This is my latest writing assignment: Writing a personal memoir piece. Here is a piece of my life.
Trader Joes and the
Black Hole of Dignity
I
hate bumping into patients outside of the office. It reminds me that I’ve got a
reputation to maintain. I have to stop myself from mumbling when choosing a
melon. I can’t take the bag of chips
that would literally be calling my name if I were schizophrenic. My patients
seem to enjoy seeing their doctor in the wild but are slightly bewildered. I’m
not sure how they feel about seeing me at Trader Joe’s- “My doctor likes the
dark chocolate covered almonds too!” Or perhaps our encounter deflates the
significance of every piece of advice I’ve given them- “My doctor is eating all
the sugar, gluten and dairy! She is full of shit. I’m falling off the wagon
RIGHT NOW.”
During these flashes
of social awkwardness, there comes a time when my patients may realize I’m
often in worse mental shape than they are. Patients have run past me while I
wear my “crazy cat lady” costume for the “Love the Run You’re With” 5K. At the
local pharmacy, I bumped into one patient while shopping for drain cleaner
while looking like someone who couldn’t take a shower because her drain was
clogged. At times like these, I avoid eye contact. Best to pretend that moment
never happened. Nobody is dying to know their doctor is a flawed weirdo like
every other human being on the planet.
2014
had been a particularly bad year. While mired in a depressive episode triggered
by the dissolution of a bad relationship, a new antidepressant that I had been
started on in January had given me insomnia. The minute I woke up in the
morning, I was thinking about the moment when I could come back home and go to
bed. It was pretty evident my stressful lifestyle was frying my brain and
making me crazy. An evening of grocery shopping and watching a funny movie in
my pajamas while eating dinner out of a box was all I could handle by the time
the clock struck “fuck this shit-o-clock”. Crazy or not, I had to eat.
On
one particular day, I bumped into a patient who I had seen earlier in the week.
Thankfully, I only had a kale salad and tofu rolls in my basket at the time. Trader
Joe’s is a fine grocery store with its own line of products that are affordable
and healthy such as antibiotic/hormone free meat. None of which I particularly
craved. She didn’t see me subsequently toss in 2 frozen pizzas, a bag of cheese
and caramel popcorn and a box of chocolate covered almonds. My patient and I
exchanged pleasantries and went on with our shopping. Crisis in reputation
management: over.
I
checked out, making sure my patient wasn’t in line with me. At the end of my
transaction with the cashier, I ended up with my head literally inside my bag
searching for my keys. Precipitously dangling on the edge of panic, I pictured
myself stranded and taking sink baths in the washroom at Trader Joe’s. The
cashier seemed concerned at my escalating distress and offered a back counter
to look for my stuff. I quietly unloaded all the contents of my purse. Despite
my diligent search, no keys were unearthed. I was like a Beverly Hills
housewife without her chardonnay.
At
this point, other employees looked over in concern and an employee named “Rob”
bounded over to me, his surfer dude curls flying in his wake, offering to help
me retrace my steps. Rob and I scoured the store. Nothing. He asked me where I
parked my car- I replied “In the parking lot” a little louder than I wanted. We
walked outside, my eyes downcast, looking for the familiar set of metal things
I depend on for access to my house, the office and my 2002 Toyota Camry. Rob was
pointing to my car when I reached him.
“Is
this your car?” He pointed and looked in the window. “It’s running with the
keys in the ignition.”
Leaving
the keys in the ignition of a running car was something I laughed at when my
friend’s brother did it eight years ago. It seemed my proverbial chicken had come
home to roost at Trader Joes.
Rob was so happy
we found my keys that he insisted that we high-five.
I drove the 20
minutes home berating my epic absentmindedness. What kind of physician could I
be if I couldn’t be trusted to turn my car off before entering a grocery store?
I almost cried with relief when I parked my car at home. Then I looked in the
back seat.
I
had, in my hysterical bout of embarrassment, driven off without my groceries.
After briefly calculating how much I spent on
groceries and how I couldn’t afford to just leave them at the store and buy new
ones at Harris Teeter, I drove the 20 minutes back. The manager responded to my
inquiry about my groceries with “Yes we have them. No words. No words.”
As in, “No words can express how badly I think your
day is going.”
Rob
was happy to give my groceries back and threw in a bouquet of irises- perhaps
as an award for “Customer in most dire need of dignity”. I drove home
humiliated that I graduated from medical school and still couldn’t get my shit
together, but happy that things were actually going to be OK. My car wasn’t
stolen. My groceries hadn’t disappeared. I had my dinner in my pj’s, watched “Office
Space” and went to bed. My dignity was a small price to pay for such comfort.
