The Doctor
I tremble at his feet,
so pathetic,
a supplicant begging,
yet asking only
to be heard and believed.
I formulate my plea with care,
yet as I speak the fear rears up,
chasing my words till they tumble
from my lips in a tangled jumble:
"Yes, doctor, I hurt
somewhere all the time -
and it makes me so tired,
often nags me awake.
Muscles, joints, tendons,
and all that holds me together
will stretch, pinch, and protest in pain
if I have to move again.
Every single day, all day long
I hurt."
Can he hear my unspoken plea?
Please help me, relieve
this pain, this burden,
this crazy-making beast,
tame this monster, free me,
restore my sanity, my life.
My judge, my jury, my possible savior -
will he be my prince of darkness or grace?
The kindly gaze darkens,
frowns with suspicion,
doubt claws at goodwill,
trust crumbles,
shatters at the feet
of his mighty knowledge,
decades of learning,
habits entrenched,
fears fortified
by sensational stories
shrieking the evils
of my only solace and succor
from the pain-storm raging
through my sinews and bones:
opiates, narcotics, drugs.
Awaiting his verdict
I see his features,
his face hardening.
Yes, I am seeking drugs,
and he sees it, feels it,
even as he wants to help
this patient in distress.
Without a diagnosis,
no visible cause, no injury,
he takes the easy way out:
He decides I'm perfectly fine.
Now he only wants to wash
his hands of me, my challenge
to his doctoral competence.
Loud and clear I hear
what's left unsaid:
“You're just an addict,
drug-seeking,
lying about your pain,
malingering.”
Composure shattered,
panic rising,
floorward I crumple
defeated, into a sordid
sobbing heap of snot and tears.
All self respect fled long ago
just a piece of meat here now.
A pile of flesh, twitching
nerves unsheathing knives
sharpened on his stony gaze,
preparing their banquet of pain.
-Angelika Byczkowski
