Nibble Nibble

Samuel is Doc’s most difficult patient. He’s a 60 year old African-American man who is obese and from Georgia. He’s been to our hospital many times to control his blood sugar. He’s been diabetic for 26 years now. Sammy’s chiming in right now. Let’s listen.
“I swear to God! Dem mice be bitin my butt all day! he yelled, staring at Barbara with his blood shot bug-eyes. Just 20 minutes ago, good ol’ Sammy accidentally smashed our charge nurse Betty in the face with his food tray after awaking in a frenzy claiming that a baby rat was firmly attached to his crack. Those were his words, not mine. Suffice it to say, Barbara nearly went into attack mode, quickly rolling up her sleeves mumbling something about “crazy old man”, and “really putting something up his crack”. I make my entrance and attempt to listen to Samuel’s story.

“So what seems to the problem sir, I say with a pressed deep voice, thinking that my 3 weeks experience as an intern makes me some sort of expert. “Lemme tell ya doc. Cummere. I gotta tell ya in yer ear.” I move in closer to appease him. After a few tedious seconds, I slowly turn my head to look at him, worried that something special was about to happen. Sammy was snoring and drooling on my freshly pressed white coat.

“Samuel”, I whisper not wanting to be his next culinary victim. My question was met with long snoozes. “Samuel!” I say with a bold voice, thinking that somehow he’ll come back to us. No response.
I turn my back to leave him be, and out comes a hand across my shoulder. “BAH”! He yelps as he pulls me down backwards into his lap screaming, “DEY BITIN MY ASS! BAH!”

Pulling away gently from his death grip, Sammy goes on to inform me about the mice that bring him misery. “Doc, this is how it all started. I be sittin in my chair at the place I be stayin at. It’s a place for people to stay when they aint got a home. We were watching Caliente on the Spanish channel when outta nowhere I felt these little teeth marks bitin into my butt. I said, “Goddam, dey be bitin me! Dis hurts yall! Everybody started laughing at me sayin’ I be seeing things that aint there. I tell ya, I can’t see em cause my eyes been doin funny stuff lately, but I can feel em, and when I catch em, Imma gonna squash em.” As he says that, he pounds his hands into each other and I take another step back. He went on to say that he paid 2 boys $20 each to catch the mice for him. Unfortunately, those boys had no intentions of catching any “mice” and ran with the money. “Everybody be getting on my nerves because dey don’t believe me. Do you believe me?” I took a cautious step forward.

Yes. I believe you. I’m sorry people are getting on your nerves Sammy, but I think your nerves have everything to do with what you are feeling. Thinking I just said something witty, I awkwardly smile and can’t wait to the other interns how cool I am. Getting back to business, I tell Sammy that his long standing diabetes may be the culprit and that in fact the “mice” he is feeling are actually his nerve endings spazzing out. Sammy gets up, with a look of rage in his eyes, and says, “You gonna get dem nice dat be on my nerves?!

“Yes, Sammy. We’re gonna go get those mice.”

Queen of France

Summer, 1789-France

Day 37

The first ray of sunlight creeps into my chamber, splitting my face with light and cautiously awakens me. It has been more than a month now in this possessed place and I am still baffled as to why I am here. It is in times of war and economical plague, a time that has lasted for nearly 10 years now, that one must realize the necessity of sound leadership and judgment. As royalty, I assume that role. It appears that in doing so, I am considered a criminal for an unknown crime, surrounded by fanatics and lunatics whom would all love to kill me.

Day 42

I can’t bear this anymore. France has known no better queen than I, yet my misery and misfortune continues. I am fed like a peasant, treated like a murderer, and hated by all. In the yard today, I struck a reviled woman in the face that dared approach me with disrespect. I took my hand and swept it across her mouth so hard that blood spilled from her mouth. The rebels took me away and injected poison until my thigh that made revoked my spirit. I don’t remember what happened afterward, other than that I am alone in this room wondering when Louis will rescue me. Oh, my beloved Louis. It was not long ago when ships of jewels from far lands showered my skin and children sang my name as I strolled the gardens of my home. Today, I wear ragged clothes made from cotton, have no gold to my name, and sit in the corner of this room. All I have are my thoughts.

