Heartless Pharmaceutical Whore

"Stress."

"Stress?"

"Symptoms of stress. But that lymph node is infected."

"So...I got an infection because of stress?"

She just looks at me, but past me, like at a spot on the wall over my shoulder, and nods once. Starts writing stuff down. I shift uncomfortably on the exam table thing and rip that crap ass paper tablerunner/bedsheet bullshit thing in half. I feel guilty and destructive and just start talking.

"So...is it like, my immune system is down and therefore my body was more prone to infection, and then that caused like the fever and the sweats and the--"

"Most likely," she interrupts. "Are you allergic to penicillin?"

"No, ibuprofen. I get all violently ill and vomit and it's really gross."

She looks at me with her big dull cow eyes and then slowly turns to her doctory sheet, scratches out a prescription and hands it to me.

"Thanks," I say, and read that it's for amoxicillin. Suddenly I am very angry with her.

I don't know if you guys are familiar with amoxicillin, but it's what doctors prescribe to big fat hypochondriatic babies with no obvious medical problems who should probably just go home and shut the fuck up instead of wasting the time of honest, hard-working doctors, who are no doubt superior to their patients. Stupid doctor. You know, if she'd seen me last week when I was actually sick, then maybe she'd take me a little more seriously. Now this business is just a little swell and some headache, but last week there was shaking and sweating and tumors and fevers and vertigo (like Lucille Too? Yes, like Lucille Too).

I tell her so. Not the part about taking me seriously, but the part about how last week I wanted to kill myself onnaconna the cancer.

"Oh, I'm sure," she says, not even looking up from her chart, which is probably a fucking Sudoku puzzle and not a medical chart at all because she's a stupid bitch.

I look down at my feet dangling over the edge of the examination table and tap them together a couple times. I consider kicking her and wisely decide against it.

She finishes writing and slams her manilla folder shut with the false authority of a person who believes she deserves something in life. "Well that's all. Come back in two weeks."

"Aren't you going to run any tests or anything? Like a blood test or something?

"Fast overnight and then go in the morning. Upstairs. They take blood tests there." She's annoyed and nervous and will not look at my face. I fucking hate it when people don't look at me when they're talking to me.

"Tomorrow morning?"

"Before your next appointment, so I can give you results." She gives me a curt nod and exits the room.

"Bye," I call after her. What a horrible woman. I jump off the table and put on my shoes, head outside to make my next appointment. As I'm talking to the receptionist, the doctor scurries around the background like a rat or a squirrel. Oh my god, she's a fucking squirrel. I knew it.

"Thanks, doctor," I say, and smile.

She looks up at me with those blank eyes and nods once more, then just goes back to scuttling. I look at the prescription in my hand and I'm fucking angry again. I mean, sure, amoxicillin is a valid antibiotic that will get rid of the infection in my face. Chin. Neck. Jaw. Wherever. At least it's something.

You know what else will get rid of the infection? Love and fucking compassion and the tears of adorable puppies, that's what, you heartless pharmaceutical whore.

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