My trip to the neurologist on Thursday has left me with a lingering sour taste in my mouth. He had seemed always friendly in the past, personable, and thorough, and yet this last time I felt he was hurried and dismissive.
Maybe I'm just bummed by a new realization--yes, still new after more than 2 years, still dawning on me--that there is really nothing much to be done about the problems I am experiencing other than just the same old things--the same pills, the same tests, the same struggles.
The truth is, I don't feel like having another MRI. I mean, what's the point? What will it change? Nothing at all. What do I care if there are new lesions or if there are not new lesions? What are they going to do, surgically remove them? It's just more money out of my pocket, lavished upon, of all things, two hours of buzzing and blaring in my ears. I can get that shit for free by walking out to 82nd avenue.
Maybe what I need is comfort care--you know, palliative care. Even if I live to 85, treatment with demand access morphine seems more reasonable sometimes than these endless tests and pointless expenditures in order to gather data that is surely more interesting to the doctors than to me.
Do I seem in a bad mood? Well, I guess I am. I can sense the presence of depression, lurking nearby--I hear it rustling where the grass grows high, I know the meaning of the crows which flee from the walnut tree. Something is wrong. I listen to the shadows, strain at vision as if midday had become suddenly the dead of night.
I am tired of this disease.
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