"You're not going to believe this," my nurse said this morning. "I've got to work Christmas."
"Oh Rebecca. That would have to suck," I replied.
Rebecca is the loveliest creature. Sandy blonde hair. Blue Eyes. And a complexion the color of creme. I often sit mesmerized as she prepares my injection, longing for the more romantically avariced days of my youth. She embodies such beauty in the human form.
"Tell me about you," she said preparing my shot. "How have you been doing?"
"I think I am suffering from the negative symptoms of my disease," I replied. "I am having the hardest time motivating myself to do anything. I just sit at home on the computer all day drinking sodas and smoking."
"I am not going to give you a lecture on the smoking," she said as we both nervously laughed.
"Thank you," I replied. "I have read several studies on the relationship of smoking to schizophrenia. It is common in those of us with this disease."
"You ready?" she asked as I meekly stood up and pulled my pants down to the side to expose my left buttock.
"There! All done!" she finally said as I quickly pulled my pants back up.
"You have a Merry Christmas if I don't get to see you before them," I told her.
"Give me a hug," she replied with the warmest smile. "Merry Christmas to you, too!"
I walked out of my doctor's office with the biggest grin on my face. That one hug did more for me today than that much vaunted injection of an anti-psychotic. There was a lightness in my step as I drove back by my father's pharmacy to pick up breakfast and to give him my next appointment card.