I am tired.
I am tired of being a human guinea pig for a doctor whose name I can not pronounce, who would not know me if he saw me at a coctail party with a name tag on.
This doctor throws medication at me like a dart board, “let’s just see what works,” he says. “Why can’t we find out what’s wrong first,” I ask. He looks at me, annoyed. I ask questions. He doesn’t like questions. I give explanations. He looks at his watch. He likes writing prescriptions, one after the other, after the other. He likes the sound of his voice. He looks puzzled when I don’t jump with enthusiasm at the drugs: Imitrex, Amitriptyline, Verapamil, Celexa, Nadol, Cymbalta, Feverfew, Riboflavin, Excedrin, CoQ10, Vitamin D, Cyclobenzaprine. They sound frightening, toxic, a recipe for disaster and they have not worked.
He scrambles the perscription like he’s making an omelet. “Well, just stop the Cymbalta, go back to the Celexa. Keep taking the Nadolol for another week, maybe two…did you try Imitrex?” My chart is in his hand; how does he not know?
Drink coffee, he tells me; don’t drink coffee, says my mother. Don’t eat tomatoes, cheese, yogurt, fresh bread, spices, sauces, peanut butter, lemons. . . eat meat, don’t eat meat. Eat vegetables, but not pea pods or onions.
The Neurologist prescribes herbs, more drugs and vitamins. I was fuzzy, jumpy, twitchy, stoned, nauseous, dizzy with nose bleeds.
I reread this. I sound like a junkie. What is next? Detox.
Meanwhile, the lights get brighter, the pain pulsates in my neck, behind my eye, my head. “Just letting you know I am here,” it tells me, laughing at these lists, the doctor, the advice, all of it.
“I will go away,” I imagine it telling me, “when you let me go . . . when you stop, pack up, leave town and don’t look back. Go to the desert–you already know this–walk barefoot through the sand, the sage, wade deep into a calm river, fall willingly into an ocean. Float. Only these will save you, but you must let go. Let it all go.”
But then what? I want another list, I think. A road map of what comes next. I am too afraid to just let go, even if that’s what might save me.