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Show 135 Happy Birthday Paul Newman "Let's tweak it a little," Dr. Jessop is saying. He twists his hand in the air as if he were screwing a light bulb into the air. He wants to "tweak" my neurochemistry with yet another oral medication, hoping to somehow find relaxation to balance the constant super-tension that defines my muscles. I am already on several different new medications from this admission and though I want to say just one more word about their simply fixing the catheter or perhaps figuring out the troubleshooting protocol, I do not. I must be a good patient. Chronically ill patients must be "good" patients, I have learned. Quiet, compliant, easy, like "good" babies. Chronically ill patients with rare diseases that only rare doctors know anything about must be really good patients. Those are my thoughts, anyway. An ill-timed challenge of the doctor's plan or too much complaining about this thing or that might mean not so much care. Not so much thought. Might even mean no care at all. Doctors are not required to take - or keep - patients, I suppose. So I swallow my impatience and disappointment at the suggestion along with the new medication and settle stiffly back into the pillows, grieving my former life. The day is passing in mindless sit-com repeats and redundant menu meals. Six more pills come with dinner. A rainbow chemical dessert. It is late but I cannot sleep. Sleep would at least close this day and bring me one more day closer to the day I can leave this hospital and find my way home, but sleep does not come. I am wanting |