This story is by Jennifer Juniper and was part of our 10th Anniversary Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
His tie was a fish. The coffee cup on his desk was a fish–tail flipped up, forming a handle. I’m guessing the man liked to fish on his days off from cutting into people. There was a joke swimming around in there somewhere–scalpels. . . scaling. But Bitchisone (my nickname for my frenemy Prednisone) had stolen my sense of humor, along with all my normal sized clothes, and I didn’t feel much like chit chatting. I was here for one, sole, serious purpose.
“You’re not a candidate for surgery.” He slams the door shut on my file, clasps his hands on top of it for emphasis–satisfied that all he needs to know about my insides is inside.
I smile back. There’s a picture of his wife on his desk. She seems nice. Pretty. She probably bought him that mug and tie for. . . my eyes scan the other framed photos. . . Father’s Day.
But I was getting tired of being polite, compliant with every test and prescription only to end up sick again. I drank the “milkshakes”– no one who actually had to choke down that thick barium clay would ever call them that. Poked and pierced, watching my blood being withdrawn into color coded tubes or waiting for a hanging bag to deposit into my veins. Veins that seemed to curl up every time a needle got near.
Warm wetness fills my eyes as his rejection hits. And sits. “I don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried everything.”
I begin casting around, detailing the impossible cycle of steroids that I was on: the flare-ups I’d have whenever I weaned off of them and the trips to the emergency room in the middle of the night to get pumped full of more. I cited case studies where this had worked, hoping to lure him. I had all my hope riding on this. I didn’t have another option.
He seems to soften as he tips his head to one side; nodding along with my soliloquy. “Look, you have this disease everywhere. I can’t take all of it out, or you’ll have worse problems.”
I hadn’t just read the book that the Crohn’s and Colitis Foundation had sent me—I’d mined it. Picking past the layers of treatment I’d already tried and digging through all that failed, until I struck gold: a chapter buried in the back called Surgery. The last chapter and my last resort. Cutting out the bad and sewing the good parts back together sounded like my ticket off this crazy ride.
He may know about Crohn’s Disease, but he doesn’t know about me. He doesn’t know how I read every healing story I can get my hands on. How I do mini-meditations at stoplights.
But the most important thing he doesn’t know is that I chose the second group.
***
Waking up to the fuzzy image of a young guy coming into focus, then going fuzzy again, Hmmm, he’s cute. My brain slowly climbs out of the anesthesia and points to his white coat and the dashes he’s drawing throughout the outline of the digestive system on a piece of paper.
“What are those?” My voice sputters and squeaks, dry from the tube and camera that was stuck down my throat.
“Ulcers.” He keeps slashing, each one pierces through the dense fog surrounding me. “The good news is we know what you have. The bad news is, there’s no cure.”
I fade back into the lingering ether. His words follow me. It’s real. It has a name.
“We’ll treat it the best we can. We’ll get it to go into remission and then you’ll relapse, it’s a cycle that’ll keep repeating. That’s the best we can do.”
He gets up and walks towards the door of my room, leaving me to reckon with my sentencing. But then something makes him stop mid-stride. He turns back to me, “Here’s the thing. There seems to be two groups of people with this disease. One group believes everything I say, and they stay sick and suffer. The other group seems to dismiss it and they get better.” He shoots a long look out the window, like he’s listening to his words along with me. He shrugs. “The only difference that I can see between them is a decision.” He turns again, and is gone.
“Sooo,” his nurse steps into my stare, “Have you decided which group you’d like to be in?”
“Uhhhmm . . . I kinda like the sound of that second one,” I dare to say. Still not sure if it’s mine to claim or what it entails.
“Good,” scribbling on a piece of paper. “This is where you start.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but Fit for Life wasn’t it. Sounded like a diet book.
It was so much more than a diet book.
I hadn’t felt in charge of my body for awhile now. Reading that book put me back in the driver’s seat. It gave me something to do besides swallow a bunch of pills and hope for the best. How to eat was just the beginning. And I wanted more.
