In with the New Baby

When I wake up again, Damien is sitting across from me in the big, white, plush Pottery Barn chair I just bought. He’s scrolling through his phone.

I’m kind of pissed because I don’t want that chair to get dirty.

“Hello, Sleeping Beauty,” he says and stands up.

“Fuck you,” I say. “Go away.”

“You know I can’t do that,” he says.

He comes over and places his hand on my forehead as if I have a fever.

“But when Rex comes over to live with you later today, will you be mad at him?”

I remembered Rex.

“No,” I say. “That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Because he loves me, and I love him.”

“Is that how it is?” Damien asks.

I say nothing. I just have so much resentment toward him.

“Dr. Mack,” he says.

That name pisses me off. I roll onto my right side toward the big pillows on the couch and the pain in my knee shoots through like someone just stabbed my knee with a sharp piece of glass.

Damien comes over and sits at the end of the couch.

“I know you hate me for bringing him up again.”

“I don’t hate you,” I whine.

“It’s OK, bud,” he says. He pats my butt. “Let’s talk it over.”

“The first thing you can do is not touch my butt,” I say.

“You know you like it,” he says and slaps my butt again.

“Fuck you,” I say and laugh.

I prop myself up while Damien comes over again and places the pillows behind my lower back.

“There you go, buddy,” he says and sits back down in the chair across from me.

I yawn and raise my arms and look over at him.

He smiles.

“I’m sorry,” I finally manage to spit out.

There. I said it.

“Don’t worry about it,” Damien says, as he looks out the window at my neighbor walking his dogs.

“So, what’s up?” I ask and yawn again.

I’m open to talking to him now.

Finally.

He sighs.

“You know how I said Dr. Mack could help us deal with PTSD?” he asks.

“Help you deal,” I quickly correct him. “I don’t have PTSD.”

“Yeah. Well. He really has helped me a lot. I haven’t given you an update lately, but I feel much better and am living my life pretty happily again,” he tells me.

“Good for you,” I snap.

Realizing how bad that sounds, I quickly correct myself.

“I mean, that’s great. I’m sincerely glad he’s helped you. I know you had heard good things about him and had high hopes, so I’m glad all your expectations have been met.”

He smiles contentedly, and he really does look better. I’m really happy for him. I just wish he’d stop pushing this quack therapist on me. I don’t even believe in PTSD!

“Well, he takes a limited number of patients because he’s so in demand,” Damien continues. “But I’ve asked him if he’ll still see you, if you’ve changed your mind, and he said yes.”

He looks sincerely happy about this, but I’m not.

“Well, save your referral for someone else,” I tell him. “I’m still not interested.”

“But don’t you think it might be a better way to deal with all your pent-up emotions than…”

“Than flipping out at my physical therapist?” I finish the sentence I know he probably doesn’t want to finish.

“I was actually going to say instead of beating up other guys in the ring, even though it’s hurting you physically, but, the other reason is also good,” he says.

“Fuck, man,” I tell him. “You know I like fighting.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t like you anymore,” he reminds me. “It’s no good for you. You keep having knee problems, and…”

“Look, you don’t have to remind me,” I tell him. “I get it. Let me make up my own mind, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, his hands raised in submission.

“And I do appreciate the referral to Anne. I was upset when I got Amanda instead. But I know she’s good, too, and that she can help me,” I admit, eating humble pie. “If it’s not too late to go back and see her again, I’d like help with the physical therapy. I’ll pass on the psychologist. And any invasive treatment for now, as I’ve made clear.”

“Okay,” Damien repeats, nodding his head as if the matter’s settled. “I’m sure it’ll still be possible to go back, as long as you apologize. I’ll talk to Anne for you and see what she thinks.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, meaning it.

“I gotta go,” Damien says. “I have a meeting with some new client with a huge portfolio of stocks for me to manage.”

“OK,” I say. “Thanks for your help. And good luck with that new portfolio.”

Damien brightens.

“You know what?”

“What?” I ask, as I sit myself up.

Damien props the pillows up behind my back.

I’m beginning to think he is pretty OCD.

“Why don’t you come to the veterans’ alliance?”

“That group Dr. Mack runs, for the PTSD patients?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s more low key than actual sessions with him. It includes a lot of different people from various walks of life, just talking to each other and getting support. Given everything, I completely forgot about that as an option.”