I told the witch doctor . . .

 I told the witch doctor . . .

I told Dr. Feight yesterday morning that I was “sick of this.” “Mmmm,” he said. “Not this,” I said, “not talking to you,” because having someone really listening to what you are saying is worth paying for. (It’s never free.)

     “Not talking to you,” I said. “I’m sick of the way I feel . . . most of the time anyway.”

     “Mmmm?”

     “You know - anxious, frustrated, angry - though I try to keep that tamped down.

     “I mean, I recognize that I’m angry. I also recognize that I don’t need to jump up and down, scream, stamp my feet like a two-year-old. Yell at whoever happens to be in the way at the moment. Or, it wouldn’t help.”

     “No?”

     “No. I don’t think so.”

Then I didn’t know what to say, so I stopped. There was silence for a while. Then I said, “Roz’s mother is coming to visit.

     “Mmmm,” Dr. Feight said.

with lots of mayonnaise

Uncle Albert and I came home for lunch. He’d gone with me to Dr. Feight as he almost always does. I talk. He reads the magazines in the waiting room. Then we eat lunch together. Today we ate bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches. I cooked the bacon in the microwave and toasted the bread. We both like lots of mayonnaise. We drank orange juice.

     “So Patsy’s coming,” Uncle Albert said.

     “Did I tell you that?” I didn’t remember telling him.

     “No,” he said. “Roz told me." He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed thoughtfully. “My sympathies,” he said.

     “It’ll be okay,” I said.

     “Doesn’t that depend on the purpose of the visit?” he asked.

     “What do you mean?” I said because I hadn’t thought of that. One of the many things I hadn’t thought of.

10.16.17