Day 47

Today is my opportunity. The rebels will meet with me in some sort of counsel. Surely, they will pay with their lives for abducting me in my own home and torturing me. The door has opened and the guard will lead me to the counsel. Now is my time.

Good morning Mary. Do you know why you are here with us today?

My name is Marie Antionette and you will refer to me as such.

Ok, Marie, please answer the question. Do you know why you are here?

No, I do not. And I will not answer questions to you, a man who has been my servant for 27 years! How dare you talk to me as if our roles were turned upon themselves!

Maam, your name is Mary Jacobs and you are here because the court system of the State of Arkansas wants us to determine if you are competent to stand trial.

Arkansas?

Ms. Jacobs, various times at our Psychiatric facility you have attacked our patients, refused all of your medications, and have required sedation in order to keep you calm.

What!? Who gave you the authority to speak? I am queen of France. I am the dictator. They tell me so, and if for one moment I could grasp your throat, I would squeeze the life out of you! You speak only when I say you speak! Do you hear me, boy? You have no right to accuse me of such atrocities. I will have your head by guillotine if you utter one more word, you imbecile!

Ms Jacobs, you are mistaken. The year is 1989, not 1789. You are not the queen of France. You are here because you are accused in the murder of your husband, Louis Jacobs.

My Procession

Lub,dub. Lub, dub. Lub, dub is my mantra and the march that sets the measured pace of my life. As I become more anxious the song plays quickly and when I sleep the song quietly becomes a hymn.

Lub, dub, lub dub. For 45 years, I ignored this procession of beats. I don’t know why, but I thought no matter what I said, no matter how many things failed me in life, the sounds of my heart would always remain. Surely, the machine inside my body would never do me wrong. That was before the clot clinging to my heart detached and mercilessly attacked and cut off the blood supply to a part of my brain.

Heartbreak couldn’t have been worse.

Now, I can’t feel my left side from my mouth to my feet, and unfortunately eating has become a community project. Being the senior vice president of an affluent oil company hasn’t been able to help me, that is, aside from my medical expenses. I must say that I am a bit embarrassed. Family, friends, and colleagues come to see me here at the hospital, and I am not in my usual position of power. It’s not a matter of walking into a room full of executives feeling like a million bucks and demanding results for my firm. Basic functions of life are no longer basic for me. I can’t walk on my own, I can’t shower on my own, and my grandkids think I’m playing when I can only smile with half my face.

What must they be thinking of me? Are they ashamed of me? Do they think I’m a cripple? Will I ever be the same again? Martha, my wife, holds my left hand thinking that if she were to just provide a memorable touch, I would be able to feel again. I can’t feel her grasp, but I do notice her warmth. I feel vulnerable and suddenly ask them all to leave. Whether I’ll ever regain function of my left being again remains to be seen. But lying in my bed, alone, without the noise of the thriving world to distract me, I listen.

Lub, dub. Lub, dub. What a beautiful, steady sound. I imagine an aria with soaring strings rhythmically gushing forward the fuel of my life. Its metronome is persistent and thankfully ever-present. I yearn to hear its song forevermore.

Heavenly

Listening to this recitation brought chills down my spine and yeah, I cried a little. Arabic is a beautiful language. Enjoy and reflect. Oh, and here's a translation of what he's reciting.

"1) O THOU enwrapped one!
(2) Keep awake [in prayer] at night, all but a small part
(3) of one-half thereof 2 - or make it a little less than that,
(4) or add to it [at will]; and [during that time] recite the Qur'an calmly and distinctly, with thy mind attuned to its meaning. 3
(5) Behold, We shall bestow upon thee a weighty message –
(6) [and,] verily, the hours of night the mind most strongly and speak with the clearest voice, 4
(7) whereas by day a long chain of doings is thy portion.
(8) But [whether by night or by day,] remember thy Sustainer's name, and devote thyself unto Him with utter devotion.
(9) The Sustainer of the east and the west [is He]: there is no deity save Him: hence, ascribe to Him alone the power to determine thy fate"

The Lion-King

Training for the triathilon had been my life. At 30 years old, 6’5 and 225 pounds, I felt like a lion. My abdominal muscles exploded from body and chest looked and felt like steel. Everyday I worked towards a goal of being cardiovascularly, physically, and mentally fit. My mornings would consist of 3 mile runs along trails that surrounded the hills of Northern California. I could feel the pulsating beats of my heart in my throat as I pushed myself beyond the threshold of utter exhaustion. I could hear the overexpansion of my lungs in my plugged ears as I pushed towards the standard that would make me king. I swam lap after lap knowing that if I would just put in more effort than any of my peers, I would succeed. I never thought bleeding from my ass would change that forever.

