Times Up

09/29/2005


Shhhhhh!

Don’t tell my doctor.


The meds aren’t working the same as they used to anymore.

I would hate for him to find out. It would burst the bubble in his puffed out chest.

Actually, I don’t care to be poked and prodded for the umpteenth time to see what chemistry lesson he can practice to make my world rightside up again.

He has been so happy after the past few appointments. I can still see him smiling brightly at my clean bill of health just like the big smile a friend bestowed upon me as she handed out a bowl of rotting fruit.

I really thought this was it. I thought that finally I might know what it’s like to live as the common world does. I’m tired of being special. I’m tired of people saying, “you don’t look sick” just because I don’t have limbs falling off or machines protruding out of my body. I thought this was it. Maybe if I look sicker, like stopped doing my hair, and ceased finding things to laugh about – maybe then people will take my shitty health seriously.

No wonder the medical field is called medical practice. I am just a guinea pig for the mad scientist and drug companies of the world.

I wish there was a Gregory House MD who could spend an episodes amount of time with my history so that I can walk out into the sunset all fixed and happy. But no, this is my life. Things are only fixed temporarily. Each fix brings sadness because I know it won’t last long. I am well aware that I only have a short time to get involved with the excruciatingly mundane events of the living until I feel like dying once again.

Even in this darkness, it feels so stupid to celebrate the good times and mourn my passing health. It all seems like such a drain. Also, my sadness at the ending of good days seems so wrong and useless.

Peace,
zss

© 2005 Wrosesongs
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