Lucky me, huh?

Having thrown a drink in a strange man’s face, plus the unnerving sensation of impending doom propelled me to a therapist. The brass nameplate read F. Strange. But my new bff  dubbed him Doctor O.D.D. Odd.

I didn’t need a shrink. Sane as anybody else in this increasingly crazy world. Psych books assured me of that. And I refused the couch — too Freudian. Instead I chose the wingback chair opposite Doctor’s clut­tered desk with a Baby Ben forever stopped.

I expected to wail about Nate. About love, death, frustration, guilt. And to figure out what was going on, what had really hap­pened to him. Instead Doctor explained  — with somewhat exaggerated patience — that neither he nor I was a detective and that together we could not solve anyone else’s problems. We must concentrate on my own difficulties.

“Tell me,” he suggested, “how do you feel?”

“OK under the circumstances.” I paused. “Uhm, a little nervous.” Then a sudden thought. “But lucky to be born.”

“How is that?” Doctor asked.

“Well,” I sighed, “my mother told me they had to trudge through a Christmas snowstorm to get to the clinic. Next thing she knew she heard a tuba playing, ‘Oh, the music goes down and round, oh-oh-oh-ohhh, and it comes out here’. And I was delivered. By an old woman who made a fortune performing illegal abortions. Lucky me, huh?”

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copyright Carolan Gladden