So here’s how it all went down. I prepared myself to take the ink blot test that had
been invented (or thought up) by the one and only Dr. Rorschach. It was
being administered by the youngest member of the five shrink boys clan that day, I guessed what amounted to "dues paying" in the land of the thought police. I will confess, I had endured much. I thought at times my name and insurance companies credentials, and the fact that my insurance was paying at 100%, must have made the rounds with every doctor seeking funding for experimental procedures. I had more than a few procedures where I was convinced there were hidden cameras and "America's Funniest Videos" entries with your author as star. I did more stuff with my hospital gown on and my ass flapping in the breeze than IHOP has pancake choices. I'm guessing a few doctors added wings onto their homes by "practicing" on me then billing my insurance company in those two years inside. I even suggested to one doctor that he might just consider having his
home improvement contractor bill my insurance company direct, and avoid
all the paperwork hassle. There was one doctor in particular I didn't know nor recognize who would stick his head in my door daily and say "How's it going, uuuuh, Mr. Hall, is it?" then bill my insurance for a $275.00 office visit. He and I had a talk, let me tell you. I put the fear of God in him right there at the Baptist Hospital, fitting somehow.
It got a bit ridiculous with the various and sundry procedures I was required to endure. Listen, when a six foot four inch long guy is told he has to be squeezed into a five foot ten inch long Hyperbaric Chamber, locked in for two hours at a time and then be informed that he'd have to do 240 hours of that treatment, life moves very slowly. Also, the words "dread" and "claustrophobia" take on a whole new meaning, especially when combined. For those of you who don't know, a Hyperbaric Chamber is a tube made of three inch thick glass with two giant brass doors on either end. The victim gets slid into the tube, and pressurized oxygen is pumped into the same tube until it mimics being 100 feet below sea level, or six atmospheres, approximately. The worst part of the procedure is how your body would pour out sweat and you'd feel the panic that comes with knowing you couldn't easily get out of the tube if something, anything, went wrong. You would be amazed at the scenarios a confined brain and body could invent. I mean, I'd stare out of the thick glass and just envision the numerous "Rube Goldberg" scenarios that might play out, ultimately ending with the attending nurses getting knocked out cold and the power cord running the oxygen machine to my tube being unplugged. I knew first hand what panic felt, smelled and tasted like every time I was locked into that short tube. It was the one thing I never got used to and one that was the most important. The procedure aided in supplying oxygen to my wound site from the inside, attached to my blood cells. It's complicated and way above my pay grade, but necessary. By the way, most folk would get severely doped up before going in, it was that unpleasant. I mean most were knocked as cold as a cucumber sandwich. I didn't do the dope. I was not going to be sluggish if a Rube Goldberg fate might befall me. If I was going out, I was going out alert and with my proverbial boots on.
Next to doing those procedures, talking to a group of shrinks was a walk in the park...on crutches, but a walk in the park just the same. I
had to go take their tests in order for it to be said that I was “normal” by
the standards set forth by the resident Doctors of Psychology. It beat the hell out of two hours locked in a glass sweat box any day. I mentioned earlier that I was a minor expert in Psychology,
evidenced by my collegiate degree saying so. I had intensely studied the
“Rorschach Test” as a part of my minor thesis. The ten ink blot test
itself is accompanied by a book that weighs a good twenty-seven pounds and
has thousands upon thousands of possible answers to what each individuals responses might possibly reveal about how nutty one might or might not be. Add in the agenda of the psychologist grading your test, and you've got a giant shit-sandwich on your hands. If you are remotely
familiar with Sirhan Sirhan, the same gentleman who assassinated Robert F. Kennedy, you’ll
catch a small glimpse of what I had planned for our resident shrinks at
Georgia Baptist Hospital. I want to make it clear, I’m not a Democrat,
never have been, never will be. I do not make lite of the dastardly deed
Mr. Sirhan committed that day. There were many that were happy
when Mr. Kennedy was shot. Me? I did not have a horse in that race, I
was too young. Life is precious and short but be warned: you take the life of my friend or family, and your religion, and it's effectiveness, will have it's confirmation hearing, and that right soon. And that’s all I have to say about that.
OK, back to my test, the good Doctor Rorschach and Mr. Sirhan. When I wrote my
final paper on the Ink Blot test, my focus was on the test and
specifically the answers Mr. Sirhan delivered on the day he was
administered it. To say that he re-wrote the approach doctors take when
determining how nuts someone is would be an epic understatement. My paper
concluded that you could not depend on the test as an accurate depiction
of how sane or insane a person might be, based on Mr.
Sirhan’s answers alone. I had memorized Mr. Sirhan’s answers to each ink
blot and when time came to defend my paper, I used each answer he gave
as support for my proposal that the test was unreliable. My conclusions
added that the test was too subjective and had way to many
interpretations to be valid. Thus the administer or grader of said
test had final "say so" as to the validity of the results, adding in the
human factor, thus flawing the test. Waking up on the wrong side of the bed for the administrator might mean a frontal lobotomy for the test taker. I figured if someone was going to determine what was missing off your emotional combination plate, an Ink Blot test just wasn't sufficient enough. There ought to be games of chance, juggling sharp objects, mumbly-peg, or at least a best-of-seven thumb wrasslin contest. Or maybe anything where a dude might say "Hey man, watch this" before he jumped off something really high, his buddies in attendance as confirmation of what a "crazy sum-bitch" he really was. Or something like that.
I think you might know where this is headed.
When Junior
Shrinkboy started to administer the ink blot test to me, I gave the
exact answers (and I mean to the letter) that Mr. Sirhan Sirhan gave,
except I transposed the first and last answers just for posterity and
proof positive that I was not crazy. I was thinking “this dude is going
to catch on at some point”, but it never materialized. He just calmly
wrote down my answers, smiled when I would pause (looking
like he genuinely gave a shit) when I was having to painfully dig for my
answers. Man, I laid it on thick too, like I was even a little upset when I
would answer, adding to the act I was putting on for him. As each answer
was given I would shrink just a little more, like I was pulling dusty
old bad memories out of some long-lost closet certain to reveal my shortcomings as a human being. Hell, I
think I even asked him for a hug when it was all said and done, just for
effect. It was an Oscar worthy performance. Man, I laid it on thicker than a banana and mayonnaise sandwich with double crunchy peanut butter between Texas Toast, battered a then deep-fried Monte-Kristo style, like Elvis Presley himself might dine on it for lunch. The
B.S. I laid down was so thick you’da needed a Husqvarna chainsaw, a bag lunch, and a full can of mixed gas to cut
through it all.
A few days passed, and as I had expected, I got my "moan back" call and a confirmed
sit-down visit with the five man nut-squad of doctors I had originally visited
with when this particular odyssey began. We started out with
traditional greetings and then they went straight into defending their craft, the necessity for psychology in
modern society (describing it as a key to true enlightenment), ones mental health, and some
other liberal bullshit I closed my mind off to as soon as their designated orator began his carefully rehearsed dissertation. After that short spiel, they started in on me (after a few more minutes of niceties) concerning my
test results. The conversation that morning revolved around how much they felt I had “suffered” due to the complexity of
my injuries, including the protracted length my of stay. They touched on how time was passing me by and how I was
suppressing my feelings of despair. I was probably hating my mom again, pissing in the bed, whacking the ole bishop, killing pets, voting liberal...you name it and they tossed it out there for consideration. I let them go on and
on and not once did they make reference to my Rorschach test results. My guess was that we'd be turning down that street real soon.
This was shaping up perfectly.
Yep, you get more tomorrow!
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