Our childhood is like a really complicated recipe, made of many ingredients. These ingredients form a batter that is cooked into the people we become. It’s virtually impossible to get this batter right, and any inconsistencies will show up in one way or another when we’re finally cooked. The inconsistencies in the batter form our humanity and are just as important as everything else. Perfect batter will give birth to boring results. When it comes right down to it, some of us are just made with really low quality batter and when that batter is cooked, nobody feels like eating it.
PART ONE
1.
I haven’t been in a doctor’s office for nearly 15 years. It’s not that I don’t get ill — quite the contrary. I just avoid the urge to parade my various illnesses and injuries around. When your wage is lacking like mine, bolstering the pockets of some, already overpaid, GP doesn’t sit in my stomach quietly. So I suffer my ailments until they retreat. What can a doctor really do to aide a cold or flu? They excel at giving you easily researched advice before removing valuable money from your malnourished wallet. For these reasons, and so many more, I avoid the doctor.
And what does it mean to be ill anyway? The body regenerates itself. It’s more resilient than a teenage boy’s wanking hand. The truth is, if it weren’t for the fact so many workplaces require proof of one’s ailments, we wouldn’t waste time going to a doctor at all. I’m the sort of person who goes to work when they’re sick anyway. You know those work colleagues who cough up wads of phlegm onto their computer screens just before asking you to come over and double check some sales figures? That’s me. I’m the guy who blows his nose just before shaking your hand. There’s usually a disease infested hanky in my pocket that I utilise regularly. When you hate your job as much as I do, it’s those subtle acts of sabotage that give you reason to continue. If I were being honest, I’m probably more comfortable when I'm sick. It gives my miserableness something to hang on to — it gives me an excuse. Why would I go to a doctor? I’ll leave that task to those I infect. To even consider seeking professional help, I have to be really fucking sick.
Sometimes, no matter how hard you try and fight it, you can’t stop shitting blood. I did an admirable job of convincing myself the bleeding was a result of some constipation-induced tear. My diet is such that constipation is a regularity. The only time I eat healthy food is when it happens to be included in whatever microwaved monstrosity I happen to be eating for dinner. But time went on, and long after a tear would normally heal itself, the blood was still there, as if my bowels were vomiting beetroot. This went on for weeks and no matter how hard the dreaded ‘C’ word tried forcing its way into my conscious mind, my stubborn self-delusion kept pushing it away. My self-delusion took a real blow when the stomach pains started. It felt as if my organs had found switchblades and had decided to attack my insides. It was a sharp, cutting pain that refused to abate. A month of this was too much for even me to bear, so I took a bite from the bullet and made an appointment to see a doctor.
The morning of the appointment, I stared hard at the blood-smeared toilet paper and cried like an onion full of eyeballs.
My inexperience with doctors really slapped me in the face. The waiting room I was in looked like a bunker and smelled sanitised into non-existence. It was the victim of industrial strength humanity removal. The grime and filth were there in abundance. The walls and carpet were painted with it. But the filth had been fossilised beneath layers of disinfectant, rendering it ugly but harmless. No matter where people sat, they all looked like shadows. Quiet, yet distorted music sprayed from roof-mounted speakers. It sounded like a musical interpretation of a stagnant aquarium with all the emaciated fishes bobbing on the surface, blackened seaweed tendrils floating below. Surely there are better waiting rooms than this, I thought. I had a knack for choosing poorly and I blame it on my unwillingness to do research. I could have hopped online and found the best medical clinics in the area. Instead I picked up a four year-old phone book and rang the first place that looked even remotely doctor-related. I thought I’d chosen well. The receptionist was very careful to tell me that all appointments at this clinic would be rewarded with a free spoon, collectible upon exit. I kept losing my spoons so I figured it was a good sign. I was quite wrong.
When my name, Bruce Miles, was called (and somehow mispronounced), I felt a surge of victory. I glanced around the waiting room, bathing in those looks of envy the shadows cast my way. It was upon rising that I really began to understand the necessity for waiting times at medical clinics. It gives you a fleeting sense of having won something ambiguous when your name is finally called — everybody gets a prize. I felt conspicuous like an erection on public transport as I made my way up the faded corridor. Everyone’s eyes were still upon me, wishing, if only for one regrettable moment, that they were me.
The doctor was hunched over a foldout table and introduced himself in an indecipherable voice that sounded like an old refrigerator. He motioned toward a filthy looking beanbag and told me to sit, his back turned to me the whole time. After a few minutes of thick, awkward silence, the doctor shuffled his body around until he was straddling the chair.
“So… tell me why you’re here,” he asked.
I had been dreading this moment. I’d rehearsed what I was going to say in the mirror again and again, trying to find the least embarrassing way to explain my problem. I tried shrouding my problem in the most abstract metaphors, just to avoid saying anything cringe-worthy, but it reached a point where a World War II code breaker would have struggled to decipher my problem. I reasoned with myself that, as a professional, a doctor is well-versed at handling awkward illnesses and, as such, I had nothing to be worried about. So I decided I’d simply cut to the chase, the benefit being that it would get it over and done with in the quickest manner.
“Umm… it’s my bowel movements,” the doctor scrunched up his face rudely. “Lately they’ve contained a lot of blood.”
The doctor’s mouth fell open and he started fanning his hand about his nose. “That is fucking gross! What the hell’s wrong with you, man?”
The question took me completely by surprise. It was as if this doctor had made it his mission to turn this into the most awkward moment of my life.
“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,” I said cautiously.
“What do you think I am, a fucking doctor?”
I nodded pathetically.
“That is some nasty business. Why did you have to go telling me that for? I’m eating lunch after this appointment. Now all I’ll be able to think about is your disgusting problem.”
I was far too shocked to feel offended. In fact, had I been in the doctor’s position, I wouldn’t have responded well either.
“Well… I was hoping you might be able to tell me what’s wrong,” I continued.
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong. You’re disgusting! It’s not normal to,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “shit blood.”
“I know it’s not normal,” I replied in a whisper to match his. “I’m not exactly pleased I have to come and see a doctor about this. I’m feeling really uncomfortable about it.”