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Dr. Budd:  Yes?

Dorothy:  You probably don’t remember me, but you told me I wasn’t sick.  Do you remember?  You told me I was just getting old.

Dr. Budd:  I’m sorry, I really don’t–

Dorothy:  Remember.  Maybe you’re getting old.  That’s a little joke.  Well, I tell you, Dr. Budd, I really am sick.  I have chronic fatigue syndrome.  That is a real illness.  You can check with the Center for Disease Control.

Dr. Budd:  Huh.  Well, I’m sorry about that.

Dorothy:  Well, I’m glad!  At least I know I have something.

Dr. Budd:  I’m sure.  Well, nice seeing you.

Dorothy:  Not so fast.  There are some things I have to say.  There are a lot of things that I have to say.  Words can’t express what I have to say.  [tearing up]  What I went through, what you put me through—I can’t do this in a restaurant.

Dr. Budd:  Good!

Dorothy:  But I will!

Dr. Budd’s date:  Louis, who is this person?

Dr. Budd:  Look, Miss–

Dorothy:  Sit.  I sat for you long enough.  Dr. Budd, I came to you sick—sick and scared—and you dismissed me.  You didn’t have the answer, and instead of saying “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” you made me feel crazy, like I had made it all up.  You dismissed me!  You made me feel like a child, a fool, a neurotic who was wasting your precious time.  Is that your caring profession?  Is that healing?  No one deserves that kind of treatment, Dr. Budd, no one.  I suspect had I been a man, I might have been taken a bit more seriously, and not told to go to a hairdresser.

Dr. Budd:  Look, I am not going to sit here anymore–

Dr. Budd’s date:  Shut up, Louis.