Of Clouds, Noodles, and Other Entanglements

Posted on September 12, 2004 in Coronary Depression Routine Weather

Today the clouds crossing the sky looked like twisted lumps of dough. I sat in the big red retro chair in the living room, relaxing and thinking about the hardships which have befallen me. The peregrinations of the upper atmosphere soothed me and allowed me to slide away from my griefs. It is so important not to feel sorry for myself, but certain things inflict special harm to my calm and even temper.

The heart trouble, the death of Lynn’s father, and the decease of our car — those things I number among catastrophes which are expectable and unmalicious. I told Lynn that I could handle those. They rasp at my equanimity subtly. No enemy sprang them on me. They hurt, they embarass, they add weight to my mind, but they do not cripple. I can take action — work with my doctor to treat the angina, remember good moments with Denos, and enjoy our new car. It’s the other problem that brings me the most suffering.

A woman we met at the candlelight vigil on Thursday night offered a wise reminder: it’s my health that deserves my attention at this moment. “Watch out for getting attached to that,” she said. She’s right. I must file complaints against the cardiologist and my doctor, I must send the message that they acted in a manner which undermined my health. But I also must focus on treating this new syndrome in my blood and in the tubes through which it courses.

My GP failed to take a proper report on the incident in the cardiologist’s office or tell me how to register a complaint so that the cardiologist could defame me and bring the lawyer down on me. He caused me unwarranted pain that affected my health, knowing that, potentially, I suffered from a heart condition and, for certain, that I suffered from major depression.

This goes against medical ethics and is also possibly grounds for legal action such as binding arbitration by my insurance company. What my GP did amounts to betrayal. It stings worse than adultery.

Thinking about this too much causes my heart to flutter and my head to ache, especially at the joint where the atlas and my vetebral column meet to support my skull. Sinews and nerves become twisted around the bones. The pain spreads from there into my shoulders and over the top of my skull to my forehead and my eyes. My jaw tightens. Its mandibular joint clicks when I move it. The ghosts of the two bastards who acted so callously and without regard for anything other than their politics and their egos appear on the screen on the inside of my forehead, above my eyes. Fists burst out of my mind to slug them. I find myself perenially tired, irritated, and afraid. When I go out, I look for them, fearing that I will see them in a restaurant, a store, or a grocery. I am afraid that they will pick a fight, that my voice will thunder and they will call me a lunatic.

They know that I suffer from major depression and anxiety. I suspect that they have already, in their own minds, dismissed my complaints about their behavior as the delusions of a madman. I am sick, it is true. A disease, an imbalance of serotonins, resides in my head. I can’t evict this guest because it, too, is me. It gives the terrible two no right, however, to abuse me or to denounce my claims against them as hallucinations. That they do — if they do — shows that they are not fit to be doctors. A lesson in humility and compassion must be taught to them or, if they cannot take the criticism, they should leave the profession.

This kind of silent rage departs when I sit in the great red retro chair in the living room and watch the clouds flowing over Mounts Modjeska and Santiago.

Today, in the late afternoon just before six, I went out to stand on the deck while Lynn sent an email. Khaki, sage, and olive bristles covered the slopes of the Saddleback. The sky was too blue for September, the season of heat and smog. When my wife came out, she drove us to a Hawaiian grill. Enroute, I saw the origin point of the clouds, which to the south resembled hamburger patties as they advanced towards the space of twisted dough. At the restaurant, I had a chicken cutlet over ramen which I ate with chopsticks and a fork. The noodles floated in a brown stock, dotted with chili oil. As I chewed the coils, I thought about the other entanglements binding me.