Post by Old Dragon (Al) on Mar 24, 2009 23:55:27 GMT 1
The Appointment
‘Once upon a time I trusted doctors,’ said the woman, ‘but not any more... Oh, they are alright for the obvious things - coughs, colds, sore throats and the like - but they have to earn my respect now.’
Seated opposite in the waiting room, Richard closed his eyes and tried to relax. It wasn’t easy, but he suspected his consultation would be an even greater ordeal. The problem with his back had been ongoing for years, and yet none of the x-rays or examinations he’d undergone had thrown any light on the cause or condition. Nothing prescribed seemed to ease the searing, painful spasms that coursed, like electric shocks, through his spinal column at the least provocation. As for the itching… Richard shuddered. He longed to strip away his shirt, lean against the rough brickwork of the surgery wall and scratch like some animal driven demented by a plague of insects.
Something inside him felt empathy towards the woman. He might have voiced his thoughts, but didn’t trust himself not to launch into a crazed rant. Common sense warned him to hold his tongue - but those latest tablets didn’t help. Richard was sure they were responsible, in part at least, for the mood swings he’d been experiencing. He wouldn’t tell the doctor that his wife had finally had enough of what, she claimed, was his malingering and had taken off with someone she’d met in work. That really would give the doctor an excuse to prescribe more of those wretched anti-depressants. In reality, it was a lot more peaceful and less stressful at home since she’d gone. If ever a woman could nag… but even Miranda’s nagging was child’s play compared to the nagging pain from muscles that writhed frequently with cramping, burning spasms. Sleep brought no relief because Richard hadn’t slept for days. Oh, he’d taken the sleeping pills he’d been prescribed, but those were probably placebos dished out by that pathetic excuse of a GP…
He forced his mind to change tack. To move away from such dangerous thoughts before they took over and his blood pressure spiralled to hazardous levels. If there was an alternate practice in the area, he’d have changed doctors years ago, but there wasn’t. Besides, the surgery was almost on his doorstep, even if it often took him over ten minutes to walk the mere fifty yards…
‘Richard Wilson?’ the receptionist enquired, barely hiding her smirk as she spoke.
Richard was not amused. The woman wasn’t the only person to nickname him Victor Meldrew for no reason other than that he shared a name with the actor who portrayed Meldrew on television. Well, that was what Richard preferred to believe, but was honest enough to admit he’d acquired something of that ever complaining, perpetually miserable and humourless character since his accident.
‘You know perfectly well who I am,’ he snapped at the woman.
‘Yes, but we do have to be sure, Mr. Mel…Wilson,’ she smiled - an omniscient sneer that caused Richard to bite his tongue and vow silently to discover a way to have her fired, if it was the last thing he ever did. He hated the idea of her being privy to all his medical records. ‘Doctor will see you now,’ she continued from her position of safety behind the wall of reinforced glass.
Richard stood up slowly, wary of moving in any way liable to encourage yet another spasm in the spine that, he felt sure, one could barbeque steak on.
‘I don’t know why I’ve bothered to come…’ he began, almost before he’d closed the consulting room door, let alone raised his eyes to meet the irascible glare of his nemesis – but when he did, it halted him in his tracks. Unless Dr. Potts had undergone a sex change and aged twenty years in the process…
‘I’m sorry, I was expecting to see Potts.’
‘I see. Well, I’m his locum, Dr. Shepherd. Please take a seat and tell me what I can do for you today?’
Richard explained, failing to keep the frustration from his tone.
‘You’ve had this problem a long time, haven’t you?’ she observed, peering closely at the sheaves of medical notes in front of her and flipping the cards backwards as she read his history.
Richard nodded, watching her expression alter, her brow furrows deepen, and her lips tense and close against each other, but he couldn’t read her thoughts.
At her bidding, he removed his shirt. She had cold hands, but he welcomed their gentle, cooling touch even through the thin surgical gloves.
She’s good, he thought, as her hand paused over the source of the greatest heat, fingers probing gently as if to be certain of her diagnosis. Richard didn’t want her to stop, despite the agony.
She did, snapped off the gloves and disposed of them. Richard could still feel the sensation of her touching his flesh as she sat down. He fastened the last of his shirt buttons as she turned to face him.
There was compassion, understanding, in her voice when she spoke.
‘The good news is that I know exactly what your problem is…Unfortunately it is extremely difficult to treat or even to keep under control. You have inflammation in some spinal root nerves, and the sensations you describe of spiders crawling around on your back are what give the condition its name. You have arachnoiditis, Mr. Wilson… I’m going to prescribe a short course of steroid anti-inflammatory medication to settle this latest flare down, then we’ll need to work together to find ways to make things more manageable for you in the long-term.’
‘I do not believe it!’ cried Richard. ‘All these years of being treated as if I were a hypochondriac, or in need of a psychiatrist, and when I finally discover a doctor who knows what she’s talking about, she’s a ruddy locum! Here today and gone tomorrow! That’s just typical!’
