button. The door buzzed, the lock turned, but I didn’t catch it before it locked again. Once again, the receptionist hit the button and I missed it. “Hey, Mr. Owens, can you get the door?”
Once we sat, I decided to begin the session rather than unpack my bag. Mr. Owens’s anxiety had spilled over to me. I squared my shoulders and drew a cleansing breath. “I apologize for running late. You seem anxious. Let’s get started.”
I eased back in my chair and waited for him to reply. He looked around the office, wringing and fidgeting. I’d treated him for severe anxiety over the previous year. Of all the patients to keep waiting, he was the worst.
“I went to the zoo with my son.” Mr. Owens lowered his eyes.
“That is an impressive step. How was it for you, taking your son to the zoo?”
“We didn’t stay. He wanted to look at the snakes.”
“Mmm-hmm. Did you go into the snake exhibit?”
He shook his head. “No. I told him I had a headache. We left right after we got inside.”
“A lot of people don’t like snakes. What happened after you left?”
Mr. Owens’s eyes locked onto my chest. I always dressed modestly for work to avoid potential sexual attraction on the part of my patients. My hand went to the turquoise amulet. “What happened after you left the zoo?”
Mr. Owens turned his head and his eyes went wide. He moved his lips but could only gasp for air. He clenched his chest as if his heart had ceased to beat. Spittle began to drip down his chin.
“Mr. Owens?” I stood, and his panic went from bad to worse. He leaped onto the chair and screamed. No words, just an ear-piercing sound that rivaled an air horn. I lunged for the phone, but he grabbed me before I reached the receiver. I was prepared for him to shove me down, but instead, he pulled me onto the chair by my arms. My calf scraped the edge of the desk, causing pain to burst through my leg.
The office door flew open, and two male therapists entered the room. Mr. Owens’s racket set off emergency protocols.
Mr. Owens stopped screaming when the men stormed in. The fit ended, and I started to climb down from the chair. Mr. Owens held me in place and screamed one word that sent the ten-by-ten space into chaos. “Snake!”
My patient freaked out, and I held him in an effort to calm him. I knew I didn’t have to worry. As much as I disdained the idea of snakes, they wouldn’t hurt me.
A menacing-looking snake, about four feet long, crawled out of my computer bag. It appeared to have diamonds on its back. I didn’t hear rattles. Certainly a rattlesnake would rattle. Then again, who could hear the rattling over all the commotion?
One of the male therapists backed out of the office, the other froze, crouched, arms wide—prepared to tackle something. Mr. Owens held on to me like a drowning man, and once again, became the human air horn.
People shouted down the hall— snake , rattlesnake , 911 , lockdown , and various curses. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. We lived in Florida, home of more than fifty species of snakes. However, the fact that the slimy demon had hitched a ride in my bag did give me the willies. It might be my protector, but I’d rather not carry it around.
“Mr. Owens? Please. I can’t breathe. We’re safe on the chair.” I struggled to get my hand beneath his arm to loosen his grip. I didn’t want to have to use self-defense moves while standing on a comfy chair, with a potential rattlesnake on the floor.
Mr. Owens eased his grip but continued to howl. I managed one deep breath before the entire snake emerged from the laptop bag, and he gripped me even tighter. The other male returned with a push broom in one hand and a fire extinguisher in the other. Did he plan to light the broom on fire and burn the snake? The crouching orderly leaped back and took the broom. He wielded it like a sword, swishing this way and that.
“Cut it out. You’re only going to make it mad!” I shouted over the screaming
Once we sat, I decided to begin the session rather than unpack my bag. Mr. Owens’s anxiety had spilled over to me. I squared my shoulders and drew a cleansing breath. “I apologize for running late. You seem anxious. Let’s get started.”
I eased back in my chair and waited for him to reply. He looked around the office, wringing and fidgeting. I’d treated him for severe anxiety over the previous year. Of all the patients to keep waiting, he was the worst.
“I went to the zoo with my son.” Mr. Owens lowered his eyes.
“That is an impressive step. How was it for you, taking your son to the zoo?”
“We didn’t stay. He wanted to look at the snakes.”
“Mmm-hmm. Did you go into the snake exhibit?”
He shook his head. “No. I told him I had a headache. We left right after we got inside.”
“A lot of people don’t like snakes. What happened after you left?”
Mr. Owens’s eyes locked onto my chest. I always dressed modestly for work to avoid potential sexual attraction on the part of my patients. My hand went to the turquoise amulet. “What happened after you left the zoo?”
Mr. Owens turned his head and his eyes went wide. He moved his lips but could only gasp for air. He clenched his chest as if his heart had ceased to beat. Spittle began to drip down his chin.
“Mr. Owens?” I stood, and his panic went from bad to worse. He leaped onto the chair and screamed. No words, just an ear-piercing sound that rivaled an air horn. I lunged for the phone, but he grabbed me before I reached the receiver. I was prepared for him to shove me down, but instead, he pulled me onto the chair by my arms. My calf scraped the edge of the desk, causing pain to burst through my leg.
The office door flew open, and two male therapists entered the room. Mr. Owens’s racket set off emergency protocols.
Mr. Owens stopped screaming when the men stormed in. The fit ended, and I started to climb down from the chair. Mr. Owens held me in place and screamed one word that sent the ten-by-ten space into chaos. “Snake!”
My patient freaked out, and I held him in an effort to calm him. I knew I didn’t have to worry. As much as I disdained the idea of snakes, they wouldn’t hurt me.
A menacing-looking snake, about four feet long, crawled out of my computer bag. It appeared to have diamonds on its back. I didn’t hear rattles. Certainly a rattlesnake would rattle. Then again, who could hear the rattling over all the commotion?
One of the male therapists backed out of the office, the other froze, crouched, arms wide—prepared to tackle something. Mr. Owens held on to me like a drowning man, and once again, became the human air horn.
People shouted down the hall— snake , rattlesnake , 911 , lockdown , and various curses. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. We lived in Florida, home of more than fifty species of snakes. However, the fact that the slimy demon had hitched a ride in my bag did give me the willies. It might be my protector, but I’d rather not carry it around.
“Mr. Owens? Please. I can’t breathe. We’re safe on the chair.” I struggled to get my hand beneath his arm to loosen his grip. I didn’t want to have to use self-defense moves while standing on a comfy chair, with a potential rattlesnake on the floor.
Mr. Owens eased his grip but continued to howl. I managed one deep breath before the entire snake emerged from the laptop bag, and he gripped me even tighter. The other male returned with a push broom in one hand and a fire extinguisher in the other. Did he plan to light the broom on fire and burn the snake? The crouching orderly leaped back and took the broom. He wielded it like a sword, swishing this way and that.
“Cut it out. You’re only going to make it mad!” I shouted over the screaming
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