Sticks and Stones

The problem is with words: there are so many, but we yearn to hear just a few. Yet, we get sterile words, or, even worse – nothing. Just silence:  yet another wall to barricade us further within our purgatory. Our cries, our desperation for communion with others through the sanctity of words, are met with defensiveness, apprehension, resentment, anger, frustration, impatience, mockery… another fucking wall. God forbid anyone roam free.

A need to know, to hear something other than inhuman, practiced replies is a threat. It disrupts the status quo – the inner sanctum of distant professionalism. Everything must be cut and dry; disinfected and pristine. The sterile field between you and the healthcare professionals is the space: the “polite” distance between you and the provider(s). Any discrepancy – any disturbance at all – and all hell breaks loose.

We are marginalized. Forget the wires, tubes, needles, tests, lost autonomy, financial/emotional strain: all are a cakewalk compared to dealing with physicians who are so insecure with their knowledge base, that any sort of question from the patient (such as, “Is this normal?”) is the catalyst that sends those of such an ilk, into a tailspin. If you are a rare patient, the .01%, you are the single most terrifying person to care for. You are a threat on so many levels: legally, professionally, ego-wise… Zebras tend to burst bubbles as they stampede through an insecure physician’s office. Why? – Because honey, like me, you can’t be defined by averages and standard protocol. Congratulations, your parents are right: you are special.

Sticks and stones, my dear… but I’ll let you in on a secret: I’d rather be hit by either object, because words are the kind of pain that never goes away….