Talking to Myself Thirty-One

Talking to Myself Thirty July 19, 2020

When the big doctors talk,
we’re supposed to listen.
They don’t tolerate arguments
and turn to threats. All I want
is a good explanation. I don’t 
believe my two episodes were
strokes. The doctor says if I
don’t take their medicine, I’ll
have a massive stroke and
end up in a nursing home. All
I’ve had so far–and nine
months apart–were a headache
and trouble speaking for a few
minutes. The big doctor doesn’t
listen to me. My friend suggests
a blood test for heavy metals,
reminds me of all the poisons
in the area where I live–from
coal ash dust in the air and
forever chemicals in our water.
And who knows what else?
It’s a wonder I’m alive and
mostly functional. They don’t
seem interested in my thoughts
or my realities. They’re scientists
not dictators. Their job is careful
diagnosis, not mindless threats,
not scare tactics. I won’t be cowed.
I’ll speak up. I always do, and
I can spot one abusing his power
in a flash. Isn’t the medical code
of ethics “Do no harm”?