diagnostic ambivalence

Diagnostic Ambivalence

When I walked into the neurologist's office, I was calm. The kind of

calm like stretched canvas keeping the outside storm at bay. The

doctor appeared to be busy with another patient and there was no

receptionist. So I grabbed a clipboard with new patient forms and sat

down in an elegant broad wood chair reminiscent of some Chinese era a

long time ago.

The forms were tedious. I had to concisely resurrect my entire medical

history. It irritated me that there were missing questions and fields

that I would think were part of any useful patient history. I checked

off the usual suspects: a family legacy that included heart disease,

cancer, and psychiatric disorders. I listed all the medications I've

been taking. Slowly but surely I was tracing the outlines of an

inquiry. It was like staring at myself in a textual mirror.

When I got to the arbitration agreement I halted my brisk penmanship.

I don't like signing contracts that waive my rights. When rights are

waived where do they go? Does the act of signing away rights counter

the alleged existence self-evident truths -- the alleged being those

written in the American Constitution? And if they are not truths, are

they merely conveniences?

Does my liberty really hang from so thin a thread?

I read the agreement word for word. I always read contracts. When two

people bind themselves through a contract, the contract is an act of

negotiation. Either party can strike, amend, or add text to the

contract if they disagree with it's content. But with institutions

contracts are an imposition of power.

They have power and means. My only power is to walk away. When

services are essential to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,

what truth exists other than a gatekeeper who guards access to

privilege or a jailer who prohibits escape to the outside. Do I put my

life at risk, or do place myself at power's mercy?

I audibly growled and signed the agreement, throwing the clipboard on

the floor next to my feet and stared at it. Forcibly breaking that

gaze, I reached for my bag and pulled out a book Kevin Bee sent me:

Obsessed: A Flesh And The Word (Collection Of Gay Erotic Memoirs).

It's a great book. A naughty read with steamy moments both delicious

and perverse.

I held the book at eye level and crossed my legs -- fully aware that

at such height anyone could see what I was reading. This is how

individuals wield power -- though it was an empty gesture. Other than

myself, the waiting room was empty.

When the doctor emerged from his office and stepped into the waiting

room, he couldn't remember who I was -- despite my previous visit to

his office no less than a week ago. I understand what this means. He

sees a number of patience. He sees a lot of numbers that represent

patients. Our substance becomes data to be reconstituted momentarily

as faces and places before dissolving back into numbers that represent

an inquiry.

When he paged through my file and recalled by case, he realized he

didn't have the results of last week's EEG and looked momentarily

perplexed. As if in a trance, he excused himself and made a loud

telephone call in the other room. The EEG unit in the hospital I'd

visited faxed over the results. I waited a bit longer until he was

ready. He led me to his office and we sat down.

"The EEG results were normal. This is perplexing"

I, too, was perplexed. I'd walked in that office hoping for an answer.

Now I only had more questions. And the dread that accompanies the

knowledge that one of my frightening episodes will happen again.

"You don't want your EEG to show an abnormality."

True. But, if my EEG were normal, then what was the part of me that

was not?