Deborah sat down and peed in the cup. When it was full she finished peeing in the toilet. She adjusted her clothing, washed her hands and carried the cup out to Dr. Ulman.
He took the cup. “Wait in the exam room while I check this for you.” Deborah had no choice but to do what he said. Soon he came back. “I didn’t see any bacteria in the sample,” he said. “Are you waking up wet or waking up as you are wetting the bed.”
“I wake up wet. I have a dream and then wake up wet,” she said.
“Oh, the classic dream where you dream you are going to the bathroom? That is common.” He wrote something down.
“Not exactly,” she said. “I have nightmares every night. Not really going-to-the-bathroom related.”
“I see,” he said. “Do you know what is causing these nightmares?”
“Yes,” said Deborah. No, he will ask me about it, she thought. “No, I mean. Just bad, scary stuff.”
“Maybe I can refer you to a psychologist,” he said.
Deborah shook her head vigorously, “No, no,” she said. “No shrinks.” A shrink would find out who she really was. Maybe they would execute her if they knew she had jumped bodies. She shivered.
“It helps to talk things. I think your problem is psychological. A psychologist could help. It’s probably just stress and he can give you ways to manage stress.”
“Do you have pills you can give me to make me stop wetting the bed,” she said. “Yes, pills.”
“There are pills,” he said and looked at her chart, “but you are allergic to one of the ingredients. Maybe when the summer starts you’ll see a reprieve from the bed wetting. Until then, wear protection. I still recommend you talk to a psychologist though. We’ll still run a few more tests.”
It took another hour of being poked and prodded before the doctor was satisfied. Deborah walked out off the office feeling upset. She hoped the doctor could find a medical reason she was wetting the bed. He probably suspected the root of the problem when she mentioned the bad dreams. “I’m done,” she said to her mother.
As Dr. Ulman and her mother talked for a little while, Deborah felt her face burn with embarrassment. When her mother said the words bed wetting or accidents, she felt like everyone in the waiting room was staring at her. It was probably just her imagination, but it sure felt like it. Finally they finished and Deborah rushed her mother to the car.
“That was certainly embarrassing,” said Deborah.
“Well, at least you know what you need to do,” said her mother. “Dr. Ulman gave me the name of a psychologist. I can make an appointment. Do you want me to do that Alison?”
“No.” Deborah remembered the psychologist she talked to after being arrested. He showed her stupid ink blots and expected her to tell them what she thought they looked like. They all looked like explosions to her, but she answered, “a pretty butterfly,” or something equally tame. At the time her attorneys were trying to get her off on an insanity plea, but she thought her only way to get the terrorist caught was to tell her story at trial. She’d been wrong. “I’m not talking to a psychologist.”