I was watching this connection between my body and my mind and wanted to harness it. But there weren’t many resources out there at the time. Bernie Siegel’s Love, Medicine & Miracles told of patients beating back cancer death sentences. What I have isn’t as bad as cancer, I consoled myself. I ordered the cassette offered at the end of You Can Heal Your Life. I picked up a set of tapes from this motivational speaker at a conference. My one-hour, one-way commute to college became an undeclared minor in the power of my mind.
* * *
He smooths his fish tie. Now this doctor’s confrontation on the direness of my condition triggers tears. The dashing of my dream to overcome it pushes them over the edge.
“I’m so sorry, but these people that you read about, they don’t have it like you do.”
The weight of his words sinks me back into my chair. They’re a velvety mauve–more suited to a living room than a doctor’s office. I want the second group, dammit! I claimed it. And these people with stethoscope necklaces sure aren’t getting me there.
Maybe I felt empowered by those tapes. Maybe I was standing on the shoulders of all those who had beaten the odds. I couldn’t just keep shuffling the deck and hoping for a better hand. I needed a game changer.
Maybe I was desperate.
Maybe if he had on a different tie and wasn’t gripping a porcelain tail.
I brush off my tears and hear the words, “I’m not leaving until you agree to operate,” pour from my mouth and puddle around our feet.
“Look, even if I took out the worst part you’d only get about six months remission. Then it would come back, probably right where I sewed you back together.”
“SIX MONTHS!!” The very idea of it propels me to the edge of my seat. “I’ll take it!” Six months?! It sounded like an eternity. “I can’t even get one month! At least I’ll get a chance at a fresh start, instead of being stuck behind the eightball all the time!”
His very justification for rejection flipped back to help make my case, he sighs. Takes a sip from his fish mug.
He gives me a this-isn’t-how-this-usually-goes kind of look. “You know, I’m usually the one trying to convince people to have surgery.” He opens his calendar, “Looks like my next opening would be in two weeks.”
I spend the time honing my mind-body connection, aligning myself with this newfound miracle-mindedness. I could feel myself starting to recalibrate from “Why me?!” to “Where is this taking me?” Then I found a guided meditation tape for people undergoing surgery.
Surgery I was preparation: cognitive stretching exercises by day and while I slept, music to marinade my subconscious in them.
“Play this while I’m out,” I hand the puzzled anesthesiologist Surgery II.
As he leaves to go locate a boombox, I turn to my surgeon. “You’re going to have direct access to my unconscious in there. So say only good things. How healthy I look, how strong my body is. If you must say something negative, you’ll need to leave the room first.”
The mask comes down and I count back from ten. I just want to feel good again. I just want to feel good again.
* * *
A year later I sent the fish doc an anniversary card to say that I was still in remission. And to thank him. I sent another one the next year. And the year after that. And the year after that . . .
I just wanted him to know that it’s okay to go into uncharted waters, in case he still wasn’t sure. I wanted to let him know that although medicine may have limitations, the mind doesn’t have any.
Great story and not a club I ever want to be in! Keep being healthy and happy!
Love this piece, and her prose is delicious , despite the severity of disease as her adversary. A unique look at the world of chronic disease, sprinkled with humor, irony, and human hope. A winner on many levels.
Making me cry, Patty. thank you for your touching words.
Thank you for taking the time to write a review Patty and for your unwavering support!
I loved it! I look forward to your next one.
Zan, thank you so much. Stay tuned! <3
A great shoutout.
beautiful writing
Thanks so much Dale!
In lyrical, tightly woven prose that sparkles with relatable vigorous wit, Juniper delivers a powerful message of hope amidst the angst and struggle of healing oneself with positivism, self-education and analysis in a medical world where doctors determine our future.
What a deeply touching review, Vicki. Thank U
A compelling, educational and uplifting story about trusting one’s own knowing enough to be able to “…feel myself start to recalibrate…” and even instruct the medical profession. Jennifer draws the reader into her courageous journey with a feisty, energetic style.
Wow, very powerful story. And, inspiring. Just, wow!
A truly inspiring story conveying hope and encouragement to people who share not just this writer’s medical problem, but others as well. The power of mind over matter is very nicely documented. Her writing is exquisite, using the fish image well, to bring the doctor character full circle with ‘uncharted waters’ at the end.
Such a great voice. Well written.
Great story. The emotions are popping off the page. Message is powerful.
