YOUR OWN MEDICINE

The psychologist shook and squirmed, and the patient could see beads of sweat on his face and hands as he lay on the floor, quivering.  She ran to him, then changed her mind and ran to the door.  She stopped, regarded the doorknob with some suspicion, and finally pulled the sleeve of her cardigan over her hand and opened the door.  She called out to the secretary “He's having a fit or something - come quickly” she cried.

The secretary ran in.  “Oh no, not again” she cried.  “It's the fourth this week.”  She slipped a pencil into the psychologist’s mouth and started to stroke his brow while speaking calming words into his ear.  “Go next door and tell the secretary there that you have been transferred to Mr Hawlings” she said.

The patient kicked the door open a little more with her foot and left the room.

The psychologist had calmed down now and was looking weakly up at his secretary.

“What was it this time?” she asked.

“Doorknobs” said the psychologist weakly and tried to sit up.  And then in a weaker voice still, he continued “she has a ph- ph- phobia” he almost spat out these words “of doorknobs.”   He collapsed back onto the floor and a shudder went through his whole body.

The secretary looked down at him with a mixture of frustration and sympathy.

“I'm sorry,” she said firmly, “but you're going to have to see Mr. Hawlings yourself.  This has gone too far.  A fear of feathers, or heights or even the number thirteen I can cope with.  But working for a psychologist with a fear of phobias is downright impossible.”

She walked over to the door and looked back.  “You”, she said, “have phobiaphobia and it's time you did something about it!”