“Is the age of your therapist important to you?”
“You can’t possibly be old enough to be a doctor.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“Then why the hell did they send me here?”
I realize this response is due to his ignorance about how the mental healthcare system works, but the harshness of his reaction still stings, as if I’m not qualified enough.
“You don’t need a doctor, Mr. Warner. They sent you to me because I’m a clinically trained psychotherapist and I’m good at my job,” I defend myself. “Actually, I’m great at my job.”
“When you’re on time.”
His lips curve slightly and he sits back further on the couch, his tree trunk thick legs spread in a dominant posture.
“This isn’t going to work,” I say with a dry mouth.
“Agreed,” he replies smugly. “Make your call.”
“Give me a second,” I say, hoping that I can find a quick solution for getting this man out of my office.
I check his paperwork and am surprised to see that Dr. John Staples, the owner and supervising therapist of our practice, is the one who referred him to me and John doesn’t usually make mistakes like this.
I turn around in my chair facing the desk, my back to the arrogant ageist, and dial John’s number. I tap my foot nervously as the phone rings, and he picks up on the second ring.
“Dr. Staples speaking.”
“Hi John, it’s Katrina.”
“Hey, Kat.”
Kat is not my nickname, Trina is, but my boss never seems to remember or he doesn’t care. If the roles were reversed, Dr. Staples would want us to “unpack that” but you know what they say, doctors make the worst patients.
“Hi, I’m sitting with a Mr. Warner in my office. You referred him to me? But he says that this is a mandated visit. Shouldn’t he be over at the National Psych Center instead of with us?”
“Is he sitting there right now?” John asks, in a tone I can only explain as sounding star-struck.
“Um, yes.”
I start scribbling notes on a blank piece of paper to make it seem as if John is giving me some valuable information.
“This is indeed a mandated visit. In fact, there are six of them.”
“With me?”
I try not to sound appalled, and I scribble some more.
“They needed an unbiased assessment. They want to make sure Mr. Warner is game ready and their usual people would obviously say that he is because they’re paid to say that.”
“Are you saying that there are therapists who would clear someone just because the NFL wanted them to, because that would be totally unethical?” I whisper into the phone.
“Which is why I applaud the NFL for venturing outside of their normal circles. I’ve got a friend from my grad school days over at NPC and he recommended our practice. If we do good work with Mr. Warner, then they may throw some more players our way. It would be nice to have some clients whose bills are already paid before they even sit on the couch.”
“What if my assessment is not favorable?”
“That’s the great part, Kat. It doesn’t matter. They’re good with whatever observations we come back with. All you have to do is your job.”
He says that like it will be the easiest thing in the world when right now it feels like I’m using every bit of energy I have to simply open my eyes in the morning.
