Prognosis.

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“Is something wrong with you?” he asked.

His head was cocked to the side and he had a crooked, sort of sly, grin across his lips.

“No.” I tried to ignore him.

He leaned in, way to close for me to comfortably keep reading my book. Head on my chest, he waited a moment, turned away, then returned.

“Is something wrong with you?” he inquired again.

“Are you some sort of doctor or something?” I shot back.

“No.” Again he rested his head on my chest and walked away.

I tried to stay focused. Ten pages a day in The New Music Therapist’s Handbook is my goal as I prepare for the certification exam next month. According to what I’ve learned, he is really not demonstrating good client/professional rapport building.

He’s back.

“Is something wrong with you?”

In the next exchanged he clarified that he was a scientist doctor. Ah. (And also a liar apparently.) This explains the insistence on solving a problem. The weirdly twisted lips were, I guess, part of the profile of a nerdy professional.

Believe it or not, there was a fourth round of his word-for-word repeated inquiry, this time followed by a treatment and prognosis.

“I’m going to put this dirt on your hair.” (And in my coffee.) This was the extent of the remedy, followed promptly by his professional prophecy of my predicament.

“In five weeks, your hair will turn……to…..rainbow. …. And you will die.”

This shocking news preceded another rather emotionless hug-like expression. I mean, it’s the least he could do considering that this prediction is a pretty big deal. I’m not certain which one would be worse – the rainbow hair or the death. Both, though? That really stinks.

He closed our unconventional clinical visit with a disclaimer:

“I don’t really know what I’m talking about.”

Then my four year old son pranced off to another part of the yard to continue playing.

—–

This is a true story from about 6 hours ago. I’m not 100% sure if the repeated question was indeed, “Is something wrong with you?” It may have been something like, “What’s wrong with you?” or “Can I help you?” Whatever it was he said it the same way each time it this whole incident majorly cracked me up. It was much preferred over his literally climbing on my shoulders and head while I was reading. Such a goon.


By Naomi Bird

Wife of tenor Nathan Bird, pianist, organist, former music therapist, writer, tea-drinker, mom of two mini-sopranos and two mini-tenors, and learner of loving the arts.

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