I sat in a chair that looked like it was rejected from the set of the original “Star Trek” series.
Ear plugs — brand name “Skull Screws” — were twisted into each ear. A blue felt cap covered my skull and ears, held in place with a Velcro chin strap.
It vaguely resembled the kind of leather football helmet Johnny Bright might have worn for Drake University in the 1950s.
Atop that dignified ensemble was another device — a gray sort of fez with hoses and cables leading to a computer behind the chair.
Dr. Eric Barlow, my psychiatrist from Compass Clinical Associates in Urbandale, clapped his arm on my shoulder.
“It’s time to get you well,” he said.
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