Alison's Week 2 Stories

The Shit of the world

I feel like a stretched, faded piece of gum that had been chewed too long. 4:00 am, just about the time I was ready to get another steaming hot caffeine surge from the break room so I could push through another 24 hour shift. I got to thinking. I try to pretend that I care for people, but in truth I am a tired attending who has lost the thrill of cutting. In fact, the more I logically think about it, I am not needed. Most of my patient’s problems were first psychological before physical anyways. Well, except for the occasional cancer or virus, or the appendicitis that I fixed on the 5-year-old yesterday morning. Most patients are psycho. Take the jenny Wilkins, a 25-year-old student who got hit by a car on her way to work. I have no idea if it was an accident or not, but something caused her not to pay attention to oncoming traffic as she took that first step off the curb. Or the overeaters, for once just stop eating MacDonald’s and do some exercise, maybe? Or the suicide attempts, rapes, domestic fights? Wouldn’t the world be better with more psychiatrists then surgeons? And fecal impactions don’t get me started on those. From when children are introduced to potty training to old men, people just don’t want to poop. Something scares them, like they know it’s going to be painful and they just don’t want to let it out. The excruciating pain is going to be so intense that they hold it in, letting it build and grow into a problem bigger then they can solve. This is where medicine comes in, when the problem escalates to a level too high for them to come down from. The thing is, if they would have addressed the pain in the first place then they wouldn’t need to seek medical help for the rock in their colon. My thoughts are that however painful, the world would be a healthier place if people just address their problems. People just need to let the shit out.






Remember

I woke up, but I didn’t want to get out of bed. I gouged a big hunk of dried sleep from my eyes and focused on the bra hanging on the door again, why did she always hang her bras everywhere? was it her form of claiming territory?
“We are gonna be late again David! My wife threatens from the kitchen.
“Did you make coffee yet?” I yell down the stairs.
“Do I always have to be the one to make coffee?..Besides, we are out, How long has it been since you went grocery shopping?”
Groaning I shuffle back to get ready. I look in the mirror and notice as I brush my teeth; the lack of sleep has turned the dark circles under my eyes to match the dark grey of my suit. I walk out of the bathroom and she is standing there putting one of her earrings in. “Are you ready? Do you have a black suit? Don’t you think that grey isn’t appropriate for a funeral?”
I sigh and look into her beautiful eyes, her hair was wrapped neatly in a bun that reminded me of how she wore it on our wedding day. I futz with achieving the perfect Windsor knot on my tie. “This is all I have, I am sorry I just didn’t have the time to..wait…whose funeral is this again?” She rolls her eyes and clicks her heals out of the front door to the car.

After locking the house I walk down and open the car for her, she always liked it. I think I did it in hope that it would smooth over the mornings tension. As I turned the dial to find a good radio station, I try desperately to remember the name of the girl’s funeral that we were racing to.,Why couldn’t I remember? I guess middle age really has caught up with me, but then again I was never good at names. My wife always new these things, and it drove her crazy when she had to whisper me everyone’s names at least twice throughout dinner parties.
“Get into the car pool lane Hun, cant you see we are late? Oh the family is going to be so upset that we were late!”
“Well, don’t you think they will be upset anyways?” Trying to crack a smile from her, didn’t work..
“Shit, go faster!”
“Ok ok…”

Police sirens are not good, especially when you were late and your wife is anxious. I looked back and for a fleeting second I have the sense to rebel, but instead I start to pull over. My wife turns to me and gives me the ‘Great.. now we are even more late’ look. But somewhere behind her look of disappointment there was a lot of love. I knew if I disappeared some how, she would be a wreck. The kind of despair that would leave her without the desire to get out of bed or wash her hair, and the laundry would pile up to an extent that makes the bra on the door knob thing look minute. I smile at her patiently and look into the side mirror. The police officer walks up slowly with power in each slow intimidating step. I roll down the window carefully and give him my best innocent grin. He had a double chin and sweat was rolling from the side of his face down to the valley of fat. The two bulges of his chin widened as he began to open his mouth with distaste to speak.
“Good morning sir. Do you know why I pulled you over?”
I clear my throat of nerves, “Um no officer, I don’t but I am very sorry, was I speeding?” I look at my wife and look back, “We are going to a funeral sir, so if you could please…“
Perplexion appeared in his eyes, and then he very slowly said the next sentence as if avoiding detonation, “Sir, you were driving in the diamond lane which is reserved for automobiles with two or more persons in the car.”
He paused to check for relavation. I looked back with a vacant stare. He proceeded, slower now. “Are… you aware sir that you are driving alone?” I look down at my white hands gripping the steering wheel and then over at the seat next to me. The most intense sting came up from my throat as I remembered the name of the departed.