---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Floating Island” Down in the Dirt, v206 (4/23) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Forbidden Library the Down in the Dirt Jan.-April 2023 issues collection book		get the 420 page Jan.-April 2023 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

lecto modo

Bill Tope

I sat alone in the neurologist’s examination
room, awaiting the results of my Electromy-
ography (EMG) exam which I had taken the
week before. Though the office was cool,
perspiration blighted my armpits and I
felt a bead of sweat trickle down my back.

I had suffered from diabetes for more than
thirty years and the doctor had pointed to
that as a possible explanation for my sudden
muscle weakness, dizziness, inability to
walk without incident. Of course, he said, it
could be ALS or some other disorder. This
test, he decided, would tell the tale of the
tape.

The longer the physician tarried the more
disconsolate I became: what if my poor
diabetic care over the years had come back
to bite me, left me in an untenable position?
The symptoms over the past several months,
after all, were only getting worse.

At long last, Dr. Ahmed shuffled into the
room, took a seat on a green leather stool
that was equipped with wheels. I regarded
him anxiously. He looked up. Without
preliminaries he began. “You have massive
nerve damage owing to your diabetes,” he
announced. I blinked.

When I asked for more detailed information
he began speaking blithely of micrvolts and
voltage amplitudes and the like and I shook
my head and asked, “How can it be treated?”
“It can’t be treated,” he said shortly. “It’s too
late for that.” And he folded his hands and
gazed boredly at me; other patients were
awaiting his expert attention.

“Then there’s nothing I can do?” I asked, just
to be certain I’d heard him right. “Buy a
walker,” he suggested. My mouth must have
fallen open. “Or better yet,” he went on,
“make it a wheelchair.” I froze.

Seeing that my fifteen minutes (most spent
waiting for him to appear) had elapsed, he
rose to his feet, the stool sliding back and
gently bumping against the exam table.
“See you in three months,” he said, heading
for the door. I thought: they can’t teach a
bedside manner like that in medical school;
it must be cultivated.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...