The Prescription As Before

It's unusual for me to miss a day at work.  I'm rarely ill, and for this I'm thankful.  Even more grateful is my doctor, Gary.

Years before Gary and I became acquainted, I had read that most illness was psychosomatic.  It was a theory I accepted readily, for it put my health where I wanted it‑-under my direct control.

Thus I held a council of war with my organs.  "I'm on to you now," I told them.  "You've been collaborating with my unconscious.  Well, that stops!  From now on my will power is in command, and no inflamed feelings on your part will be tolerated."  In grim tones I warned them of the consequences of mutiny.  I recalled to them the harsh fate of my appendix‑-permanent exile‑-and further placed my gall bladder on strict notice.  This done, I dropped the matter and considered the problem of my health solved.

And indeed, my solution worked for years.  I ignored occasional colds, refused to cater to allergies, and ascribed all headaches to tension.  Aspirin became anathema to me, and I prided myself on the power of my will.

I was therefore taken aback, one day, to find a fullscale insurrection in progress.  Lungs, joints, muscles, stomach, all seemed involved in a coup to overthrow my self control.  I was unable to negotiate with them, and besieged but valiant I dragged myself to work.  There a solicitous, "You look like hell," was my only encouragement.

At home I paused in front of the mirror.  To me the flush on my cheeks was becoming, but I concluded the bloodshot eyes detracted from the total effect.  Wondering vaguely what could have upset me enough to cause so throbbing a headache, I summoned my will power once more.  No answer.  Clearly reinforcements were needed, and swallowing my pride I made my way to Gary.

"I think I need a tranquilizer," I explained, seated at last in his office.  "I don't seem able to pull myself together."

Gary reached into his pocket.  "What makes you think you need sedatives?" he demanded.  "What's your problem?"

Only the thermometer in my mouth kept me from fulminating on my unconscious.

"One hundred and two point eight," he announced cheerfully.  "Congratulations, Ron.  You've got Asian flu."

"Oh, no," I protested.  "I can't.  I'm never ill."

"Um hmm.  Here.  Get this filled at the drugstore.  Two every four hours, plenty of liquids, and stay in bed."  He gave me a sharp look.  "In bed," he repeated.

My route to the drugstore took me past the library, and I stopped there for some books.  "I'll read in bed," I decided.  "That'll distract me, the tension will go, and by morning I'll be back at work."  A novel slipped from my grasp, and my head throbbed defiantly as I reached downward.  "Dammit," I muttered, pulling myself upright, "I still say I need tranquilizers."

I found Marv, the pharmacist, behind his counter.  "Do you sell over-the-counter sedatives?" I asked hopefully.  "I seem to be all tensed up."

Marv gazed at me blankly, then raised his eyes beyond.  Patiently I waited for his inspiration.  It came in a voice I recognized only too well.  "You don't need sedatives," said the familiar tones.  "I told you that in my office.  Now get my prescription filled, go home, and stay in bed.  Just do as I say."

I left with what remained of my dignity, medicine in hand, and a further admonition in my ear: "Call me if there are any problems."

Problems?  Once I lay down there was nothing but problems.  I reached for the phone.  "Was that four times a day or every four hours?" I inquired groggily.

"Two every four hours.  It's on the label, Ron.  Just relax; you'll be fine in a few days.  Call me then."

But I was back on the phone in thirty minutes.  "Only liquids, or can I have solids too?  How about dumplings in the soup?"

There was a pause before Gary answered.  "Eat whatever you feel up to taking.  Anything else?"

"If there is, I'll call you," I assured him.  For some reason he hung up without comment.

I resumed our chat ten minutes later.  "Can I smoke?" I wondered.

"Can I stop you?"

"Are you angry?" I inquired, startled at his tone.

His pause this time was even longer, and I wondered if he too were getting ill.  "Ron," he admitted, "you were right.  Tranquilizers are necessary.  But I need them more than you do."

"Exert your will power," I encouraged him.  "You can if you try."

"Oh, I'm exerting it," he assured me.  "Believe me, I'm exerting it."

We met, weeks later, at a party.  Dragging a friend with him, Gary approached smiling.  "Ron, this is Sam, my roommate at med school.  Sam, this is Ronnie, the girl I told you about‑-you know, the world's worst patient."

Overcome by this, the only title I'd ever earned, I searched for a gracious reply.  None was forthcoming in spite of my urgency.  And I learned once again: some problems even will power can't solve.