With each agonizing episode of “Old Man Overcomes Inadequate Typing Skills,” the weight of another failed appointment drags me below the surf.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m drowning in a bottomless ocean, but instead of throwing me a lifeline, everyone who comes along to rescue me keeps telling me that I’m actually safe on shore, and the hyperventilating and gasping are all in my head.
“I’m writing you a prescription for a probiotic. Focus on your diet, drink plenty of water, and exercise; you should be fine. I’m also resending a prescription for birth control. It’s your choice if you want to fill it, but given your complaint regarding your periods, I think it’s time to start.”
I tilt my gaze heavenward. Birth control. The clicking tongues of ten devout Catholic tantes ring in my head. It’s probably time for me to stop listening to ninety-year-old French-Canadian women who took their grudge over masses lead in English to the grave. But old habits die hard for me.
A frustrated tear rolls down my cheek.No. No crying, Aulie. Not yet. Hold it in.
Dr. Murdoch pauses his slow-moving struggle, glances at me, and emits a long, pronounced sigh.
Busted.
In my experience, medical professionals find people who emote in their office offensive.
Maybe it pricks their conscience, and they don’t appreciate it. I don’t know.
Maybe I should lean into it, and Dr. Murdoch, overcome with an overwhelming sense of guilt, will see me in distress and reconsider dismissing me.
He clears his throat, taking a long sip of water. “I would also recommend seeing a therapist for whatever is bothering you. The chronic fatigue you mentioned is a depressive symptom, making you think you’re in pain when you aren’t.”
Or maybe Dr. Murdoch doesn’t have a conscience.
Can you have a conscience as a medical professional? Sometimes I wonder if there’s some ritual they have to undergo to remove it before they can get the floppy hat at graduation.
Maybe it’s the floppy hat that sucks it from their souls.
“I’ll leave you to get dressed,” Dr. Murdoch says, exiting the room.
With my feet still hitched, I lay on the exam table, stunned. The white, sterile walls provide nothing but bitter silence. I waited six months for this? Let myself hope…for this?
What a fool.
Never hope.
I know that. I practice that. It’s the one solid truth about life I’ve established in my almost twenty-four years on this planet.
Hope is an invitation to be disappointed. Nothing more.
I lace my legs into my tights and fumble with gravity. Oh, for Pete’s sake. Why did I choose to wear hosiery to the doctor’s office?
Wobbling, I hit a sliding tray. Metallic tools clang to the tile floor, and in their clatter, I admit defeat. My socks and boots will do. I ball my tights together and toss them into my purse.
With my peacoat and scarf wrapped around me, I take a breath and shuffle out to the lobby, pulling my crocheted hat over my ears.
Tears prick the edge of my eyelids, threatening to make another embarrassing appearance.
Hold it in. Five more minutes.
The fresh autumn air fills my lungs as I step out to the grey skies hanging overhead.
At least the weather has the good sense to reflect my mood.
Mrs. Bates, my Subaru, sits in the back of the parking lot. A distance I reveled in earlier as a chance to stretch my legs now mocks me as a burden I need to overcome. How many times will I have to go through this before someone listens to me and figures out what’s wrong?
What if it’s nothing?
Another tear trickles down my cheek, and I hurry my pace in the parking lot, fallen leaves crunching under my haste.
