Can't Make this Stuff up

Many years ago when I first graduated college, I signed up for my own choice for a psycho-therapist. The cost was sliding scale and based on my lack of income, it was 2 dollars a week. My therapist was petite woman named Lizzie. She had close cropped salt and pepper hair and a British accent. We met for maybe a year. I told her of my crazy mother and her gastro-medical controlling ways and my subsequent runaways. She said I was probably a bratty teenager. This caught my ear. One day she abruptly announced that she was ending our sessions because she was moving to Buffalo NY. Her husband had a new job there. I asked her what her husband did for work. He's a gastroenterologist. You can't make this stuff up.