“Make it so, Number 2!”

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So I have Adult ADHD with OCD markers. Big whoop. Wanna fight about it?

I’ve struggled all my life with ridiculous tasks like being awesome, bench-pressing 300 lbs, rebuilding an engine block, learning Mandarin, plugging volcanoes and not focusing on the task at hand. Unless there’s a breast in that hand – then I have absolutely no problem focusing on it. And my hand.

After failing to win the Nobel yet again . . . (uh, my theory on space travel using Cherry Jello is flawless) . . . . I decided to seek out what many call “a professional”.

I didn’t take this decision lightly. Succumbing to the idea that I could stand to improve myself came as a terrible shock to those around me. And by those around me I do mean my reflection – I was trimming nose hair in front of the bathroom mirror when I experienced this mental apostrophe. Reversed Me looked as if he’d just been entered from behind by Thomas the Train.

Whooo! Whooooooooo!

So I called this shrink based on a referral from another mentalist.

MENTALIST: You should call Dr. Ritalin. He’s a specialist in this field.

SOS: Are you not a specialist in this field?

MENT: I am, but I deal with younger children.

SOS: How’s that working out for you? Ever watch DateLine’s To Catch–

MENT: Just call him.

Some practitioners can’t take a joke, I suppose. Whatever. So I called Dr. Ritalin and made an appointment for the following day. The phone call with the receptionist went like this:

RECEP: Yes, we can schedule you for tomorrow at 12:15 PM.

(she actually emphasized the letters “P” and “M” – as if I’m so fucked up I might get confused and show up in the middle of the night. Whore.)

SOS: Got it. Great! Thank you.

RECEP: We’ll see you at 12:15 PM tomorrow.

SOS: Yep. See you then.


RECEP: Did you write that down? Would you like me to email you?

SOS: Ummm . . . No. No I got it. I’ll be there at 12:15 PEE EMM tomorrow. Lunchtime.

RECEP: Yes, sir. Very good.

SOS: Great, thank you. (almost hanging up)

RECEP: Does 12:15 PEE EMM work for you? Would you like to move it to a later time?

(Holy Tit-beater Christ!! She can’t be serious.)

SOS: No. 12:15 works fine for me.

(I intentionally omitted the prime letters of importance.)

RECEP: 12:15 tomorrow afternoon then?

SOS: Yep. Sounds good.

RECEP: Perfect. Alright Mr. Moore, the doctor will see you tomorrow at 12:15.


RECEP: Oh, uh (flustered) yes . . . let me just check here . . . ummmmmm

(I’m doing my best not to laugh)

RECEP: Yes, 12:15 PEE EMM. I’m sorry for the confusion. Do you want me to repeat that time for you so you can write it down?

(She’s obviously very concerned that I’ll forget. Which I guess I can understand since it is a facility where 99% of the patients have ADD. All us crazies can forget simple shit like time and gravity.)

SOS: Nope. I’ve got it. I’ll see you and the doctor tomorrow.

(Almost hanging up again.)

RECEP: Mr. Moore, you’ll need to come in 30 minutes prior to your appointment to fill out some paperwork.

SOS: Oh. Wait. What time should I be there then?

(I’ll rot in hell for that, I’m aware.)

RECEP: Let’s see . . . (whispering math) . . . . minus 15 equals . . . can you be here at 11:45 A EMM?

(Here we go again)

SOS: 11:45 A EMM?

Round two went the same as round one.

The next morning I got a phone call at 9:15 A EMM from the same receptionist confirming I had remembered my appointment for that day. Seriously, she called me. Even asked if I’d written it down AGAIN!

Next day . . . .

I followed the inexcusably detailed directions the Receptionist gave me. I pulled into the parking lot at exactly 11:45 A EMM and two seconds before I got out, my phone rang.

SOS: Hello? (It was an unidentified number)

RECEP: Hi, Mr. Moore?

SOS: Yes? (not sure why I questioned myself – not a good start)

RECEP: Hi, yes, are you having trouble finding us?

I look around the parking lot as if I’m being watched.

SOS: I . . . just . . . parked. (I’m cautious with my words – this could be a test.)

RECEP: Okay. Good. Just wanted to make sure because it’s 11:45 A EMM.

(I swear on my love of Natalie Portman this is ALL TRUE!)

