Mrs Wallace had to jaywalk to make the bus, which was about to pull away. It wasn't easy. She was overweight and her left knee, which hadn't been feeling so good of late, felt spongey. Breathing ... [+]
We'd been in line for two hours already. The number of people waiting reminds me of the lines you'd see in SoHo for a newly opened bar, except we are outside a hospital clinic and everyone wears the face one will wear waiting for a DMV appointment.
Winter has arrived early, and I keep shivering as I listen to the conversations of the people in front of me. They have been talking for the two hours we've been here, and the noise is becoming incredibly overwhelming. Everyone in line is here for the "new and invigorated lobotomy," as The New York Times called it, but I liked to think of it as the last resort for healing myself, of quieting the thoughts, maybe silencing them.
In my 30 years of life, I've tried every sort of therapy one could imagine, group therapy, psychodynamic therapy, cognitive behavioral therapy, even boring group therapy. All of them have had the same result, they make me feel good enough that I tried, and then horrible after, when thoughts keep intruding into my head yet again. Maybe it was me, maybe the therapists my insurance could afford, but judging by how big the line is, I have a feeling everyone here is trying to hold on to the last little bit of hope available.
I've been hearing the story of the man in front of me, diagnosed with bipolar disorder, with no one to support him. The woman, who only seems a few years older than me, also shared her story. Her parents sent her away to a psychiatric hospital when she was ten, where she was isolated, which only worsened her depression. They speak loudly, trying to hear each other through the buzzing of the city, and all I want to do is hit my head through the wall because of how overstimulating these entire two hours have been. My thoughts keep insisting on a solution. What would happen if you scream at them to shut up? What if you hit the woman in revenge and then try to kiss the man? Or vice versa?
A little voice in the back of my head begs me to do it, and then threatens me that if I don't, I could die whenever I step inside the clinic. Somewhere in me, I know it's not true, but I have to sit here and be tortured by the possibility of my thoughts being real, of them actually being able to hurt me.
When they are finally called in, they announced my name thirty minutes later. It's the first part of the process for approval, the review of documentation, to see if you are eligible for the procedure based on insurance and medical records. After this, you should be called to get tests done and hopefully get elected.
"Dany Costa," the doctor calls my name as he's checking my documentation. He should be around my age, with thick, round glasses and a high-pitched voice.
"Yeah, that's right," I affirm. He looks at the documents for a few more seconds.
"Seems like you are missing the copy of your driver's license."
"No, that can't be right. I remember putting everything meticulously in the folder. I checked at least five times." I assured him.
"Well, I'm sorry. We can't review your case if you are missing information. That's the company's politics. The soonest we'll open a convocation will be three months from now."
My heart drops. "No, but please, I need this," I beg, feeling the tears accumulate.
He smiles, stating his final position, "We'll be happy to have you here in three months." He finishes with a condescending smirk as he hands me back my folder. "I'll be back with the confidentiality form for you to sign," he says while he exits the office.
That afternoon, I retraced my steps. From getting outside my house to getting to the clinic and waiting in line, I looked at every possibility of where the paper could have gone. Maybe it fell while I was in line, but the folder was closed. It didn't make any sense. I had counted the documents before heading inside the office, it was bothering me so much, but I decided to leave it to rest and go to bed. Trying again was my only option, so I scheduled my appointment for December.
Three months later, I'm waiting in line again, and this time I decide to bring my headphones, which makes the waiting better than last time, except for the moments my brain forces me to repeat certain songs, even if I didn't want to. I check the email they sent me, where they listed their requirements, and then count the documents I have in my hands. Every ten minutes, I do the same thing.
After hours in line, they finally call my name. I realize the same doctor will handle the paperwork. Great. I stare at him suspiciously from the corner of my eye, but smile anyway.
"Oh, here you are again, " he says in a dull voice, and asks me to sit while he checks the folder I gave him. I wait for ten minutes while he was reviewing everything.
He finally says, "Sorry, we are missing the copy of your driver's license."
I rise from my table as quickly as possible and scream, "That can't be possible, check again."
"Excuse me, ma'am, but I have already checked, and you are missing information to confirm your identity. Therefore, we cannot proceed. You can try again in a few months."
"I have my license with me, I can show it to you," I begged.
"Sorry, it doesn't work like that," he replies. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need you to fill a few pages about confidentiality. I'll be back in a second."
He leaves the office, and tears come out of my eyes. I am sure I had everything; the copy of my license was there. I know it. What was he playing at?
A thought comes into my head, what if I check his desk? It was impulsive, but it was the first time I agreed with my own thoughts. I check the main door and I don't hear footsteps coming, so I go towards his desk. He has a million papers scattered around. I can't see anything that looks like a copy of my license, but after taking a few steps back, I see the copy on the floor, forgotten. Did he drop it? Was it on purpose? I'm about to get to the other side when I see a door located right behind his desk. It's white, so it blends with the color of the wall. Open it, my mind demands, and I obey, reassuring myself that I'm just going to take a quick sneak peek and then go back.
It's a long hall full of closed doors on the sides, with the classic white light shining in the hallway. The silence is penetrating, and I can hear my own breath as I step into the room. I just walk the hallway, with nothing particularly interesting to see. All the doors are closed except for the last one. I decide I'm going to take a quick glance, and as I open it, I take a step back. I see the same woman from a few months ago, the one waiting in front of me, who was talking with the man. Her eyes are open as wide as possible, not because she wants to, but because it seems she can't close them up. Her once tanned skin looks as pale as the walls we are in, and her curly hair is now gone; she's completely bald. I want to get to her, ask her if she's okay, but the only thing she manages to say, in an unrecognizable voice, is "Run."