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Show 341 derstanding that I must not be offended by such things" but I understand somehow that he can not hear with empathy. I am not sure why he is a psychiatrist. "You're maintaining good eye contact and you are quite articulate," he is continuing, listing the reasons why he will not call me depressed. I am noting that his eyes, on the other hand, have never met mine - they are continuously firing small dark darts at the ceiling, at the floor, out the window, against the pictures on the wall, even turning his head to shoot a few towards the back ofthe door. He is drawing a few more nonsensical conclusions but I am no longer listening. For whatever reason, he has not listened to me. He has not heard me. He has finally gone and my nurse is coming through the door with my dinner tray. It is Flo. "As in 'Nightingale?'" I had asked her the first time she was assigned to me. "As in 'go with the - '" she had responded then and I am praying she can do just that now. "Hey, look!" she is lifting the metal lid off the plate, gushing with mock sincerity. "It's your favorite - pork medallions!" I hate pork medallions. And Flo knows it. In reality, it is probably delicious, and maybe I thought so at one time, but it has appeared at least fifty times in front of whatever appetite I may have had over the past months. She is putting the tray on the table and sliding it over my bed. I |