She

by Shireen Jeejeebhoy

chapter twenty-four

  QUACKS THE END

  “HOW ARE YOU?”

  “Fine,” she draws out the word, wondering why Mr. Mintken is phoning her.

  “Good, good. It’s time to move on to the next phase of your case. You’ve seen the defences’ medical experts. You’ve seen …,” Mr. Mintken pauses. Silence hisses along the phone line.

  “Well, uh, I’ve seen …,” she chews her lip. In the time she waited for the discovery and then the mediation, she saw a neuropsychologist, whose report stated she was a he. She saw an old doctor who said her physical injuries were real, but no, that was a long time ago when this whole thing first started. She saw … her mind refuses to divulge any more of the quacks that the Court has sent her to. “Um, well., there was that neuropsychologist who s-s-said I was a he.”

  “We can discount him. They won’t be able to use his report in court. If they do, we’ll tear him apart in the first five minutes, discrediting their case.”

  “Oh yeah, there was that neuropsych guy Quickley sent me to.”

  “Don’t worry about him. He never sent a written report.”

  “Oh. Well, um, there was that Doctor of Ed. He s-s-said he was a psychologist, but he didn’t have a psy-psy-psychology degree.”

  “A registered psychologist can have a Doctor of Education not just a PhD in psychology. He is legit.”

  “Oh.” She chews this thought on her lip and then continues, “Anyway he gave me a bunch of questionnaires, lots of questions on whether I’d commit s-s-suicide or what I think about sex. I can’t remember what he said though.”

  “That was the first psychologist you saw, right? Yes, I have his report here. It’s credible, and it furthers our case, which means they won’t use it.”

  “Then there was that as-s-s-sessment centre. I learnt that they can make my neck move just by lying me down.” Memory of that stimulates her into emotion, energizing her speech, “It was amazing how flexible my neck suddenly became. So he said there was nothing wrong. They also tried to make me do things on these pieces of equipment that looked like they came from Soviet Russia. When they started making my shoulders ache and neck hurt, I stopped. They didn’t look happy. But why should I re-injure myself because they want to make a case to stop my treatment?” she ends on a rising note.

  “Hmmm … yes. We usually prefer our clients to perform those tasks to the best of their ability.”

  “Well that’s stupid,” she grouses. “That’s stupid if it means I strain my muscles worse. How will I get better and play my music if my neck won’t move anymore because of them?”

  “I understand. Still … Well, you don’t have to do those anymore. That report may hurt us. Let me make a note here to send you to a physiatrist. We have a good one. She’ll examine you in a way that won’t cause more pain but will show the limitations of your physical movements that impair your ability to play.”

  More games. It’s all about my experts are better than your experts. Sounds like recess in grade school. Whatever happened to the truth? They claim they’re looking for the truth with all these experts, but what truth is that? The one that will get them off the hook? The one that keeps them on the hook? The exaggerated one? The lie? The injustice rankles her, especially since she’s at the whipping end of their injustice. If someone says it enough, it starts to sound truthful.

  “… another psychologist?”

  “I’m sorry I don’t understand.”

  “I was talking about their other experts, how those went. They have one fairly credible expert on the physical strains. But I believe the other ones may not be.”

  “I don’t know. There was this one doctor. I hardly saw her. Dumpy thing. She only s-s-spoke to me right at the end. There was this other guy who gave me lots of tests, questions about my memory, verbal s-s-skills, math stuff. I don’t know how often I’ve done those tests. I could do them in my sleep.”

  “You’ll be glad to know they’re done with their testing, although they have the right to ask for more. But since we’re past the discoveries, I’d like to start building our own case based on how you are now.”

  “Uh-huh. They said my memory was f-f-fine. My concentration was fine. My emotions were fine!”

  “Ah yes. It was that report, the one that states you have somatoform disorder. We can shoot that one down easily. They’ve already started to back away from that theory. But I’ll send you to our vocational counsellor to ensure they can’t use it. He’ll do a battery of tests, some of which will prove their theory wrong. I know you don’t have it. They know you don’t have it. People with that don’t work as hard as you have for as long as you have to get better. I see great progress in you. I have faith you’ll get rid of Akaesman and regain many of your talents back. I’m sure you’ll be playing again sooner than you think.”

  “I guess.”

  “I know. No guessing. Now there was one more psychologist you saw?”

  “Um, um … oh yeah. Her. I forgot about her. Bitch. Doctor … Doctor … Doctor Bratt! That was it.” Just remembering that doctor angers her all over again. “Grandmother was going to dress her down — and Grandmother can be intimidating when she goes in full lecture mode. I told her how it went when she picked me up, and she almost got out of the car. But I stopped her. I don’t know how ‘cause she never listens to me. I think I threatened that my lawyer said not to argue no matter what.”

  “Good! We can’t have anyone attacking the experts, no matter how justified. You didn’t argue with her, did you? I don’t see her report yet on my desk. Did you see her recently?”

  “Yes, last month … no, the month before, well, in the spring, late winter, I’m not sure.”

  “Her report should be here then. She seems to be taking longer than usual to issue it. These things have a deadline. I’ll follow up with Mr. Lance before I go on vacation.”

