I learned something very important about life from watching Twin Peaks.
There's a scene where Hank Jennings, career criminal, is talking to Josie Packard, hot chick. Hank is talking about a little "favor" he did Josie, and they're negotiating how much she's going to pay him. He says he spent time in prison for this, and goes into this long speech about how, a man never knows when he's going to die, and if he doesn't really have that much time left in this world, "what does that do to the market value of eighteen months [in prison]?" Or something to that effect.
I was thinking about this a lot today.
I woke up this morning feeling like hell. Again.
...And admittedly, I have a tendency to over-dramatize things sometimes...
So I started thinking: if I'm dying or something, what is there that I haven't done? I mean, I'd really like to clean out my email boxes before I bite the big one. I'd really like to have sung "Me and Bobby McGee" all the way through, knowing all the lyrics. I'd really like to marry Jake, wearing something particularly pretty, and kiss him under a lilac tree. I'd like to climb to the top of Mount Rainier. I'd like to label all my CDs and mix tapes. I'd like to read all of Kurt Vonnegut's books. I'd like to develop a computer program that allows for certain linguistic analysis. I'd like to have a pet rock.
I mean, I don't think I'm dying or anything. If I was dying, I'd have a fever. As it is, I'm just fatigued to the point of not being able to sit up straight. I can't concentrate. My head is full of clouds. I get eight hours of sleep a night, and I feel as if I haven't slept in weeks. I'm anxious all the time. My pulse is rapid all the time. I get dizzy, and light-headed, and my blood pressure feels weird... But you're only dying if you have a fever to go along with all of that. My temperature's been low. This has been going on for a month, on and off. Now, it's mostly on.
I'm not dying. That's just stupid. To be honest, I think it's nothing more than a hormonal imbalance. Maybe a thyroid thing. I mean, I wouldn't be surprised, really. I don't know exactly what a thyroid is, but I know that if it fucks up (which it is more likely to do to a post-partum woman than the general public), you get a lot of the above symptoms.
Okay, okay, so I'm not dying. that's just really dumb. I will have plenty of time to learn "Bobby McGee." By heart.
So, there's no real reason to be upset, now is there? So I don't feel good. It'll be over soon enough, right? There's no reason to be worried if it isn't going to make you die. Right?
Wrong.
See, the thing is, maybe I'm going to live to be 96, like my great-grandmother. Or maybe I'm going to live to be 24. I have no clue, and, contrary to what you may watch on television, neither does anybody else. So, sure, I've probably got quite a bit of time left. Hopefully a lot. But if I don't, what does that do to the market value of today, during which I felt so bad?
You see what I mean?
It's a little bit hard for me to concentrate on much of anything except feeling like shit. I mean, when you feel like shit, you feel like shit, and what ELSE are you supposed to think about?
I called the student health center at Evergreen.
The woman there, who identified herself as Chris (feel free to persecute her at your will), said, "hi, how can I help you?"
"Well, I'd like to make an appointment to see somebody, if I could?"
"Sure... what seems to be the problem?"
"Well, my major symptom is fatigue..."
She cut me off there. She said, "ohhh, well, I don't know about THAT..." She asked me to hold on for a second.
I realized that "fatigue" is not taken seriously. I realized that NOTHING is really taken seriously until you collapse on the floor.
The woman left me on hold for over three minutes. She came back and asked, "so tell me more about the symptoms you're having..."
I said: "Well, fatigue, which is making it almost impossible to concentrate..." I gave her the laundry list I gave you guys about.
She said: "Well, here's the problem... We're booked up until the second week of June..."
I said: "Okay... and...?" I know they have walk-in hours, but I can't for the life of me remember when they are.
She said: "And, now, I'm not a diagnostician, but what you're describing to me sounds like the symptoms of depression, and we don't really work with that here. When you say 'fatigue' and 'lack of concentration,' that's a red flag right there that it's depression. I mean, you could come in, but all they're really going to be able to do for you is start you on a regimen of anti-depressants."
Can you BELIEVE the NERVE of that bitch?
First of all, *I* know when there's something wrong with my body. I haven't been particularly sad, or depressed lately. Other than feeling sick, I've been in relatively high spirits. It's NOT fucken depression! I know when I'm sick. It's NOT all in my fucken head.
Second of all, if it WAS depression, doesn't depression have some pretty scary effects to it? As in, if I WAS actually suffering from depression, wouldn't that be as likely to kill me -- or MORE likely to kill me -- as any "physical" disease? I mean, hello: people get depressed, think their lives are worthless, and cap themselves, right? It HAPPENS. And, I'm sorry, but this woman's trying to DISSUADE someone from coming in, who she already thinks is suffering from a potentially deadly illness? What the hell is WRONG with this woman?
(As I said, persecute her freely...)
So I said: "Listen, lady, I know when there's something wrong with my body. This has been going on for a month or more, and it's NOT depression. I am sick and I need somebody to take a look at me. As you said, you're not a diagnostician, so it's not up to you to tell me what I might have, and what I might not have. It's up to you to make me an appointment. If you cannot do that, then tell me that, and I will hang up."
She said: "There's nothing I'm going to do for you."
So I said, "Goodbye, then," and slammed the phone down.
Jake clocked my pulse at 100 today. Last night, it was 112. I feel fucken AWFUL.
And this stupid bitch won't make me an appointment because she -- who, from my understanding, is qualified as NOTHING BUT A RECEPTIONIST -- thinks it's "just" depression.
I repeat: persecute at will.
~Helena*