http://pulsehead.com/951 - Peter Rabbit
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http://pulsehead.com/981 - Honeysuckle
I never should have gone to the doctor.
Everyone was telling me how sick I looked, like I hadn't slept in forever, and how getting a checkup would be good for me. I fought it for as long as I could, but when Kelly came over one night and refused to sit down, I knew it was bad.
She had called earlier that night, asking if I wanted to watch some TV or something, maybe get a bite to eat. I really didn't feel up to it, but I said yes anyway since I hadn't seen her face-to-face in almost a month. After I hung up the phone, I shuffled around, picking up dirty clothes that I'd stripped off after work and hadn't bothered to dunk in the hamper. I also scooped up the TV dinners from the past few nights, some of them so old the Salisbury steak glaze had dried out and cracked apart like those desert scenes you see on NatGeo. I felt guilt ricochet through me, I'd been neglecting myself. I knew I had, but I always felt so run-down, so weary. The only thing that seemed to make it better was a trip to my little box. A couple hours inside and I always felt stronger, refreshed, and more able.
As I plodded around my place, half-heartedly erasing the symptoms of my laziness, I considered jumping into my little box for a few minutes before Kelly arrived, just a quick pick-me-up, something to grease the gears of social interaction. I quickly dismissed the thought though, I didn't want to be in my little box when she showed up, not only because I knew it would freak her out, but because I didn't want to be interrupted when I was inside. It would be like letting a stranger see me naked. I dumped the encrusted dinner trays into the trash can and tossed the dirty forks into the sink, where they clattered in protest. The sound in my small kitchen was jarring, and I felt weariness shudder through me. I leaned against the counter and looked at the digital clock over the stove, Kelly wouldn't be along for at least half-an hour, and I resigned myself to taking a quick shower.
I was clean, dressed, and watching re-runs when she let herself in. I rose to greet her and saw something in her face I didn't like. Had she just flinched? I tried to tell myself it wasn't that, that perhaps she had stumbled ever so slightly while closing the door; but something in the back of my mind knew the truth, when she had looked at me, something had startled her, something about me. The look only remained for a moment or two, and when I reached her, she hugged me tight, but there was a stiffness in her body that told me she didn't want to hang around after all. She gave me a peck on the cheek which was utterly unlike her usual smothering, hanging-on greeting.
"I'm happy to see you" I said, shuffling back towards the couch. "I'm sorry I haven't been available, life has just been...life."
"I understand Ian," She replied, "Life's thrown a lot at you lately." She smiled but stayed near the entryway. The handbag that she usually threw on my coffee table as she sat down was still looped over her wrist. Her eyes bounced over the confines of my living room, looking for clues that something was out of place. I patted the cushion next to me, the one she had sat in so many times, I mentally referred to it has "Kelly's Cushion".
"You want a drink? I'm watching some old Home Improvements. Nothing's really on right now." I winced inwardly as the words fell out of my mouth, words that were clumsy and forced. I hadn't spent time with Kelly--or anyone--for so long, it was as if I had actually forgotten how to talk. She shook her head quietly and smiled.
"Ian, I--I can't stay, I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing." She smiled with her lips pressed tightly together, the kind of smile you give to someone who is in mourning. I knew that smile well, I'd seen it for the past year almost non-stop. Seeing it from Kelly shocked me though. Shortly after mom passed, When I was getting that tight-lipped smile a hundred times a day, Kelly was an oasis. She looked through my pain and saw the part of me that just wanted to go back to normal. Her smiles were full and radiant, her laughter warm and welcome. She had been the only person in my life at the time that hadn't given me the tight-lipped smile, the smile that seemed to say "I'm uncomfortable and don't know what to say, so I'll just keep my mouth shut and look like I understand". Now Kelly of all people was shuffling her feet nervously and giving me that little smile, and I knew she was trying to think up an excuse to leave.
"You want to meet for dinner later on? I can get a reservation going.." I trailed off as I reached for my cell phone, she was already turning towards the door.
"No, I have to go, and I think you should stay in and get some rest, you look...bad." She watched me sidelong as she opened the door to go out. "Maybe you should go see a doctor." She finished before slipping through the opening she had made. Then, the door latched closed and she was gone. I sat on the couch, the canned laughter and witty dialogue from the TV washing over me. My hands worried over each other of their own accord. Soon, I slipped into my little box and stayed there until morning.
When I came around, the sun was shining through my blinds and I felt the ache in my nether regions that told me I had been holding my piss for too long. I arrowed towards the bathroom and considered the night before as I let fly into the porcelain. Kelly had seemed almost...afraid of me. I remembered her urging me to see a doctor and realized, with dawning apprehension, that over the previous weeks she hadn't been the only one. I started to recount all the people who had asked me if I was feeling well, or if I had seen a doctor recently. I finished up and flushed the toilet, took a cursory glance at myself in the mirror and walked back to the living room to the phone.