  “Okay. Well, no, I didn’t argue with her. I was too stunned. Actually, I was too slow in processing what she said. I did that the next day. Then I was furious at her attempts to rile me. She started by being really late. How dare she be late! But I said nothing. And then she spoke to me like I was a slow and stupid, stupid cow, telling me over and over to pay attention. I was so stunned I forgot I was angry. You’d told me to co-operate no matter what, and I was. I did. So I don’t know what her problem was. She reminded me of a group back in junior high who were always whining about the way I looked, the way I dressed, how I was always doodling songs by myself. That’s all I thought about were those classmates and wondering why some grey-haired, elegant doctor was acting like that.”

  “She wanted to rile you. I’m glad to hear she failed. But she has good credibility. Her report will carry weight.”

  “I want to complain about her to the College.”

  “No! Don’t do that.”

  “Why not? She shouldn’t talk to people like that.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t want you filing a complaint. You can do that after the case is settled.”

  “I’d rather do it now.”

  “No.”

  She sighs loudly. “Fine.” She continues, “I think those were all the quacks they sent me to.”

  “You need to stop calling them quacks,” he berates her. “I’m concerned about the last one and that physical assessment. I don’t think we need a lot of reports here to counter them, just good-quality ones. Your doctors’ reports won’t carry a lot of weight because the courts generally consider them biased.”

  “Biased?” How bizarre. They think doctors in overextended Ontario have so much time on their hands they want a really sick patient and they love writing reports on those same patients? This court system is sounding more and more biased towards Akaesman.

  “Yes biased. We need two good experts, one to counter their findings on your physical injuries and one to counter the findings on your mental state. The latter can also confirm that you have all the signs of Akaesman syndrome. I don’t think we need scans. They’re expensive anyway and hard to get
, and yours was positive. So that’s good.”

  “I’m glad about that.”

  “Well, no need to worry about those. I think we’re coming to the end of the evidentiary part. I’ll have my clerk write you about seeing those experts. She’ll set up the appointments for you, tell you where you need to go, anything you need to remember when seeing them. I want to ensure you remember every part of the last few years, so try to recall key events before you see these experts. We need as complete a report as possible, the suffering you’ve endured, the kind of difficulties you’ve had, how Akaesman has impaired your daily functioning, your ability to earn an income in your chosen profession, that sort of thing. If I have any more questions, I’ll call you. Good speaking to you again.”

  “You too. Thanks. Bye.”

  She hangs up, leans back, sees the clock above her desk, the one she finally thought to put up in front of her eyeballs so as to get a better handle on the time. And frowns. She picks up her Palm. Oh my God, she’s supposed to be seeing Dr. Jones in less than an hour. She rushes out into the muggy July day.

  The coolness of the Haoma Clinic is a relief from the textural, soggy air outside. She’s gotten used to the awkwardness of coming here after being fired from physio and acupuncture. Dr. Jones said he was willing to continue in hope of being paid down the road. He’s confident he will be, for her case is strong in his view. He’s treated many, many people with complete AS, and he’s told her over and over that she is so typical that her case is a slam dunk. She wishes she is as confident in her case.

  Dr. Jones has changed the paintings on the walls, she notices as she precedes him into his office. They’re bright swirls of soothing blues, creative yellows, energetic reds. Smooth stones adorn her side of his desk. She sits down in the supportive ergonomic chair and holds her back away from the seat back. She isn’t sweating; she’s burning. She wants only to sit still until the artificially cool air can soothe her overheated body.

  Dr. Jones hands her electrode clips to fasten to her earlobes, sticks two electrode patches on her shoulders, and then turns on the familiar little device that provides the only pain relief she can get these days. On the one hand, she’s adjusted to the pain; on the other, it’s becoming more and more unbearable. He’d started using the pain relief device on her last year. It isn’t much, but it’s the only thing, along with three-times-a-day slathering of arnica cream, that keeps her from being overwhelmed by the never-ending pain. Hot salty baths that relax her muscles overheat her. Cold showers that soothe her burning skin contract her muscles. The insanity of it all makes her want to run screaming down the street.

  She sits quietly as the device works its magic, and she tells Dr. Jones of her week and how she’s feeling so that he can determine what today’s therapy will entail.

  “I wish I could read,” she says, grief overtaking her all of a sudden. “I, I want to get lost in a book again, anything to get away from my life. I wish even more I could play my piano. Every time I played or wrote a so-so-song, it was like the world stopped, time didn’t matter, hunger didn’t matter, all I felt was the moment. The total peace of falling into my work — that doesn’t happen now. No matter how hard I, I try, the piano remains out of my reach.”

  “How’s the course going?”

  “Fine,” she replies, the grief suddenly gone from her consciousness, and she’s emotionless again. “The instructor is so, so, so encouraging. He’s liking what I’m writing. I’m f-f-feeling like, like the words are f-f-finally coming back. But, but I don’t know them until I write them. It’s like my mind doesn’t tell me what it’s thinking until I s-s-see it on the paper. But there’s no music yet.”

  Dr. Jones’s eyes flicker. Always at this point, he’d reassure her that it was buried in her, that it would come out, that she’d find it again. He’d say that she’d play again, be productive again, feel her music again. But today he’s silent. Her breathing stops. Her stomach hollows out. Her eyes widen. His green eyes darken, and then he blinks, and he smiles.

  “I know what we’ll do today. You need lifting up, and you need peace. We’ll work on your visualization technique, to peel back those layers of fear and anger until you are immersed in the peace that’s at the core of all of us. We’ve done this before, with good success. It will also help calm your apprehension of seeing more experts. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she nods, her whole body still taut from what she saw in Dr. Jones’s eyes. No hope. No more hope for her.

  ~~~*~~~