My office is in New York City, a short walk from where the Park Avenue plastic surgeons work their magic and make their fortunes in huge offices with white glove doormen and multiple office staff members. Because psychologists generally make much, much less than most "real" doctors, my financial situation only allows for a small space in a somewhat cheaper neighborhood. It's nice and clean ("oh, this is...quaint," according to one patient), but it's obvious to anyone who has seen it that I haven't made it big just yet.
When I walked into the waiting room of the suite this morning Dr. Steve was already there, holding my mail which he had taken the liberty of opening. He does this at least once per week despite my protests. Before I decided to pursue solo practice I worked for him as a staff psychologist in his group practice. Checks would come in from patients and he would cash them, giving me my cut the next day. 18 months later, he still thinks there's an outside chance something addressed to me could be money from a deceased patient that got lost in the mail. So he opens pretty much anything that isn't a Sears catalogue or Publisher's Clearinghouse mailer.
Today he hands me a malpractice insurance bill, a summons, and what appears to be a letter. "Read the letter last," Dr. Steve warns. The malpractice bill is no big deal, only $1,000 per year for psychologists. Since we're not putting pharmaceuticals into people's bodies or cutting open abdomens, we're basically exempt from significant protection fees. I suppose if one loses a client to suicide and there was clear negligence on the part of the provider, $1,000 would probably be a pipe dream.
The summons requires me to be in court today, actually about an hour ago. I get these all the time because I spent a few months treating automobile accident patients. Auto insurance companies don't want to pay the patient's medical bills so they ultimately sue the patient, claiming malingering, and demand the psychologist, physician, chiropractor, and acupuncturist testify as to the extent of the patient's trauma. At $350 an hour for legal counsel, this summons is the equivalent of my malpractice insurance bill. 10 whole minutes into the day and I'm about $2000 in the hole.
Per Dr. Steve's advice, I read the letter last and thanks to Dr. Steve, I don't have to bother with a letter opener. I recognize the hand-writing immediately. It's from "Mike," a patient from about a year ago. Mike is about 50, tall, thin, and drinks multiple magna of cheap wine each day. He defaulted on payment for about six sessions ("I promise I'll bring in the money next time"), so I was forced to refer him to another therapist and, ultimately, send his bill to a collection agency. He eventually forked over the money, but since then has periodically sent annoying, single-line "threats" in the mail:
You will go to hell.I urinated on your car door handle today
Someday you will die.
This most recent missive was particularly amusing: "When our marriages improves, you'll rue this day."
From a technical writing standpoint, this sentence is syntactically incorrect. Furthermore, his wife called me two weeks ago to tell me that despite their hard work in couples' therapy over the past few months, she has decided to divorce him. So I suppose I won't be "ruing this day" anytime soon.
I decide to give Mike a call and clear the air. It's obvious this guy is having a tough go of things and he was great to work with, minus the fact that he never paid for his therapy. However, threats of any sort are not to be taken lightly so "polite but firm" is modus operandi for this call:
Dr. Dobrenski: Mike? Rob Dobrenski here.
Mike: Come crawling back, eh?
Dr. Dobrenski: No, not exactly. I got your most recent letter, and I'd really like to talk to you about this.
Mike: Save it, quack. I'm moving on, I've got my shit together now, I don't need you.
Dr. Dobrenski: Right. So then why are you sending me these arcane letters every few weeks?
Mike: Fuck you! I'm going to get my wife back and be happy, no thanks to you!
Dr. Dobrenski: Look Mike, Louise told me that you're getting divorced, and I'm sorry to hear that, for your sake. I don't know if you're in treatment now or not, but we did some good work together last year. Would you like to come back in? It's pretty obvious you're having a hard time.
Mike: To hell with that and to hell with you, I'm fine.
Dr. Dobrenski: Okay, I respect your choice. However, I am going to have to insist that you stop sending me letters that are, essentially, veiled threats. It's against the law and if it continues, I'm going to call the police.
Mike: Fine, but I'm still going to piss on your car door handles. Later loser!
Isn't helping people fun?
Posted by Rob Dobrenski at 2:55 AM