr. Halling and—I am sorry—I am going to have to transfer you to another doctor, one I think can help you a lot more with your immediate problems. You know, sleeplessness, nervousness; she specializes in hypnotherapy and—”

“Hypnotherapy? I don’t want to be hypnotized, for God’s sake.”

Dr. O’Malley said, “Before you balk, I think you should consider giving it a try. We are finding that hypnotherapy can be very helpful with deep-seated … ah … relaxation problems can be treated quite successfully with hypnotherapy.”

Dena made a face. “I’m not crazy about the idea of going to a woman, either. Don’t you have a man you can recommend?”

“No, Dr. Diggers is the one person I can recommend with complete confidence.” At last O’Malley seemed to loosen up a bit. He confided: “As a matter of fact, she was my therapist.”

“What’s the matter with you? Why would you need a psychiatrist?”

He smiled at her sudden concern. “It’s required. All doctors have to go through analysis before we get our degree. Most of us need it, anyhow.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve already spoken to her and she will see you on Friday at our time. Her name is Elizabeth Diggers and I think you’re going to be quite pleased with her.” He handed her Dr. Diggers’s card.

“Oh, well … all right. Whatever.”

He stood up and shook her hand. “Well, good-bye, Miss Nordstrom—and good luck.”

Walking home in the snow, Dena felt as if she had been let out of school, yet at the same time strangely sad and a bit rejected. It couldn’t be the thought of not seeing Dr. O’Malley again; she was happy about that. Maybe it was just that Christmas was coming up. She hated Christmas. It was always the same, so many people pulling at her. Being single at Christmastime was a pain. She had to make up so many excuses, so many lies. J.C. was already badgering her to go home to Minnesota with him, but she had no intention of spending Christmas in the bosom of somebody else’s family. She usually slept through Christmas, and then had to lie about what a great time she had over the holidays. It was getting harder and harder.

By the time she had reached Forty-fifth Street the snowfall had turned into a blizzard and she could barely see three feet in front of her. Two blocks later she looked up just in time to see a large brown mass looming before her that nearly scared her to death. Startled, she stopped and suddenly realized that she had almost walked into a camel. A huge, live camel was being led from a truck into a side door at Radio City Music Hall.

As she stood there and waited for it to pass, she caught a quick glimpse of the darkened backstage. It reminded her of something she did not want to remember so she crossed the street quickly.

Later, at Fifty-sixth, she started to laugh to herself. Ira’s early lead would have been “TV personality trampled to death by camel. Details at ten.”

And Ira would have loved it.