Dear Dr. Miranda,
I don’t know how much longer I’ll have to wait for an answer. I thought that, after my second letter, you would reply within a day or two. Not so. I’ve been making some enquiries and I’ve been told that e-mails do sometimes go astray, that it often happens. This means that perhaps you did reply to me, but your reply got lost and ended up in someone else’s inbox, for example. It also occurred to me that perhaps it would be best if I printed out these letters and went in person to the hospital to give them to you. Although, before I do that, I would much prefer it if we could get this system to work and you could at least tell me whether or not you’ve received my messages. That’s all I need: for you to send a letter with a “Yes” or a “No,” nothing more, just that. Then at least I’d know we were in touch.
While I’ve been waiting for your response, I’ve been considering our relationship and trying to recall if there was anything I did that might have offended you, that could possibly have produced a reaction like this. Is it possible that you receive and read my letters, but don’t wish to answer me, that you want nothing more to do with me? Is what your secretary says right? I’ve gone over and over it in my mind and that just doesn’t seem possible. It doesn’t make sense. You couldn’t do that to a sick man. At least, that’s how I feel, how I still feel.
As I mentioned in my previous letter, all I ask of you is a little of the same trust I placed in you. You told me I was in perfect health, that there was no way I would faint, and I trusted you. And I did actually feel better for a day or two. On the third day, though, the dizzy spells came back. I remember it perfectly. I was leaving work and was walking down Avenida Solano. It was midday and very hot and sunny. I was feeling perfectly fine, when, suddenly, at a corner of the street, I was gripped again by the same symptoms. I was terrified. I thought I would collapse right there and then. My hands were cold, my head was sweating, and I found it hard to swallow. I had the sense that everything around me was about to start moving, that I was losing my balance. That was the first time I phoned you. I didn’t know what else to do. Surely you remember. I told you it was an emergency, I explained what was happening. You were really surprised. I’m sure you remember that. You told me to stay calm and to describe what I was feeling. I was in such a state. I told you I was going to faint. Then all I could do was hail a passing taxi, bundle myself inside and ask to be taken at once to the emergency room. I know you were a bit put out on that occasion. You showed me all the test results. Everything was normal. I was fine. I didn’t know what to say. But I felt safe in the hospital, knowing you were near and that if anything happened to me, you would be there for me.
True, it was a particularly difficult time for me, I was in a really bad way, anxious and out of control. And it wasn’t a good idea to start phoning you from different places in the city, at different times, so that you could calm me down and reassure me that I wasn’t going to faint. But that really is what I felt, that if I didn’t talk to you, I would pass out wherever I happened to be. I felt that I depended on you, that you were my guarantee that I wouldn’t collapse on the floor that very instant.
I have no words to describe it, and, believe me, that inability drives me to despair. I don’t know how to get across to you the terrible, physical certainty that I was about to pass out, to faint. There was a ravine inside my body. That sounds odd, I know, but that’s how it was. I was deathly pale, and even though I couldn’t see my face, I knew how pale I was. I could feel the blood pounding in my temples. The tips of my fingers were ice cold. It wasn’t all in my imagination. I never liked having to bother you, interrupt you, hound you. The truth is I really regret having done so. I simply wanted to communicate to you what it was I was experiencing with such intensity. That’s why I insisted on further investigations, on a more in-depth medical evaluation. I can’t deny that, at the time, your behavior remained exemplary, very wise and patient. You were invariably friendly and pleasant, but you never swerved in your diagnosis. You listened to me, but you took no notice of me, and that’s why sometimes I really despaired. And then came the afternoon when you said you wanted to talk to me frankly. And I thought to myself: At last! But you surprised me. Instead of listening to me, instead of dealing with my pressing problems, you told me that you didn’t want me to continue wasting my time and my money, do you remember? I’m sure you must remember that. You told me that I didn’t need you, that I didn’t need a medical doctor, but a psychiatrist.
That same afternoon, you suggested I go into therapy. You even recommended a lady doctor, a friend of yours, and gave me the number of her practice. And again I took your advice. You see what confidence I had in you! I did as you suggested and went to the therapist you recommended. I’m not sure why, but I think that was when our problems began. From that moment on, everything between us changed, and I’ve never again been able to speak to you.
I’ve even wondered if perhaps the psychiatrist told you what we talked about at our first meeting. Perhaps that was it. As soon as I left her office, she picked up the phone and dialed your number. At least that’s what I imagine happened now. Although that still doesn’t make sense, I mean, what could she have told you that was so very terrible? I don’t remember having said anything unusual that day. I arrived punctually, but I have to say, I took an instant dislike to the woman, she seemed so cold, unfriendly, distant. She didn’t even try to break the ice, as they say. She didn’t speak at all. She just sat there in silence, and I realized that it was up to me to talk. I told her a little about what had happened, why I was there. I talked about you and my fainting fits. But she still said nothing. Occasionally, she scribbled something in her notebook. I felt uncomfortable, well, I didn’t have much more to tell. I asked her: What else do you want to know? What more do I need to say? And she said that this was my time and I could say what I liked. That made me feel even more uncomfortable. The fact is I didn’t like that therapy business at all. What was I doing there? Why was I having to talk to that stranger? What was I supposed to do? Talk about my life, my intimate thoughts, to a woman I’d only just met? And I was paying for it too! During the rest of the session, I just kept telling her about my fainting fits, but nothing more.
But something must have happened, Doctor, and it’s either that psychiatrist or your secretary who’s to blame, because I haven’t managed to speak to you since or get another appointment. Do you see? It makes me think that perhaps you’ve been kidnapped, that someone is holding you against your will so that we can’t meet. That’s what I feel.
I didn’t finish this letter last night. I was tired, and it was late. I don’t think I knew quite how to continue. It’s odd. I had the feeling that I should stop, but I couldn’t find a way to end it, if you see what I mean. I got up early this morning, went for a walk, ate a little fruit, and sat down to finish this letter before going to work. I have to confess, Doctor, that I’m starting to feel really frustrated. What if you don’t answer this letter either? If there’s no answer, what should I do? I’m still getting the dizzy spells. In fact, they’re getting worse and worse. Now my saliva’s gone funny too. I have a bitter taste in my mouth all the time. I’ve also started to feel a kind of pressure around my eyes, on my eyelids. These are new symptoms, Doctor. I’m afraid that when we do at last meet and talk, when we do see each other again, it will be too late.