Back to the Beginning

A two-ton truck has just parked itself in Cara’s stomach. It came hurtling at light speed and floored her.  She has now entered a parallel universe and is soon to find out that she no longer speaks the same language. The vocabulary and syntax are as they were but very few people will understand her. Her previous existence will become irrelevant.  Her feelings and thoughts will no longer have any resonance, worth or impact, her former self will cease to exist in the eyes of most and she will be judged at the drop of a hat by people even those she needs most, who have no idea of the force of their prejudice.  Ironically, she can understand their narrow-mindedness as she used to think the same way. Luckily her parents are the constant in her life, holding her strong through the difficulties to come. 

Whilst waiting in the silent, depressing, greying surgery she felt dizzy and disoriented.  A short bus journey and a two hundred metre walk had set it off, the nausea almost overpowering. She’d already phoned and been told her test results were normal. So why did she feel so bloody awful. She certainly didn’t feel normal, she felt very strange, almost alien.  A complete detachment from her surroundings would descend regularly.  It was almost as if her physical being was separated from her inner self . This was the parallel universe.  Eventually she was called in.  The walk to Dr Graham’s office seemed a million miles away.  The door almost impossible to open, it was as though there was a playful child on the other side trying to stop her entering with a cheeky grin on his face . The visit was over in moments and she left no wiser that when she had arrived. She had her diagnosis but it meant nothing.  Dr Graham had been very pleased that all her results were normal, later she would wish this wasn’t the case and that she had something which was tangible in everyone’s eyes.   

“I’d say you’ve got Post Viral Fatigue Syndrome,” he said in fairly jovial but obviously uncomfortable manner, which was perhaps the way he always gave bad news.  Make light of it so there is no emotion to deal with.

“So what does that mean?” She replied, rightly perplexed.

“Well some patients suffer for a few months others for a few years,” he quite casually retorted as if it weren’t a problem.  She was therefore taken in by his non-committal air and did not think she had anything too major to worry about.

“So what can be done?” she naively inquired thinking he was a doctor.

“Nothing.  But I can give you something for the nausea. Take it as soon as it starts.”

She had already told him that the nausea came in waves and lasted ten to fifteen minutes each time. It seemed illogical to her to stuff herself with chemicals at the drop of a hat.  She knew there was no point arguing with him as he was very difficult to deal with and did not like her discussing his methods. He pushed the prescription her way. He loved to push pills it was his solution to everything.  She visited the doctor only occasionally and she rarely had the tablets dispensed, in fact she’d only been twice in five years until the pneumonia and all of the subsequent symptoms had started.  She only took medication when she was seriously ill and knew it was vital for recovery.  Then as a conciliatory gesture, the doctor almost looking guilty, offered her a sick note.  She refused it and he shrugged.  He didn’t say why she shouldn’t be working or try to convince her it was the best course of action at this moment in time, that by pushing through the illness at this stage she could worsen her condition.  She was ushered out of the surgery like a bad smell and every time she returned to see Dr Graham it was the same. She ended up coming to the conclusion that it was medical impotence that made him so uncomfortable with her illness. She was clinical insecurity staring him in the face, waiting for answers, desperate for help.  Help did not come from that cold, uninviting room inhabited by the cold, uninviting doctor but in the form of a two-ton truck named knowledge.