He spends all of a whopping twenty minutes sitting with his client and her psychiatrist, evaluating the effectiveness of her laundry list of meds.
She tells him how her bones ache in the morning, is vague about her sleep patterns, and remains unable to explain her irresistible need to repeat herself and repeat herself and repeat herself.
She tells him about her upstairs neighbor who jumped out his window, splattering his skull the day after their landlord served him with eviction papers, and finishes the tale by smiling sweetly and saying she’s pretty sure he’s better off because the rent’s probably a lot cheaper in the graveyard anyway.
He tells the shrink that, all things considered, he thinks she’s generally doing okay; manages to get herself up and out almost every day, isn’t sleeping around as much as she used to, and—despite the mayhem and desperation everywhere around her—hasn’t made any overt threats toward others or displayed any significant self-injurious behaviors.
All of them recognize success when they see it; no problematic side effects are noted,
no med changes are planned.
Refills are ordered, and he offers her a ride to the pharmacy, leaving the doctor to dictate his notes before his next appointment arrives.