A doctor is supposed to help, aren’t they?
A doctor is suppose to take away an ailment, treat the wounded, fix the broken?
I’m broken beyond repair, and no amount of scans, or pills, or treatments, is ever going to fix me.
But just because I’m beyond repair, does that mean I’m also beyond help?
It’s a question I’ve considered heavily since having my brains blown out over and over again, and it’s a question that I considered even more when the life was slowly oozing out from me as the blood oozed from my throat. Plenty of time to think that time.
So Dr. Death – can’t you help me? I’ve abstained from apples for over a month, just to make sure it doesn’t drive you away. I’ve called the surgery and made appointments. I’ve taken my blood pressure, submitted my blood tests, kept away from alcohol, just like they say you should. And now I’m sat in your waiting room.
But the wait is long, doctor.
I’ve been here for quite some time, and something tells me I’ll be here for quite some time more.
The clock makes this inane ticking sound, but time never seems to pass. But even though time is frozen, somehow there are endless people in front of me in the queue to see you. I don’t even know where they all come from. It’s only me in this waiting room after all.
The nurse comes to see me and insists all is fine, and that you’re just running behind.
You haven’t forgotten about me, she says, her pallid skin almost translucent.
I don’t worry that you’ve forgotten about me, I tell her. I worry that you’ve given up on me.
I’ve long given up on myself, only existing in the hope that someone else can figure me out. But if even the doctor won’t try, how can I ever function again.
Start me up on a morphine drip, doctor. Fill my veins with numbness – maybe that is the way you can help. I don’t think so – I barely feel anything anyway.
How about surgery? Do you think that could help? No? It’s true that you can’t book a surgery for a problem you can’t solve.
But doctor, this waiting room is hot and stuffy – is there nothing you can do?
There must be something.
Perhaps if I’m numb enough you can just take the Drewitt out of Drewitt.
Could you lobotomise me?
Could you take my thoughts out of my head?
Could you take my brain out of my head?
Could you keep it in a jar?
If it can’t get back in there then maybe my infinity won’t feel so long.
Doctor – if you can’t deliver me to death, what the fuck can you do?
The system is broken. The waiting list is endless. Do my tax credits pay for this?
I want a refund. I want to speak to your supervisor. I want the morgue.
I want nothing.
I want nothingness.
Doctor, can you help me?