by Eric Yarbrough
As a psychiatrist, working into the evening with patients can sometimes leave me reflective and lonely. At 7 p.m., I’m finishing a session with my last patient of the day, watching the time occasionally for pacing while reminding myself to pay attention to the details. He seems less anxious today and not as worried about his job. It crosses my mind that I haven’t seen him this relaxed in a while. He looks refreshed and ready to head out to a late-night dinner with friends. I find myself envious, wishing I had that kind of energy.
After he walks out, I shut down my computer, turn off all the lights, and head out the door. The street is mostly quiet on my corner, and on my way home, I walk by La Même Chose—the wine shop I co-own in Williamsburg, Brooklyn—as I often do. There’s usually a bottle left by someone for me to try and consider adding to our inventory.
A few customers are perusing the store, where Dionne Warwick is playing in the background. I see a glass of red wine with a cover on top and know it’s a Montepulciano because of the notes sitting beside it. I wish they hadn’t left the notes. It takes the fun out of guessing.
Either way, I give the wine a couple swirls and take a deep, scented whiff. The smell invigorates me a bit. Taking a sip, I let the wine explore the corners of my mouth as the flavors develop. It reminds me of a steak dinner with friends. I wish I were headed there instead of home to have leftovers. The wine smells and tastes as expected, and the label looks pretty too; we’ll probably order some tomorrow.
I pick up the mail and a few catalogs that are sitting by the register. Our staff member is busy with a customer, and I see another young man pacing around, seeming a bit lost as he browses. I approach him to offer my help, and he tells me he’s looking for something nice to pair with the dinner he’s made for a date. I find myself brushing off envy for the second time that evening. After he describes the pasta sauce, I lead him to the Italian section. The wine I just tasted would probably pair perfectly with his dinner, so I look for something similar and send him home with a nice Chianti, and he seems happy and excited. His uplifting mood changes my own slightly for the better.
Taking the unfinished Montepulciano with me, I pick up my bags, wave goodbye to the young woman working for us, and tell her to call me if there are any problems. It’s a short walk home, but it’s long enough for thoughts to fill my mind. I really like psychiatry, but the practice can often be exhausting, as it was today. The active listening and constant observation drain me a bit, as they would anyone. There are some friends I should check in with, but I know I’m just too tired to even try. A sense of guilt creeps in. I think of my patient heading out to meet his friends, comparing him to the version of himself from a few weeks ago after he had just suffered a breakup. I’m glad he’s found happiness again.
My mind then drifts to the wine I just tasted. It always lifts my mood to utilize that part of my brain. As I wait at the street corner for the traffic to clear, it occurs to me that I’m using the same process for both of my occupations. Tomorrow is Friday, and I know I will be tasting more wines for the store instead of seeing patients. My friends laugh at me when I tell them that was the work I did for the day. But just as so much more goes into psychiatry than simply listening, the process of evaluating a wine involves a mix of skills, from the subjective to the systematic. Both practices take into account the fact that people, like wines, require a deeper look to appreciate their complexities.
The beep of a passing scooter pulls me back to the present. I continue on my journey and think about how my love of wine and tasting probably stemmed from my love of psychiatry. The same analytical and inquisitive part of my brain is put to work in both fields. Maybe the organization involved helps my own anxiety.
As I arrive home, I take off my coat and head to the kitchen. After turning the oven on, I find the leftovers waiting for me depressingly on the bottom shelf of the fridge. It shouldn’t be all that bad—beef stew gets better after sitting for a day. My heart lifts a little when I think about the wine I brought home. There’s enough left in the bottle for about another glass and a half. Hopefully, it will be a glass half full. I think I deserve it at the end of another long day. This stew will take another ten minutes to heat, and I see a message from a friend waiting for me. I slip off my shoes, plop down on my couch, and prop up my feet. I hear his voice answering brightly, and it feels like a bit of sunshine at the end of my day.