Shit. I groaned, the pills now sprawled across the floor.
I manipulated a pincer grip in my right using my left and prayed to the heavens.
Come on, please.
My eyes zeroed in on the tablet closest to my feet.
As I crouched down, it began. First, as light turbulence.
No, I can do this.
I grasped my wrist; it shook its head.
Just one.
Just as I was inches away, its denial developed into vicious shakes, thrusting every fibre - every muscle, every ligament - into an uncontrollable frenzy.
Fuck, come on!
My mind fought to steady the limb that had gone astray, but it roared at my futile attempt.
Pathetic.
I slumped to my defeat, staring at the scattered pills, hand still trembling.
—
“Order for Uber?”, she calls.
“Yep! Is it ok if you leave it on the counter?”, I try my best to put on a smile, as her eyebrows furrowed.
Her hand pauses mid-air for a second, before dropping it on the countertop.
“Sorry, if you wouldn’t mind also positioning the handles so that it’s pointing directly upwards. So sorry.” I whisper, as I feel my stomach churn.
She sighs, flicking the bag upwards before storming off, the handles of the bag slowly slouching into its original position.
Bitch.
As she strolls to the fries’ station, her head snaps back in my direction; her eyes now lined into a squint.
“Don’t mind me,” I force a light chuckle.
Pincer grip, check. Make it quick.
I swing my arm forward to build momentum, before clutching the bag between my fingers as my arm swung back in position.
A notification.
‘Your delivery is due in 10 minutes.’
Fuck the world.
I sprint to my car, as I prepare to spend hours fumbling for the ‘unlock’ button.
—
“I’m here for Dr. Kamal,” I mutter.
“Name?” He spits.
“Caleb.”
“Date of birth?”
“3rd of August, 1952.”
“Take a ticket number,” he eyes my quivering hands, “Next.”
As I take the last empty seat, a deep, harsh voice bellows.
“I’ve been waiting for the last 3 hours- when is the doctor going to see me?”
“There’s others waiting to be served. Please take a seat.” The same ticketing officer retorts.
“It’s fucking ridiculous, don’t you think?” The man turns towards the sea of patients, his eyes pleading for a cheer, a nod.
I turn to stare at my feet.
“Fuck this.” He splutters, storming off. I suppose others did too.
“Ticket 842 to Room 84.” The Siri-like voice chimes.
That’s quick.
I stagger into Room 84 and am greeted by… a not Dr. Kamal.
“Hello, I’m a junior resident.” He wears a bright smile; I see his lips quivering.
“Hi, where’s Dr. Kamal?”
“Ah, he has other patients to tend to, so I’ll be in charge of your file, I mean, concerns today. I will be consulting Dr. Kamal outside during your appointment, please um… be rest assured. So, how can I help you?”
Damn, a 6-month wait for this shit.
I shove my hands in front of his face.
“Oh, that must be… difficult.”
No shit, Sherlock.
“Would it be okay if I listened to your chest?” He fumbles about for his stethoscope, tripping over his own feet.
I give in, certain that this appointment is a complete waste of time.
“Give me a minute,” he beams, videoing my tremors.
Something finally relevant. I groan, as he tiptoes out the door.
—
Tik, tik, tik, tik.
I glance at the second-hand making its thirtieth round.
I trace the edges of the room with my eyes, keeping myself entertained in a room with nothing but pasty white walls.
The door slams into the wall.
“Sorry for the wait!” He pants, struggling to catch his breath.
“That’s ok.” I stifle a yawn.
“So, Dr. Kamal has told me to relay some unfortunate news to you. Is there anyone you would like in the room with you today?”
Does it look like I came with anyone?
“No,” I responded curtly.
“Right, well then, what do you know of your situation so far?” His rehearsed lines making my bowels shrivel.
“Cut to the chase.”
“Ah right, ok, umm… So, unfortunately, you will be unable to drive as Dr. Kamal has determined that your tremors present a safety risk.”
An audible silence permeates the room.
“But that’s my job.” I wrestle to maintain my composure.
“I’m sorry, but here is a drug prescription that will help with your tremors in the meanwhile. We’ll schedule a follow up appointment in, um, 3 months?” He winces, probably embarrassed by his own uncertainty.
There are so many questions to be asked.
How can I be stripped of my driving license from a mere video? Is this legal, for a doctor to not have even seen his patient once? How am I going to afford these goddamn pills if I don’t have a job?
Yet, not a word leaves my mouth.
I’m done.
As I shuffle out the door, I blankly gaze at the scribbled “propanooolol” on the scrunched yellow sheet.
“Ticket 845 to Room 84,” The Siri-like voice chimes in the distance.
Ticket 842 (2023).
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