The mind doctor

I'm seeing a psychiatrist. I'm not doing it to probe my inner psyche and explore why I've never managed to have a successful relationship, or how I feel about my dead parents and living brothers, or to talk about symbolism in my dreams. I'm doing it because I want short term advice on how to cope with my pending demise from the sarcoma that has spread to my lungs and has an over seventy percent chance of killing me in the next year. I'm also doing it for the drugs, which in this case means Lorazepam, an anti-anxiety medication. (The pills are minuscule. If squirrels carried cash, Lorazepam would be the size of their dimes. When I take them, I'm not sure whether or not they went down or are lost between my cheek and gum.)

My hands are pretty big but still, Lorazepam pills are tiny.

I've seen the psychiatrist twice now. He seems like a good guy. He reminds me, in looks and a little bit in manner, of the actor Charles Grodin. 
Like all people in that field, he's good at helping me re-frame things, seeing them in a better light that's ideally a more realistic one than the negative spin I naturally tend to give things.
His office is in a small brick complex near one of the oldest suburban shopping malls in America. It's an upscale part of town. I went to a farmers market for a late lunch before and had a very good falafel sandwich. (An American farmers market where you can get a falafel sandwich? I'm all for it.)
After the sandwich, I went to a Starbucks for a cup of coffee. Today is Martin Luther King Day so the kids were out of school. Most of the teenagers I saw were girls. Where were the boys? Home playing video games? At movie theaters? I have no idea. The girls were fun to watch as they learn to move about in the world of adults, buying cups of coffee and shopping, choosing where to sit with friends, talking, building friendships. When I was a boy that age I and other boys with a day off thought mostly about blowing things up with firecrackers and getting away with it, or finding a place to smoke purloined cigarettes and get away with it. 
Anyway. I'm seeing a psychiatrist. Most in my condition would have a spouse who would help them cope. Not me, though.