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Max
It had taken some convincing to get Dr. Weldman to meet me outside our usual sessions, but he’d finally agreed. Why, I had no idea, since it was probably completely against his rules. But I’d asked, and he’d agreed, as long as the conversation was not going to be about my mental health. I promised him it wasn’t.
We met at a tiny sandwich shop near his office, where an old Polish man stood behind the counter, grumpily making sandwiches with his bare hands. I had no idea what was on mine—it was spicy and vinegary and had some kind of meat in it—but I didn’t care. Being nervous made me hungry.
“Okay,” Dr. Weldman said. “Tell me whatever is on your mind. Before I lose my license to practice.”
I put down my sandwich. I was terrible at this shit, so I said the first words I could get out. “I have five million dollars.”
He didn’t drop his lunch. “That’s nice, Max,” he said. “But you told me that already. What does it have to do with me?”
“I’m not saying it right,” I said. “My friend Devon inherited a lot of money. I told you that. He inherited a billion dollars. And he knew I had hospital bills, and my dad’s debts, so he gave me some money. More than I need.”
Dr. Weldman watched me thoughtfully, not stopping me even though we’d been over this in one of our sessions. “Go on.”
“I told him I didn’t want all that money,” I said. “That I don’t need it. And he said something that has stuck with me. He told me that if I didn’t want all that money, I should give it to some other veteran to pay his bills with.”
“A nice gesture,” Dr. Weldman said.
“It was just something Devon said,” I explained, “but lately I’ve been thinking about that idea. That I could pay other guys’ bills—to see you, for example. Some guy who needs help but can’t afford it, like me a few weeks ago. I could use my money and get him help instead.”
Finally he put down his sandwich. “That is a very kind thing to do,” he said, picking his words gently, “but I don’t see how we could do it. My patient information is strictly confidential, as you can imagine. I can’t just send you other people’s bills.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I want to set up something official through the clinic. Like an official charity.” I pushed aside my plate and picked up the salt shaker. “So let’s say this is a veteran,” I said. “He has PTSD and he needs help, but he can’t afford it. He puts in an application.” I set the salt shaker down and picked up the pepper. “This is a doctor, like you. Not just you, though. Ideally we’d have a network of doctors who are interested and qualified. We’d start out in the Bay Area and, if it works, we’d expand out.” I put down the pepper shaker a few inches from the salt. “This is my organization,” I said, picking up a spoon. “It connects the guy from this half”—I put the handle next to the salt—“to the guy from this half.” I put the bowl of the spoon next to the pepper. “We find the right guy for the right patient. He gets help. And we pay the bill.”
Dr. Weldman looked at my salt-spoon-pepper outline for a minute, thinking. “It’s simple on the surface, but in reality it isn’t. You’re right, the clinic management would have to be involved. They’d have to be enthusiastic, in fact. We’d have to balance transparency with patient confidentiality. And when you bring in insurance companies and veterans’ benefits, it all becomes complicated.”
“But worth doing,” I said. “Right?”
He looked at my setup some more. “It’s certainly worth doing,” he said. “There are many veterans who could benefit from a service like this. But my own influence only goes so far. You’d have to go up the food chain, Max.”
“That’s why I’m starting with you,” I told him. “Get me a meeting with your boss. Or better yet, his boss.”
Dr. Weldman sighed. “I can try. I’ve never known a patient to propose something like this before. I have no idea what they’ll do, if they’ll take you seriously.”
“I’m always fucking serious,” I said.
He smiled a little. “I know you are. In fact, I know you quite well. When you propose something, you always mean it with everything you have. It’s why I agreed to meet with you in the first place.”
“Because you knew I wouldn’t waste your time?”
“Because I knew whatever you had to say would be interesting,” he said, “so I wanted to hear it. I’ll make some calls. But you’ll have to sell this thing, Max. The people who can put this in motion are suits, not just doctors. You’ll have to put together a more formal presentation than this.” He motioned to the salt and pepper shakers. “They’ll want to see proposed financials. Projections. And although five million dollars is a lot of money, it’s finite. If you give it all away, eventually this project ends.”
I could feel my frustration growing. He was right, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear. “I know my money will run out,” I said. “We’d raise donations. Maybe get corporate donors.”
He nodded. “It’s a valid plan. I’m just saying that the people you need to talk to will need to see it laid out. They’ll need to be convinced.” His voice gentled. “You have to be ready.”
I stared at my salt-spoon-pepper diagram. I knew what he was saying—I’d just spent four years fighting PTSD and anxiety, and here I was, proposing something that was probably going to cause me the maximum anxiety possible. Meetings, suits, proposals. Having to talk. To sell.
I felt that. Every single shitty, terrifying part of it. But I looked at the salt, the spoon, and the pepper, and wondered: if I didn’t do this, what the fuck was I doing with my life? James, David, and Keishon had died in that IED attack—I had their names tattooed on my arm. They’d died, and I’d come home. What the hell was the fucking point?
I looked up at Dr. Weldman. “I’m ready,” I said. “But I’m not wearing a fucking suit. If they can’t handle a guy in a t-shirt, then fuck them. I’ll find some other way.”
I was feeling pretty
good when I left the sandwich place and got in my car. Like maybe I could actually do this. And the first person I wanted to talk to was Gwen.
I hadn’t told her about my plans yet. I told myself it was because I wasn’t sure I was going to do it, but that wasn’t true. I just wanted it to sound… good by the time I told her about it. Real. Like something that could be a success.