‘Once upon a time I trusted doctors,’ said the woman, ‘but not any more... Oh, they are alright for the obvious things - coughs, colds, sore throats and the like - but they have to earn my respect now.’
Seated opposite in the waiting room, Richard closed his eyes and tried to relax. It wasn’t easy, but he suspected his consultation would be an even greater ordeal. The problem with his back had been ongoing for years, and yet none of the x-rays or examinations he’d undergone had thrown any light on the cause or condition. Nothing prescribed seemed to ease the searing, painful spasms that coursed, like electric shocks, through his spinal column at the least provocation. As for the itching… Richard shuddered. He longed to strip away his shirt, lean against the rough brickwork of the surgery wall and scratch like some animal driven demented by a plague of insects.
Something inside him felt empathy towards the woman. He might have voiced his thoughts, but didn’t trust himself not to launch into a crazed rant. Common sense warned him to hold his tongue - but those latest tablets didn’t help. Richard was sure they were responsible, in part at least, for the mood swings he’d been experiencing. He wouldn’t tell the doctor that his wife had finally had enough of what, she claimed, was his malingering and had taken off with someone she’d met in work. That really would give the doctor an excuse to prescribe more of those wretched anti-depressants. In reality, it was a lot more peaceful and less stressful at home since she’d gone. If ever a woman could nag… but even Miranda’s nagging was child’s play compared to the nagging pain from muscles that writhed frequently with cramping, burning spasms. Sleep brought no relief because Richard hadn’t slept for days. Oh, he’d taken the sleeping pills he’d been prescribed, but those were probably placebos dished out by that pathetic excuse of a GP…
He forced his mind to change tack. To move away from such dangerous thoughts before they took over and his blood pressure spiralled to hazardous levels. If there was an alternate practice in the area, he’d have changed doctors years ago, but there wasn’t. Besides, the surgery was almost on his doorstep, even if it often took him over ten minutes to walk the mere fifty yards…
‘Richard Wilson?’ the receptionist enquired, barely hiding her smirk as she spoke.
Richard was not amused. The woman wasn’t the only person to nickname him Victor Meldrew for no reason other than that he shared a name with the actor who portrayed Meldrew on television. Well, that was what Richard preferred to believe, but was honest enough to admit he’d acquired something of that ever complaining, perpetually miserable and humourless character since his accident.
‘You know perfectly well who I am,’ he snapped at the woman.
‘Yes, but we do have to be sure, Mr. Mel…Wilson,’ she smiled - an omniscient sneer that caused Richard to bite his tongue and vow silently to discover a way to have her fired, if it was the last thing he ever did. He hated the idea of her being privy to all his medical records. ‘Doctor will see you now,’ she continued from her position of safety behind the wall of reinforced glass.
Richard stood up slowly, wary of moving in any way liable to encourage yet another spasm in the spine that, he felt sure, one could barbeque steak on.
‘I don’t know why I’ve bothered to come…’ he began, almost before he’d closed the consulting room door, let alone raised his eyes to meet the irascible glare of his nemesis – but when he did, it halted him in his tracks. Unless Dr. Potts had undergone a sex change and aged twenty years in the process…
‘I’m sorry, I was expecting to see Potts.’
‘I see. Well, I’m his locum, Dr. Shepherd. Please take a seat and tell me what I can do for you today?’
Richard explained, failing to keep the frustration from his tone.
‘You’ve had this problem a long time, haven’t you?’ she observed, peering closely at the sheaves of medical notes in front of her and flipping the cards backwards as she read his history.
Richard nodded, watching her expression alter, her brow furrows deepen, and her lips tense and close against each other, but he couldn’t read her thoughts.
At her bidding, he removed his shirt. She had cold hands, but he welcomed their gentle, cooling touch even through the thin surgical gloves.
She’s good, he thought, as her hand paused over the source of the greatest heat, fingers probing gently as if to be certain of her diagnosis. Richard didn’t want her to stop, despite the agony.
She did, snapped off the gloves and disposed of them. Richard could still feel the sensation of her touching his flesh as she sat down. He fastened the last of his shirt buttons as she turned to face him.
There was compassion, understanding, in her voice when she spoke.
‘The good news is that I know exactly what your problem is…Unfortunately it is extremely difficult to treat or even to keep under control. You have inflammation in some spinal root nerves, and the sensations you describe of spiders crawling around on your back are what give the condition its name. You have arachnoiditis, Mr. Wilson… I’m going to prescribe a short course of steroid anti-inflammatory medication to settle this latest flare down, then we’ll need to work together to find ways to make things more manageable for you in the long-term.’
‘I do not believe it!’ cried Richard. ‘All these years of being treated as if I were a hypochondriac, or in need of a psychiatrist, and when I finally discover a doctor who knows what she’s talking about, she’s a ruddy locum! Here today and gone tomorrow! That’s just typical!’