Chapter 37. The Poop Whisperer

General medicine is such an inexact science, thinks Brennan as she pulls her clothing back on. I don't know why I even bother. I do know why – because I don't have the time to research it all on my own today! If a man were having these symptoms, there'd be a symposium every other week and billions of dollars raised for trials and research grants – pharmaceutical companies falling all over themselves to find the cure, forget the cause. Cause isn't profitable. Viagra is profitable.

Grabbing her prescription for Lorazepam from the doctor, she tries to recall what she remembers from studying pharmacology as an undergrad. Lorazepam, in the benzodiazepines family, used to relieve anxiety, works by slowing activity in the brain to allow for relaxation.

"I DON'T have anxiety," Brennan says out loud, almost shouting as she passes through the door leading out of the doctor's office and into the tiled hallway of the medical complex. She notices three heads turn to look at her, one belonging to a tiny 60ish woman who says, just loud enough to be heard, "Think again, sister."

"Ma'am," Brennan turns to face the woman straight on. "I am a doctor. I have in Forensic Anthropology, and two other disciplines that I assure you, you cannot pronounce, let alone understand, even if you DO speak the King's English. I hold impressive distinctions in thirteen countries, am considered royalty by at least two of them, and even "I" cannot remember how many languages I speak."

Brennan pauses only to suck in enough air to replace that which hissed out during her tirade. She continues without batting an eyelash, unaware that she has moved four steps closer to the diminutive woman and is waving her finger in the woman's face to emphasize each syllable.

"I solve unsolvable murders every day. I carry a gun. And I do NOT have anxiety. I am not an ANXIOUS person. I am a LOGICAL person. Sensible and reasonable to a fault. Furthermore," she pauses ready to take her next breath, and notices that a crowd is forming around her as she hears her last words echo around the cavernous hallway outside the waiting room.

"Buttercup," says the woman, just above a whisper while maintaining eye contact and not flinching an inch, except to raise a discouraging finger at two approaching security guards who must have overheard the comment about carrying a gun.

"And, oh my god, where did that come from?" Expels Brennan, furrowing her brow.

"Butter cup," the woman begins again. "Lets have a sit down over here on the couch. There is noting to be worried about. Everything is going to be just fine." The woman reaches out her hand and waits for Brennan's hand to descend upon it. Leading her by the hand, the woman moves toward a big comfy couch, not looking away from Brennan once. "There. Now breathe. In …. And out …. And in …. And out …."

"This would be much more effective with my head between my knees," critiques Brennan, and chuckles.

"Let go of the control. Just let go. See? Good job. You're already back with us here on planet earth."

Finally relaxed, Brennan begins, "Please accept my apologies, ma'am. I do not know what came over me. I can only conclude from the available evidence that I am, indeed, a stress basket."

"Honey Child," the woman says, though child comes out rhyming with file rather than wild. "It happens to the best of us. Nothing to be scared of. It's a testament that we are all members of the human race. Waking, talking, breathing, reproducing, dying, crying, feeling, pooping, laughing. The whole lot of us. "

Brennan is still trying to figure this all out – while listening to this woman. "You okay now," the woman states rather than asks. "Lemme ask ya' a couple questions and we'll get to the bottom of this. Okay?"

After a moment, Brennan realizes the woman expects an answer. "Yes. Whatever – go ahead."

"Okay – have you recently had a baby?

"No."

"Left a husband."

"No."

"Bought or sold a house?"

"No."

"Had a visit or call from your mother."

"Uh, no."

"Received some disturbing news?"

"No. Well, yes. But, well. No."

"That would be a yes. Now we're getting somewhere. Lost a loved one to death?"

"Yes."

"Had your heart broken?"

Brennan pauses. "I don't know."

"Interesting. One more. Become attached to a child that is not yours and whom you might lose?"

"Yes. Yes," replies Brennan, her shoulders drooping a bit. "I think I see what you are getting at, Ms. Buttercup …"

"It's Tif. You can call me Tif …"

"Tif, I have had a minimum of four significant events in a short period of time, " Brennan sighs, but remains calm, relaxed. "Some of which have persisted a length of time. Each alone would be considered stressful, causing a flood of adrenaline into my blood stream. However, the combination and duration of these events - and the high level of adrenaline in my bloodstream has – hijacked my normal physiological response, rendering me … rendering … me …"

"A blubbering idiot?" provides Tif.

Brennan looks at Tif. The last time someone called her an idiot she clocked him in the nose. Twice. "You are correct. A blubbering idiot." Brennan starts to laugh. Eventually her smile makes it all the way up to her eyes.

Tif laughs with her, rubbing her shoulder firmly so that Brennan ends up rocking side to side.

"Thank you, Tif. This has been a fortuitous meeting. You and I. I am not usually …"

"Of course, Ms …?"

"Call me Temperance."

"Temperance – I'm not just blowing sunshine up your skirt. You really are going to be fine."

"How do you know that, Tif?"

"I know it because you recognized what was happening without me having to tell you. And you laughed at yourself. This stress you are under, it won't last. You've got some big things at stake right now, right?"

"Yeah," Brennan answers, resigned to the truth.

"When you start to feel panicky, … just stop. And breathe. And have faith that THIS TOO SHALL PASS."

"Ahhh, the Persian Sufi poets. They are an insightful bunch," coos Brennan as if she were reminiscing.

"Here's another one for you, but this one from Max Ehrmann, the Poet Laureate of Terre Haute. You would do well to commit this one to memory:

"Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."

"Ah, yes. The Desiderata. I'd completely forgotten about that. My mother used to recite it to me whenever I had a disappointing day." Brennan's eyes grew shiny with the tender memory.

Tif and Brennan recited the next part of the poem together.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul."

"Tif, may I ask what your area of expertise is, and please let it not be psychology or general medicine."

"Certainly. But it is a strange expertise. I work with aging farmers and constipated youth. They call me the poop whisperer. Don't ask. But I am the top in my field," she said and smiled.

"I believe you, for some reason," replied Brennan, and shook her head, chuckling.

"Now, off you go, Temperance," Tif directed. "And be gentle with yourself."

Brennan stood and turned to leave, then turned again to face Tiff and hugged her. As they drew apart, Brennan turned and swiftly left the building.