SOS: No, ma’am. I found it just fine. Your directions were very accurate. I’ll be up in just a few minutes.

RECEP: Alright then. You’re appointment is at 12:15 PEE EMM.

SOS: . . . . . . uh . . . . . okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Bye. (I hung up immediately)

Once inside moments later, I planted my feet at the counter of her sliding glass window. I was eager to meet the neurotic Gatekeeper.

SOS: Hi! (cheery-ish). My name is–

RECEP: Yes, please have a seat over there. The doctor will be with you soon.

What the f—? Bitch did not just snuff my good will?

Having a moment to absorb where I was and I how I’d finally faced the hard decision of seeking out help, I couldn’t help but begin to doubt I’d made a terrible decision. Not due to self-doubt . . . . oh no. But because of the large fucking sign on the wall which read: “Winner of the Dallas ELDER CARE Award for 2009″.

Elder care?

I looked at the magazines displayed neatly on the end table next to my chair – AARP; AgeVenture; Fifty Plus News; Grand Times; Senior Citizen News; and of course, Cosmopolitan.

There is no Teen Beat, US Weekly, Glamour, Popular Mechanics, Penthouse, ANYTHING with a youthful demographic in mind. Classical music crept out of a hidden stereo as my mind raced with “Oh shit!’s”.  Before I could calm down, the door to the back rooms opened . . .

and On Golden Pond walked out! Husband and wife, both pushing 90, shuffled into the waiting room. The smell of vinegar and denture glue vacuumed any youth my cologne left floating around the room. Dear god, what have I done?

RECEP: Mr. Moore? (Leaning out her little power-window) Please fill these out before your session. (She set the tablet on the counter and slid the glass closed.)

I had to wait for the Hip-sters to gradually move out of the way before grabbing the medical forms. During that long, drawn-out approach to the counter, I paid attention to the “artwork” inside the large receptionist area.  Several Ansel Adams photos, all black and white pictures of magical landscapes . . . probably to induce images of Heaven in the ailing minds of the more “hyper-active” seniors.

There was one pie chart on the far back wall, but even I with 20/20 vision couldn’t read it. It made me want a Poptart, though. Which kind of pissed me off. Why hang something on the wall no one can read, especially your patients, knowing they – the ADD’rs – will whirl out of control trying NOT to focus on the onslaught of damned ideas that very chart induced?

First question on the medical form: Medicare Number________.

Oh boy.

Second question – Have you been diagnosed with dementia?

Third – Any recent surgeries? Hip replacement? Hysterectomy? Bypass? Knee Replacement?

And so on. NOWHERE was there a question or option for me to have my parent or guardian sign for approval. Holy granny sandwich, again, what have I done?

Just then the door to the back rooms opened again . . .

DR: Yes, Meester Moohur? (His thick accent raped my surname.)

Panic stricken and nervous I rose to face my Geriatric Care provider face to face. Hopefully he’d noticed the absence of a walker and Werther’s caramel swishing around my pure enamel teeth and send me on my way.

DR: I’m doctor Ritalin.

I stopped dead in my tracks (which I assume is common in that office). My new doctor looks exactly like Captain Jean-Luc Picard!!!!! No joke. And he’s got a British accent!

I fucking LOVE Star Trek: The Next Generation. And now, Professor X is going to fix my mind. Brilliant! I could not be happier.

SOS: What’s that accent?

DR: I’m sorry?

SOS: Your accent, where’s it from? Wales? (As if I have any clue.)

DR: (half-frowning) Johannesburg, South Africa.

SOS: Damn.

DR: Hmmm?

SOS: Oh, nothing. Do you like Star Trek?

DR: I don’t know. (strange answer) Please follow me and we can get started.

(I watched him walk in front of me and I wondered if he was already, somehow rooting around my mind like Charles Xavier. He turned around. He must have heard my thoughts!!!!)

DR: You know, you’re much younger than most of my patients?

No shit, Sherlock.


IMPORTANT MESSAGE: This post is brought to you by Concerta – “For when you just don’t fit in.”

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About Son

Unemployed, but trying.
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One Response to “Make it so, Number 2!”

  1. Wife says:

    I actually have no retort. This one is sooooo funny, I think it can stand on its own without any trivial additions from me :)

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