A libidinal feeling of contempt wells up. I have no pain. I don't want to be here. I have nothing personal against against Ms Rodriguez. I'm sure she's a perfectly decent,normal person who, like the rest of us, will ignore her doctor's advice to eat tasteless food in small quantities. And, she's likely a good mom — her two kids are propped up on either side of her monitor like a couple pagan gods. But, I do find her extra-long pink fingernails offensive; not because I don't like glitter, but because she types about a word an hour and she's making me answer irrelevant questions because everyone has to.
"What about zero? I ask. "You know that zero came into common use about a thousand years. Can I say zero?"
Without taking her eyes off the monitor she says, "I'll just put in 1."
I wouldn't be here at all except that, against my fervent advice, Lilalee invited Bob, Pattie and the Swonks over for Sunday burgers. Way back, when we all were just starting out, we lived on the same block. Swonk was in med school, Siobahn free-lanced for LA Weekly and the Berkeley Barb, Bob worked on sit-coms and Pattie was just finishing her practicum. We were close back then. We were a proud and modestly ambitious group brought together by fate. We had grand plans, bright ideas and talked of important things. But now, whenever we get together, Swonk and Pattie talk shop and the conversation dwells on ailment and disease.
"Remember Mary Ellen," says Pattie who is prone to speak in imperatives. Mary Ellen also lived on our block, but she married rich and moved away. "Her husband had a TIA. Partial paralysis and loss of speech. Remember his name?"
"Henry." say Siobahn with a sympathetic tisk. Siobahn never forgets. "Poor Mary Ellen."
"Clopidogrel?" asks Swonk.
"Didn't ask." answers Pattie.
Lilalee interrupts. "What do you guys know about altitude sickness?"
Suddenly, I'm the center of attention. They all know why she asks. No doubt she been talking to Siobahn.
"What happened?" asks Swonk.
I shrug. "I had one bad night."
Lilalee chimes in, "He won't go see the doctor."
I'd just rather forget the following interrogative and subsequent lavish and irritating concern for my well being. Why must everyone be worried? It's not like I've never been to 11,000 feet. One time I have a problem. What's the big deal? I tried to explain it was probably just something I ate. I succeed only in persuading them all that I am a pig-headed idiot. So rather than suffer their ridicule, I agree to get my lungs checked.
I've been sitting in the examine room for nearly-an-hour. Between bouts of imagined mistreatment, I study the lackluster genitalia on the glossy anatomical charts, flex the plastic spine model and estimate the number of cotton balls and tongue depressors in each jar. I am just about dump the cotton balls to confirm my estimate when there's a knock.
The man who enters has to duck and turn to get through the door. He must be seven foot and a burly three-hundred pounds. His lab coat is 3-sizes too small. He could pick me up with one hand. He has a swarthy, pitted complexion, a full-head of glossy hair and the radiant smile of someone who is used to having people completely in their power. "I'm Dr. Soso. I'll be your doctor today. Sorry for the wait. There was a little mix up."
Ms. Rodrigues flashes to mind. My opinion of her changes dramatically. I am gratified that my mistrust of some people is confirmed.
"What can I do for you today?"
"I think I need to get my lungs checked. I might have had altitude illness."
"Take off your shirt," he says. "Tell me more."
I tell him more. He listens to my chest. Then he walks over to the examine-room computer and starts typing. "Your lungs are fine," he says. "I'm going to give you Diamox. One pill; twice a day. Start dosing two days before hiking." As I dress he tells me try it at home first to test for side effects. "That's it?"
"That's it. You're in good shape for someone your age." He reaches for the door. "And by the way, I recommend spending a night at elevation before hiking."
"Thanks," I say without adding, 'for stating the obvious' because, thanks to Ms. Rodriguez, I now know that people around here just don't seem to have a sense of humor.
When Lilalee gets home, my maps are spread out on the kitchen table. I greet her a big hug and an affectionate kiss.
"Aren't we in a fine mood," she says rubbing against me. "Let's make this a habit." Then she sees the maps. "What did the doctor say?
"I got a clean bill of health."
"Are you sure?" she asks with practised doubt.
"Yea. He gave me pills." I hand them to her.
She examines them closely and hands them back. "And you just have to take a pill?"
I shrug. "It's magic."
She sighs wistfully, "Too bad there's not a pill for everything."