A Special Kind of Doctor

The waiting room is peaceful, with light blue walls and coloring pages of farm animals. Children stick close to their parents, quietly asking questions or fidgeting in their seats, most being inclined to experience some type of anxious thoughts. The staff is kind and talk in soft tones, always with a smile. Strangely, there are no signs hanging up about washing hands or eating fruits and vegetables, but rather posters depicting happiness or sharing feelings. This is a special kind of doctor, dedicated just to talking.

With a predisposition to significant difficulty in social situations, it became necessary to explore this option. Through extensive convincing and a bit of deception, due to a strong distaste for doctors (regular or special), mom successfully brought me to what is most definitely certain death. She is somehow calm, grading her math tests efficiently, paying no mind to what she likes to call being over dramatic. Obviously, she has never experienced something as terrible as this.

Images of shots, bad medicine, and evil men in lab coats fill the mind, causing nervous anticipation to swell until there is the soft, constant tap of my light up sneakers. Are these other children going to their deaths as well? One by one, their names are called, and they disappear through a large brown door, perhaps never to be seen again. The list of other patients grows shorter and shorter, and the room is almost completely empty when a tall woman opens the door and calls the only name that matters.

Unlike the other children, who go alone with whoever fetches them, mom follows the woman with me, and soon we are in front of what looks like an office rather than the rooms at the pediatrician's. Inside there are several couches, all of which look surprisingly soft and comfortable, along with a shelf full of board games and large leather books with long extensive titles. The woman gives her name, which is too complicated to remember (I am busy preparing for whatever horrors are in store), and offers the smallest of the couches as a place to sit. She and mom then begin a conversation, discussing the reasoning for the visit, her voice smooth and nothing like the evil witch I had imagined. Instead, soft laughter and bright commentary fill the room, creating a strangely comforting atmosphere, which, despite my stubborn resistance, has a quick relaxing effect on my nerves.

This visit is short, an introduction to what could be an effective plan for therapy. The doctor asks questions that are easy enough for me to understand, offering smiles whenever there is reason to second guess the safety of the
situation. There will be no shots today. The session feels more like a friendly conversation with a teacher than a formal examination, and miraculously, isn't accompanied by the overwhelming desire to leave. She even offers one of the waiting room coloring pages as entertainment while she and mom turn the talks towards insurance.

Never before had I been so content in the presence of a doctor. Coloring in the lines of my horse picture, I feel almost entertained. When the conversation is finished, she offers another shockingly bright smile and offers to walk to the front, towards a different door, designated specifically for leaving. For the first time in all my eight years, I did not feel sick at the thought of coming back for another appointment. If every visit involved coloring pages and soft couches, then perhaps it wasn't so scary after all.