I scheduled as a walk-in that same day, and as I sat in my GP's examination room, I felt the urge to slip into my little box. My eyes rolled lazily over the colored immunization fliers, the health certificates and patient's rights pamphlets tacked to the cork-board by the door. I stared at the 3D illustration of my lower intestine, complete with all the diseases and chronic ailments that could befall my ascending colon. When the doc came in, he looked at me, glanced at my chart and sat down.
"Well Ian, your vitals look okay, but I want to do a couple of quick tests." He produced a penlight from his pocket and talked me through the tests, mostly just following the pen, feeling my lymph nodes, looking in my eyes and ears, the usual. When he sat back, he regarded me closely. I had a momentary picture of the way Kelly had looked at me the night before. "Well, from what I can see, you aren't really sick, you're just run-down. Have you been sleeping?"
"I haven't been getting so much since mom died." I mumbled. Something deep inside me warned me off of telling him about my little box.
"I see..." He nodded as he wrote in my file. His nametag, H. Matthews, caught the light from the small window as he turned back to me. "About how many hours a night do you think?"
"Not more than for or five hours, sometimes less, sometimes more." I answered. Again Doctor Matthews nodded and scribbled something.
"What about delusions, visions, hallucinations, blackouts or lost time?" He probed. Again the something in the back of my mind warned me not to tell him about my little box, so I shook my head. Another nod, more scribbling. Suddenly he looked at me with a long piercing gaze, and seemed to study me closely. I could feel my skin crawl and my face flush. I was sure that he had somehow detected my lie, that he knew about my little box after all, and that he was going to send me to a psychiatric ward or something. I forced myself to sit still, and after he had been staring at me for what seemed like an eternity, I finally broke the silence.
"Is everything okay doc?" I asked, trying to keep the hidden guilt from squeaking out in my voice.
"Ian, have you had any thoughts of suicide? Of hurting yourself or anyone else? This is important Ian, so please tell me the truth." His dark eyes were locked on mine, his face stone-set and motionless. I tried to respond, but by the time I'd opened my mouth to speak, he looked as if he had already made his mind up. I shook my head and said no, but he leaned back and scribbled gravely in my file. He seemed to consider something for a moment and tapped the top of my chart with his pen. "Ian, there are avenues of help for you, but you have to be honest with yourself. I'm going to step out for a moment, I'll be back shortly."
As I waited for Dr. Matthews to return, I felt a creeping unease. I fought away wild thoughts that Dr. Matthews would come back, escorted by police or men in white coats. I even had a fleeting vision of an old black and white movie where they used huge nets to catch the crazy people. I was pulled out of my reverie when Dr. Matthews walked back in. Once again he sat in front of me with the grave look on his face.
"Ian, it is my professional opinion as your doctor that due to the recent death of your mother and environmental stress factors involving your work and personal lives that you are suffering from clinical depression. I am going to write you a prescription for sertraline, an anti-depressant. I am also going to strongly suggest you find a therapist. I won't write a referral unless you ask for one, but here is the information for Dr. Adani. He's very good and can certainly help you." Dr. Matthews passed over a business card with a picture above the name. The picture was of some pink flowers with rounded petals and all at once I thought about my mother, and the flowers in the hospital room. In that exact moment I knew I wouldn't be calling Dr. Adani. I held the business card along with my prescription as my general practitioner wound down his script about being concerned for my health and when he expected me to follow up. I thanked him and walked slowly toward the pharmacy to get my prescription filled.
When I got home, generic Zoloft in hand, I picked up the phone and called Kelly. She usually answered on the first couple of rings--her cell phone might as well have been tied to her wrist for how closely she kept that thing to her--but I was surprised and more than a bit dismayed when it rang all the way through to her voicemail. I waited for the tone and spoke, feeling very certain that she was sitting at home, waiting for my message to come up on her phone's display.
"Kelly, I just wanted to call and touch base with you. I went to the doctor today, he gave me a prescription and I think I'm on the mend. I'm sorry about last night, and, well...the last few weeks I guess. If you want to talk you can come over or call me, I'll be in all night." I ended the call and tossed my phone on Kelly's Cushion before opening the bag from the pharmacy and looking at the slim, amber-colored bottle. The same kind of bottle that everyone everywhere associates with prescription meds, and--by extension--really fucked up people. I turned the bottle to read the label. "50mg orally once a day. May be taken with or without food." I went to the kitchen, drew a glass of water and downed a pill. I set the bottle on the counter and shuffled back into the living room to watch some TV. Kelly didn't call or message me back, and I figured it was for the best. I told myself I would try again in the morning, that tomorrow was going to be a new day, and inwardly wondered how much of that was the pill talking. I slept well that night, long and deep.
It would be almost a year before I went back to my little box.
rating: 5
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