Later in the afternoon, I had my appointment with you or with one of the other doctors, who were all women. For some reason, we never discussed my problems. When I was a child, every doctor I saw spent hours trying to understand why I behaved the way I behaved. They called it “taking my history”. Wasn’t my history even more relevant now? It was certainly longer and more interesting. But the only thing you asked me about, every time we met, was my medication.
You said, “Are your pills agreeing with you?”
And I always said, “They’re not disagreeing with me,” which was apparently the right answer because you then closed my file, which was open on your desk whenever I walked in.
Then we talked about the weather or something one of us had read in the Globe and Mail or a television show or a
