Oh, so does he want more? I thought to myself. So I told him more, repeating the things I'd already told. I sensed he wanted me to really prove just how much pain I was in. I contemplated putting on a short show for him, perhaps hiring some actors and getting a commission from the BBC in order for him to understand what any good doctor would of got straight away from the fact I'd told him, "MY BACK HURTS, YOU MORON. OUCH OUCH OUCH."
After about 15 minutes of awkward conversation (by which I mean me talking to him, he didn't even flinch, the weirdo) he finally seemed to grasp the issue at hand and started doing something about it. He asked me to lie down on their oh so inviting, kitchen towel covered beds and asked if I could lift my legs up. I couldn't. I didn't know this was something I couldn't do as I don't often try it, but apparently a few inches off the surface was as good as I could manage. Even this didn't seem to impress as him. I could imagine him thinking, "Nah, if he had real back pain his legs would have fallen off by now." He then did a series of other tests with my legs, none of which I passed with any sense of conviction, before asking me to stand up and do similar things with my arms. After all these tests (which I think were just cruel games at my expense) my back hurt a lot more than it had done before and he sat me down so that he could write me a prescription. At least that's what I thought he'd do. Instead he started talking to me about how it had been a while since I'd been in for a diabetic check up and booked me in for one of those. Great. That will help my back, won't it, having someone stick needles in me just to find out that I probably have a slightly higher blood sugar than they'd like and, if it all possible, I should try and get that lower.
Finally, after he'd been blabbing on about that for an age (he got very talkative when it came to that, as if my name had flashed up in red on his screen as soon as it was mentioned) he got round to doing something about the problem I had gone in there with in the first place. What wonders would he tell me about an issue I had been suffering with for an entire year? What great treatment would I be offered to solve the thing that caused me sleepless nights and immobile days? Physiotherapy, surgery even? Surely something fantastic and useful!
"Here, take some of these and see if that helps."
"..."
-slides prescription across table-
"..."
I took his prolonged silence as a sign he was finished, so I got up to go. Painkillers, ey. Great. That will help while I'm on them. Problem being when I'm not on them, see, as has turned out to be pretty accurate. After taking them I feel great; like I could out run Usain and jump over the moon. I could quite happily get addicted to them and never feel another ache again. HOWEVER I'm not meant to take them after more than 3 days, because addiction is highly probable. So what is it, do you think, he intends for me to do now? Because as I type this the 3 boxes of meds he gave me (easily more than three days worth) are looking at me saying, "You know you want us, Ash. You know we'll help."
And yes, I do want them. Badly. Derek is a bitch and is making everything hurt and the only way to shut Derek up is to feed him these wonderful painkillers that my idiot doctor thinks will solve a year long problem.
Give me a year's worth of supplies and I'm sure they might!