Looking at the World Through Paxil-Colored Glasses

(Illustration by Serge Bloch)

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My obsessive-compulsive disorder began one Saturday night during the summer of 1962, when I was 14. As I walked from the kitchen to the dining room for supper, the notion that I had leukemia floated over me, like a Halloween sheet. I sat with the worry for several days; then I had to tell my mother. She took me to see the doctor, a close family friend, who drew some blood for testing, all the while assuring me that even medical students get imaginary ailments. He called me himself when the results came back from the lab.

Miriam? This is Dr. Hyman, darling. I'm calling to tell you myself that I have your blood test results.

You do?

Yes, dear, I'm holding them in my hand, and you know what?

What?

They are perfect, darling. Your blood is perfectly healthy. Will you promise me something?

What?

Will you stop worrying?

Yes.

. . . because your blood is perfect.

Okay.

Okay?