Mr. Doctor Quinn and the Electric Solution

“Doctor, there's something wrong with the me,” said Zoey, a fifty-year old attractive woman on the cusp of losing the beauty that money can buy in exchange for the beauty that money can barely maintain. She was sitting on the client side of a mahogany therapist’s desk.

“Indeed. Some things we can ascertain without peer-reviewed studies. And please—call me Doc,” Mr. Doctor Quinn replied from the other side of his desk, noting the signs of a mid-life crisis in her various artificial aesthetic adjustments.

Zoey was desperate. All she wanted was a little peace of mind. With four children, the youngest of whom was getting ready to move out, she had spent her best, most beautiful years on packing lunches, driving to soccer meets, and keeping the household engine running smoothly as her husband worked overtime to pay off the mortgage. Now, she was facing the prospect of being at home alone—that is, with her husband, Arnold.

Zoey began to cry as she faced the reality of her true feelings: “I don't want to be married any more, Doc.” She lifted her manicured hand to cover her leaking nose.

Mr. Doctor Quinn discreetly pushed a tissue box in Zoey's direction. “Well, you don't need me to solve that problem, Zoey.”

Zoey looked at him with naive hope as she held a tissue to her nose, “What can I do? I will do anything to fix this. I can't divorce. It would be too hard on me and the kids. But what can I possibly do?”

“You could kill him in his sleep and wake up the next morning an unmarried woman, of course. You don't need me for that solution, although I wouldn't advise it,” Doc explained. Soporific drugs were things he did in fact deal in, but he did not consider murder his expertise.

Zoey paused, unsure how to respond. Finally, she decided to laugh nervously and clear up any misunderstandings: “Oh, Doc, I'm so sorry for giving you the impression that I want to kill him. I guess I just needed a safe place to admit what is wrong with me. My feelings are the problem here.” Zoey looked down at her feet. Doc recognized in her the guilt of someone too good to carry out the easy solution but not good enough to not want it to happen.

“I will do the diagnosing, thank you, Zoey. Well, if the origin of your problem is your brain, I can help you with that,” Doc shared. He pulled out his box of electrodes from the top drawer of his desk. They were attached to a machine that he had installed into the desk for convenience. His entire therapy session could begin and end at this desk without the need for a separate room or medical assistants to set up the shock machine.

Zoey glanced nervously at the electrodes. “My friend said this helped her. But I have to admit that getting electrified is somewhat daunting. Does it hurt?”

“Does living in a home with a husband you hate hurt?" Doc replied, using the technique he learned in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy YouTube videos.

“I never said I hated Arnold. I just don't want to be married anymore. I'm lonely. I don't know how to relate with him anymore. Our kids are moving out. I'm having trouble adjusting to our new roles in life,” Zoey replied defensively, gripping her purse. Doc felt slightly threatened by the purse grasping. It could be a subconscious suppression of money. He needed to act quickly until her hands released their grip on his Hawaii vacation money.

“My dear, let me explain a few things to you, “ Doc began, leaning forward and putting his hands loosely on the desk, palm up, in a gesture of openness, patience, and relaxation that he hoped her brain would mirror. “There are countless studies that have shown under MRI that the amygdala in the brain lights up when certain thoughts or memories are triggered. These studies also show that the pattern changes after micro currents of electricity pass through it. Indeed, for a small percentage of clients, shock therapy provides a permanent solution after the first session.”

“A permanent solution?” Zoey asked hopefully, her hands loosening.

“Yes, the amygdala no longer exhibits electric currents. The brain stops firing neurons, and therefore problematic neurons cease firing,” Doc explained. He didn't expect Zoey to understand. Most people didn't. What really mattered was a credential attached to a practice, so he pulled out his final poker chip. “MIT and NASA have studies, if you would like to read them.”

“Oh no, I couldn't make heads or tails of that jargon. That's why I'm glad to know professionals like yourself who interpret them for me and help people with the knowledge,” Zoey said as she pulled out her check book.

Doc calmly, cooly, and confidently closed the deal: “You can make the check out to Doctor Quinn. One thousand dollars.”

Zoey finished writing the check and Doc took a moment to digitally deposit it before returning to the electrode set up. He placed several electrodes on Zoey's forehead, temples, and back of the head. He also attached a brainwave sensor to her scalp and turned on the monitor so Zoey could see for herself the value in what she had just paid for.

“Look at the screen, Zoey. I will tell you when I begin the micro currents. For now, just relax and look at these brain waves on the screen.”

Zoey smiled, feeling relaxed in the same way she felt when she would nurse one of her children to health from a bad case of influenza. Doc was her nurse—he was going to make it all better now.

“Now think of Arnold,” Doc said with abrupt indifference. Zoey observed her brain waves changing their pattern.

“Here comes the first micro current. Don't be afraid. It’s normal to feel a bit strange at first,” Doc said, and he switched on the machine under his desk. The hair on Zoey's forearms raised as the electric currents raced over her scalp. They were too light to penetrate the amygdala, but this was just a warm up for the machine settings.

Zoey's smile increased as she observed what she thought were changes in the brain waves on the screen. Doc knew that she was merely experiencing the euphoria of the placebo effect, as the current was not strong enough to be efficacious against unwanted neural pathways. But if she couldn't tell the difference between real results and the placebo, this session would be easier than most.

Doc increased the current and Zoey began to seize the way an epileptic does in a petit mal. All according to plan. He kept his eye on the monitor. The brain waves were changing, of course. It didn't really matter how they changed so much as that they did something. The flatline was the only permanent solution, of course. If she didn't want to kill Arnold, there was only one other way to become unmarried.

After several rounds of micro currents, Doc turned off the machine. “How are you feeling, Zoey?” he asked.

“Like I'm waking up from a dream,” she said. She smiled groggily. “That's good, right?”

“Very good, Zoey. You are an excellent patient. Your amygdala exhibited a rapid change in its pattern of activity. You are well on your way to a solution.”

Zoey returned home that evening after running a few errands. Arnold was cooking dinner. He had set the table for two.

“You're home late, honey,” he said.

“I just had my therapy session,” Zoey responded.

“Please tell me you did not go see the Zap Quack,” Arnold said worriedly.

“Zap your problems today and they will go away, Arnold,” Zoey retorted.

“Okay, honey. It's just that zapping your brain makes me nervous. But let's have dinner. I hope you are feeling hungry! I made us a feast.”

Zoey sat down at the large table, oversized for the two of them. Feel hungry? She didn't feel anything at all. She smiled and picked up her knife and fork.”This steak looks delicious, Arnold.”

Arnold glanced nervously at his wife as she took a bite of the fresh King salmon seasoned with lemon and garlic.