Don’t Fear the Freudians
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“He sobbed, ‘Jesus Christo, and gracias, senorita, gracias.’”
“What a story,” I said. “But you said the genitals and bagels on Meredith this morning looked like the Starship Enterprise? Is that Star Wars or Star Trek?” 
She stared at me, dumbfounded. “You truly don’t know the difference, do you, Doc?”
“We didn’t have a TV in my house as a boy,” I said. “My parents were hippest hippies.”
“In California, I’m guessing?” she asked.
“Berkeley,” I said.
“Ah, but you should’ve watched more TV,” Jillian said. “It would help you understand better.”
“So, it’s Harrison Ford over Spock every time?” I asked.
“You can’t compare Jesus Christ to Weird Al Yankovic,” Jillian said. “No offense to Leonard or Weird Al, of course, for Leonard was a gifted photographer, as I learned on Entertainment Tonight when he passed on.” 
“Is Meredith getting any diagnostic help for his Peyronies disease?”
“MD’s give him these injections and some pills but his schlong aches 24/7.” 
“Are you Jewish?” I asked.
“Only a big fan of the people and some of their Yiddish, like schlong.”
“Apparently,” I said.
Jillian told me her family lived in a sprawling house in Corpus Christi and they also had a cottage in Galveston, Texas, which was 252.7 miles away from each other. She told me her dad liked to keep busy with his notebooks filled with numbers, odd equations, science queries, and measurements, like how far it was from Corpus Christi to the bowling alley, or to the GAP store five towns over, or to church, and there were like several hundred churches near that area.”
“So, your dad’s a big note-taker?” I asked.
“He writes crosswords,” Jillian said. “Not filling out the answers but coming up with all the quirky and bizarre questions. It’s one of the ways he copes with trauma, which is intense with Mom and I both currently in hospitals.”
“We could recommend a therapist for him, if you wished, Jillian?”
Her fists clenched. “No thanks, Dad would never agree.”
I nodded.
“It’s a funny point in my life, Doc,” she said. “This will sound silly and whacked.”
“I’ve built up quite a tolerance to silly and whacked.” 
“I don’t want to do the sex anymore.”
“It’s an honest reaction. Did you tell Jen and Meredith yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Ever contemplate leaving the Nutmeg State entirely?” I asked. “Going home?” 
“I’d feel guilty to split now with Dr. Legg in his coma,” she said. 
“Turn a new page, move on, Jillian.”
“I’ve been here twenty-three months, though,” she said. “I get these intense panic attacks.”
“Anxiety is at a pandemic level with younger people,” I said. 
“Adolescent clients here call me a lifer,” she said. “A senior citizen.”
“You’re barely twenty.”
“I was like Dr. Legg’s favorite pet, right?” she asked.  “He left this whole mess on my shoulders. It made me angry how he used me.”
“That makes sense,” I said.