I had lifted the highlighter from my paper when he entered the room.

“Hi, Dr. Maria,” he greeted. I looked up and saw an older man wearing a white dress shirt, a thickly-striped tie, and dark slacks. Over this was a khaki trenchcoat that was a bit oversized for his stocky frame. On his right shoulder was a dark messenger bag and in his left hand was what looked like a folder splashed with a few pastel colors. I noticed the nametag dangling from his neck, though I didn’t actually read it.

“Here’s some information about Abilify for depression,” he continued, leaning over the desk to hand me the folder. Before my brain processed what he had said, I had extended my right hand and accepted the folder.

Once the electrical impulse actually reached my brain, however, I paused, keeping my arm raised and the folder stationary. I quickly glanced down and confirmed that, indeed, it was a folder with pretty graphs and diagrams in trademark Abilify colors that touted the use of this antipsychotic medication for a mood disorder.

(Never mind that the proposed mechanism of action for Abilify involves a lot of hand-waving.)

My eyes darted back to the face of the man. Noting that I had not fully accepted the folder, he kept his arm extended.

“I am going to throw this away,” I reflexively said, rotating my chair a bit towards the trashcan, “so if you want to take it back, please do so.”

He looked surprised. And not the kind of “surprised” that involves balloons, cake, and ice cream. “Baffled” may be the more appropriate adjective.

“You know about Abilify, right?” he asked. He sounded incredulous. “Abilify for the treatment of depression?”

He had now taken back the folder. God forbid I actually throw away valuable marketing tools.

“Yes,” I crisply said. I glanced again at his nametag to learn the identity of this man who did not introduce himself, neglected to demonstrate sufficient manners to enter my office, and foisted unwanted material onto me.

He was a pharmacist for the hospital!

“Are you sure?” he asked, backing away towards the door.

“Thank you,” I curtly answered, willing him to leave the room.

He might have shrugged a little before he tucked the folder under his arm and walked away.

When I was a resident in Seattle, one of the attendings who I particularly liked had obtained an MPH in Boston after his residency and before returning to the Pacific Northwest for a fellowship. He knew of my wish to go to New York.

“Oh, you totally should,” he had commented. “When I lived in Boston, I loved it. And it was like I was getting assertiveness training.”

I’m fairly certain I would have never said something like, “I am going to throw this away,” when I was still living in Seattle. (It would have only been a thought.)