Saturday, March 02, 2013

"Sucks, Doesn't It?" A Memoir, Entry 17

Chapter 17

I’m sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Cuckoo’s office about to die a slow, tortuous death. My sense of hearing is super heightened. Muted voices become yelling voices. I want to scream, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PEOPLE, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! And if that isn’t bad enough, the hum of the various office machines sound like a thousand bees colonizing in my ears. I cover them up as panic begins to take hold and the rocking begins. Dammit. What’s going to happen now? 
B reaches over, takes my hand and tells me it’ll be all right. I relax, then murmur a silent pray to the God of whomever to keep me off the floor. My body immediately slides out of the chair and kisses the floor. Well, that worked. Stupid me. I’ve only been praying for three weeks now. And look what it hath availeth me. I’m beginning to believe I’m not high on God’s list of priorities.
B helps me back up to my seat. At least I didn’t switch off. Small victory that, because Ima thinkin' seriously about running out the door. Before I can do that, though, B and I are ushered into the good doctor’s office.
I teeter in and fall down on a couch trying not to rock. That doesn’t work. But at least I stay upright and don’t switch off. Another small victory. Wow! two in a row. Good enough to be a confidence booster. 
I gape at Dr. Cuckoo as B hands my hospital records over to him. What an odd way for the man to dress: white belted robe, brown sandals, dark beard and a halo over his head. Blink. Wait. Let’s do this again, Liz. Dark trousers, cotton/poly blue shirt open at the neck, shiny brown shoes, thinning hair the color of sandpaper. Enter Psycho Voice.
“OMG, it’s Dr. Bob Newhart! Cool.”
Shut up, you. I gotta focus here. B does most of the talking, though, explaining to the doc what’s been happening to me since I got out of the hospital. 
Dr. Cuckoo replies. Ugh. Very dry, like the texture of burnt paper, very boring, and designed to get on my very last nerve. Without warning, I fall to the floor, crawl underneath a table, and start rocking back and forth on my hands and knees. Fortunately, the voices don’t emerge. Am I at last gaining some control over these voices? With great effort, I manage to stop the rocking and get back on the couch again.
The good doctor doesn’t even look at me. Fact is, he hasn't addressed me at all. Odd. Red flags pop up. Finally he drawls, “Mrs. ET, what do you think happened in the hospital?”
“I . . . I . . .” Help! I desperately try to form more words, but my thoughts don't wanna connect with my mouth.
He repeats the question. And yawns. A split second later, his eyes close ever so slowly, and his head sort of nods. Red flags go from warning to a wave of flames quicker than a flash fire lusting after a log cabin! The voice in my head roars,
“Ok, so that’s like a really big 10-4 no no breaker, breaker. Time to retire, you stupid, lazy bastard!”
I grip my head in pain and look at B. He’s turning scarlotta. Suddenly, Dr. Cuckoo bolts upright, clears his throat and begins to read Dr. King Kong’s notes to me. Storybook time. When he finishes, he announces that he’s in complete agreement with his colleague; illness-induced auditory hallucinations, complicated by severe panic attacks, which, he says, is perfectly normal for what I went through. They will lessen, he says, but in the meantime he’s going to prescribe a new drug to help me get over my anxiety. On and on he goes and where he stops nobody knows. Until he finally does. To yawn. AGAIN. Oh dear, somebody call the fire department! The voice in my head needs dousing.
“You m**f**king  pos!!! Get the f**k out, Lizzie! This guy’s a zombie!”
I don’t hesitate. I flee. Out of the office, out of the building, and into the parking lot where I steamroll my way to the car. As I pound on the backseat door window, a stream of highly offensive curse words pour out of my mouth that stop half the people in the parking lot. B finally makes it to the car, and tries to calm me down. Too late. I can’t stop the voices. He hustles me into the back seat before the police are called.
As he peels out of the parking lot, the voices pour out of me like steam from a hot spring: he's crazy, no, she's crazy, no, I'm crazy, nah ah, we're all crazy. Soon though, I lapse into sing song,
London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down,
London Bridge is falling down,
I’m so crazy.
Take a key and lock her up, lock her up, lock her up,
Take a key and lock her up,
She’s so crazy.