The Verdict
(written earlier today)
I went to the doctor the other day. I like my doctor because she’s mean on the outside and nice on the inside, and she immediately diagnoses my seemingly disparate symptoms.
Her: So what’s the problem?
Me: Well, the other day my stomach was all messed up in three different ways. I think I have IBS and a hernia. But that’s not happenening anymore, so forget that. Yesterday I was bleeding off schedule, and today my neck hurts really bad. I think I have cancer.
Her: When did you say this all happened again?
Me: Well, the stomach stuff happened all last week. Then, over the weekend, I was fine. Then, Monday morning, this other stuff started up.
Her: It’s stress. Get a different job. Want to try Paxil?
Me: Um… no. Unless it can make me have more money.
Her: No. Okay, well, call me if you change your mind.
So that’s that. It was good to know that I won’t be needing any expensive operations. I’ve been trying to chill out since then. It’s working for the most part, except that I keep kind of worrying that I secretly have cancer. I was sitting there at work today and I got a really sharp pain in my head out of nowhere. It pulsed on and off for a good thirty seconds. Either I have a brain anuerism, or I have brain cancer, or I’m still a little stressed. I drank some water. It went away but my neck hurt for a while after that.
I thought about how awful it would be to pass out at work. I imagined myself fainting in the bathroom, whimpering, “Call a doctor,” to someone putting Avon booklets on the sink. Hitting my head on the stall wall and then on the floor. The hairs on the floor mingling with mine.
The ambulance would drive up all noisy. Everyone would follow the technicians up, slowing down the elevators, to find out what was going on. They’d haul me onto a stretcher. My skirt would come up and show the run in my suntan hose. (I wore the old nappy suntan ones today because I have on a long skirt and boots. I didn’t know I might have a brain anuerism and let my pantyhose show.) People would say, “That’s that new girl. Is her name Quinn? Glen? I think she works in Personal Lines. Or Specialty Lines…” I don’t work in either. My name is Gwen. I can’t tell them that because I can’t talk.
My glasses are askew. Where’s my purse? There I go. Away. What’s going to happen? Who will bind my clients’ coverage? Who will pick up my kids from school? Who will eat the enchilada plate I ordered from the lady who makes lunches and brings them to our office?
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.
I hope my enchilada plate comes soon.
