Voice in the wilderness nothing to shout about

Bob Morrissey

Have you ever had a health problem you’re too embarrassed to tell your doctor about?

That’s what I’m struggling with now. How do I explain to Dr. Pillmartin that lately I’m hearing a strange voice in my head? Luckily, it only happens in the morning and not late at night when a different voice chimes in just as I’m about to shut down my computer. “Go on,” the voice pleads. “Call up that porn site. You know you want to. A little peek won’t kill you.”

I resist the urge to say “I’m 81 so it might,” and instead wait, as I always do, for the whispering voice to add, “Hey, it doesn’t make you a bad person; it just means you’re a guilt-ridden Irish Catholic, albeit a badly lapsed one.”

No, this voice is much different and less judgmental. Fact is, I can barely make out a word he’s saying, and he’s never with me for longer than a few seconds. Until recently, I just assumed it was coming from the condo directly above me; that someone was listening to the radio for weather reports and traffic updates. It seemed perfectly normal.

That is, until last week when I woke up in my log cabin in the Laurentians. The voice was back. It had followed me into the semi-wilderness, like it would in a Stephen King novel.

I immediately wondered if my “problem” was related to recent hearing concerns following a nasty three-week drippy head cold. One minute I’m fine, the next minute voices are scratchy. Sometimes I hear the sounds of swishing ocean waves. Could it be nothing more than blocked ears or excessive ear wax?

Or am I going nuts? That’s the BIG worry. And if I am, what’s my next step? Sure, I could see Dr. Pillmartin, but why bother? He already thinks I’m crazy.  He’s also made it quite clear he never wants to see me again, which means I have to disguise my voice every time I book an appointment with his receptionist, Linda. Thank God she’s too young to know who Jimmy Stewart and Ed Sullivan are.

My last appointment with Pillmartin was about year ago for hemorrhoids, and it was nothing short of disassterous. For starters, he couldn’t even pronounce the word. He kept calling it “humourrhoids. (I’m using the Canadian spelling here.)

And when I mentioned the purpose of my visit, Pillmartin stormed out of his surgery and made a beeline to Linda, shouting, “How many times have I told you no humourrhoid or anorexic patients before lunch?”

“Well, we could always reschedule him?”

“It’s too late for that,” he snapped. “Mr. Stewart is now sitting in my office with his pants down around his ankles!”

He should be so lucky. I was sitting in his office, alright — waiting to show him the hemorrhoid pictures I’d taken with my tablet the previous night. It was a difficult shoot, sitting on the john, twisting and turning to position the tablet just so, but was worth it if it meant avoiding the dreaded undignified “bend over” scenario.

Pillmartin was still in a rage when he returned to his office. He was so upset he had his stethoscope on backwards.

“What’s that?” he said, looking at the tablet.

“It’s a relatively recent invention,” I said. “It was first introduced in 1989 and weighed 4.5 pounds. It’s used mostly  …”

“Stop!” he interrupted. “What’s that thing doing in here?”

“I’ve got pictures for you so I won’t need to undress,” I said. “They’re pictures of my hemorrhoids.”

“You mean humourrhoids, right?”

“Oh, have it your way,” I muttered under my breath.

Pillmartin gave a loud sigh and said, “Let’s have a look.” I handed him the tablet and watched him squint at it for about 30 seconds.

Then he asked, “How do I know they’re your humourrhoids?”

Being a smart ass, I said, “Whose else could they be? Aren’t they just like fingerprints? Everyone’s are different.”

Dead silence.

“Look, you’ve wasted enough of my time,” he said. Then he checked his watch. “You’ve already made me late for lunch.”

Pillmartin promptly snapped up his pen to write out a prescription. “It’s for ointment,” he said. “Take it twice a day and I’ll see you in six months. Oh, and by the way, your toilet bowl is filthy.”

That was how we left things until that annoying little man started living rent free in my head. Two months later, I disguised my voice again and phoned Linda for another appointment. This time I was Ed Sullivan.

Two weeks later, Pillmartin ushered me into his examination room after greeting me with a weary, “Oh no, not you again?”

Taking pity on the man, I got straight to the point.

“I’m hearing things,” I blurted out.

“You mean like rumours — I assure you, there’s nothing between me and Linda.”

“No, it’s nothing like that. I hear voices. Loud voices. What does it all mean?”

“It means you’re not deaf. Linda! Next patient!”

I just sat there, looking frustrated.

“But what if it’s mental?” I said.

“You mean you think it’s all in your head?” Then Pillmartin gave me a wicked smile. “I could schedule X-rays, but they’d show nothing. And I mean NOTHING. Now leave and don’t come back, Mr. Sullivan. Or is it Mr. Stewart?”

Touché.