Bill Porter suggested I take a break from my novel to to read your short story. You have managed to move my sedentary male thoughts from one brain compartment to another, which holds memories of my mother 30+ years ago insisting on dealing with bone cancer by herself. I’m sure she used what was available to her during that time as she was able to finally get her masters in creative writing–I gave her plenty of fodder as a teen, I’m sure. I’d like to think if you’d been here to influence her, she would, today be standing over me, my personal SPELCHEK, corrector of dangling partisniples and other disgraceful stylus etchings. Your strength comes through every word. I can only imagine any doctor having the temerity to go up against Mom the way you did with your doctor. This brief should be required reading in any facility counseling people facing abrupt change-of-life situations. Thank you for presenting it to us, the uninitiated. I’m forwarding this to my co-worker who is battling prostate cancer with a helluva good attitude, like yours.
See how well you wrote? There should have been quotes around “your doctor,” and I was wrapped up in the reality, rather than the fiction! Ya done good!
Glad I got to read the story ” The Fish Doctor”! Loved it! Keep writing!
An inspiring read about vulnerability and strength. I loved the vivid imagery of fish ties, stop light meditations, and self-hypnosis cassette tapes. I can imagine the look on the surgeon’s face everytime he opens your anniversary card– delight, wonder, gratitude. He’s drinking coffee from his fish mug as he smiles. A beautiful piece of work.
The best doctors don’t have to agree, but they do have to LISTEN to their patients. That was five minutes well spent.
Knowing many friends and family who confront this oleaginous disease on a daily basis will recognize Ms. Juniper’s sailor’s stance, staving off the pitch and roll of the medical profession’s jargon. Her mindful swagger muting the years of suffering.
Kudos to Ms. Juniper for “healing herself,” and modeling for others the true meaning of the biblical Jewish phrase, “Physician heal thyself.” She demonstrated how medicine works best when patients are actively involved in the decision making. Doctors are not infallible G-ds and patients must continue to question even after a doctor presumes the diagnosis and treatment is netted by the parameters of the profession. The Fish Doctor is short on words but long on meaning, especially for those living with Crohn’s & Colitis.
Knowing many friends and family who confront this oleaginous disease on a daily basis will recognize Ms. Juniper’s sailor’s stance, staving off the pitch and roll of the medical profession’s jargon. Her mindful swagger muting the years of suffering.
Kudos to Ms. Juniper for “healing herself,” and modeling for others the true meaning of the biblical Jewish phrase, “Physician heal thyself.” She demonstrated how medicine works best when patients are actively involved in the decision making. Doctors are not infallible G-ds and patients must continue to question even after a doctor presumes the diagnosis and treatment is netted by the parameters of the profession. The Fish Doctor is short on words but long on meaning, especially for those living with Crohn’s & Colitis.
I love this story! Jennifer writes with strength, vulnerability, and guts! She pulls from a reservoir of self-knowledge and deep insight into the mind/ body connection. Jennifer shares a hopeful and human story of resilience written with humor, beautiful prose, and vivid imagery.
I enjoyed reading this story for it’s miracle minded message and humor. The imagery was so powerful. I was in the Fish Doctor’s office too! Maybe I’ve accumulated too many patient hours myself, lol, but this story was so relatable!
I would love to read more of this author’s work.
Awesome
This is great! You are a natural!!!
Great story and well told!
It pulled me right in.
It wish it were longer; I want more,
Thanks Jennifer!
What’s next?
Beautiful!! Love! Love! Love!
I have dyslexia; so reading and comprehension is often an unfortunate chore as I love learning.
Reading for me has been an ongoing struggle for learning, a fight for information and a battle with the ego!
Yesterday a friend asked me (& many others)
;to read & vote for her ‘shortlisted’ short story.
I didn’t even know she wrote.
I started reading as a favour, helping a friend, a ‘should.’
I got into ‘the calm, quiet space’ I need too to read & comprehend.
Once I started reading, I was suddenly transformed into ‘a reader’, disappearing into the story, never wanting it to end!
(Like I hear people express & the feelings I long for)
I was left with goosebumps, hope & happy tears.
I invite you to read & hopefully Vote for this talent that needs to be shared.