Walking Out
John sat on his podiatrist’s examination table. You know the
feeling. Bored. Anxious. Impatient. Resigned. He looked around the room, hoping
to find something interesting. Anatomy posters. Jars of
supplies. Latex gloves; size XL. A tube of lubricant. John shuddered
involuntarily as his imagination kicked in.
John was a thinker and a dreamer. He was introspective and
lived in his head. He had been thinking about the course of his life and,
especially, his increasingly-submissive relationship to the authority of the
medical establishment. It occurred to him that there was something about losing
control of his choices, and even control of his own body, that was deeply
disturbing.
John knew this large clinic and he knew examination room 4;
he had been here before. He had also been in Room 2 twice and in Room 1 once.
That was an interesting coincidence. He had committed to some minor surgery in
this room last spring. They had wheeled him down the hall to an outpatient
surgery room to remove a small itching growth from a place on his back that he
could neither see nor scratch. It only took a few minutes but had cost a
fortune.
John was still paying it off, $75 per month, and also still
paying off earlier run-ins with medical care. He had been declared disabled and
awarded access to Medicare, but his share of the costs of staying alive still
seemed to persistently eat into his ability to have any satisfaction in life.
He felt helpless and hopeless.