It was 4 am when I realized something was wrong. Excruciating abdominal pain awoke me from my sleep. I figured it was just some bad steak I ate that night that was giving me hell. I entered the washroom thinking that I’d get it out of my system and it’d be all over with. I left the bathroom in sheer terror with a toilet bowl full of shit and cups worth of blood.

Forgive me for my frankness, but you asked me what happened. I didn’t tell anybody at first. How could this be happening, you know? I had read that when you put a lot of stress on your body, you can get something called hemmoroids and that you just need to take it easy for a while. I didn’t think much of it. I figured taking a couple of days off of my intense triathilon regimen was all I needed. So, I took those days of and got back to work. Needless to say, trip after trip to the bathroom left me with a prize of bloody shit and things weren’t getting better. Wonderful.

My girlfriend started noticing that I was losing weight in my face and that I “didn’t look right”. I didn’t want to eat anything, could only run a measly mile in the mornings before I’d be spent, and I was losing weight faster than Lindsey Lohan preparing for her next “big hit.” Did I mention the blood gushing out of my rectum? Right.

She begged me to see a doctor, which ended up in a huge fight. “I am an athlete. Things like this happen all the time. I can conquer anything. Don't you understand! What’s funny is after that fight, I stormed off slamming the door behind me feeling like a tough guy and ended up 5 minutes later setting off an explosion of red only Mr. Cheney would’ve been proud to have accomplished. I rested my head on the sink and cried a little.

So now, I weigh 180 pounds and look like a gazelle. The “shit hit the fan” in terms of my training, (no pun intended) and I’m really sick. And that’s why I’m here. You say you put a camera inside right? Medications for how long? An illness that I’ll have to work through for years and that can come and go? Flare-ups? Cancer in the future if I don’t do what? Panulcerative Colitis who?

Ok, so just tell me this. Is it something that I can overcome? Is it something that I can work to defeat? Is it something that through mental toughness, perseverance and patience, will succumb to me? You see, I have to remind you of something. Things have never come easy to me. And I will beat this.

As I finish my conversation with the mirror, I take my slew of medications, give my girlfriend a kiss, and head out for my run. I have a triathilon to win.

Both Sides of the Mirror

I don’t know why, but I can hear them all. Their voices haunt me as I gaze upon them from where ever the hell I am now. Why they chose to eat Greek salad after my death still confuses me. “He was such a beautiful person,” says my middle aged son as he wipes a solitary tear from his eye. I look at him and see a man that took me thirty years to finally know and six months to completely forget. I don’t really understand what happened. From what I hear, people started getting worried when I couldn’t remember Janice’s wedding. It was only a few months previously and supposedly I danced with my grandkids. I didn’t think much of their worries; I knew I was getting older. That said, going to the doctor was something I just would not do. “One minute daddy is opening up Christmas gifts, the next minute we find him twenty blocks away banging his cane up against the liquor store,” was the nonsense coming out of my son’s mouth at the doctor’s place. If only he knew how much I hated those stupid socks. But the truth is, whatever overcame me must have been the devil himself. I couldn’t read or write. Things that I held sacred for 67 years began falling apart before my eyes. I didn’t know anybody, didn’t care for anybody, and sadly, didn’t understand anybody. I was alone. Why was this happening to me?

What I see now must be a nightmare. I drift into a room where men in white have me placed on table. Well, most of me. It seems that my brain is on another table. Those men draped in white take slices of my brain speaking of plaques and tangles. Sounds like stuff I use to have in my teeth after supper. In any case, I know they did their best to help me. I just hope they don’t start poking away at my heart too.