wordonism

Grocery stores are interesting places.

Places where incredibly powerful psychology is used to defy logic and engage the limbic system in both overt and covert ways.

Where these persuasive forces are used to shape the end results of what fills up your shopping cart – the extra bag of chips, the bonus box of cookies, the 3 for 1 deals which make no sense, but it’s a deal.

My grocery store is no different.

Like casinos, they have it down to an art. Brightly lit. Recently renovated. Fresh and clean. Eyes in the sky and secret security. They have it all.

However, what Big Grocery doesn’t know is that sometimes, there are people who can’t handle that much stimulus, who can’t synthesize that much information without falling into the dreaded GSD – grocery store daze.

These folks are so overcome with all the sale price stickers and the coupon savings that they wander like zombies, zoned out. Instead of aimlessly putting all good deals into their carts, they meander the aisles, lost and confused, diabetic one might say, filled by an unknown hunger, starvation in the midst of plenty. Looking for that something they don’t quite know, on the edge, so close to being released from the exquisite craving, from attaining satisfaction – of which they can’t have no.

My recent trip was no different.

I knew better than to attempt grocery while hungry, this is akin to driving post drinks. One simply does not do this. Ever. It’s not worth the risk. To others. Or to self.

So with full belly I arrived. Within moments of crossing the threshold, I could see the glazed eyes and listless faces of the cart pushers all around me. It appeared as though an endemic had struck, confined to within those walls. They were everywhere.

With averted gaze, and little basket in hand, I quickly sought out the perimeter where it was usually safer.

Not this time. Big Grocery had caught on. They had moved some of the inner displays to the outer edges, to woo and persuade those of us who attempted what I had just done, the Venus fly trap coated with succulent treats and delights. Also Oreo cookies, on sale.

It was in this perimeter excursion, with new perimeter displays taking up space, that I saw a gentleman, his vacuous eyes staring without seeing, seemingly afflicted with GSD, implode a massive double-sided display case of big nuts by crashing into it with his shopping cart. Dozens of containers of perfectly seasoned nuts tumbled to the ground, and within the deafening clatter, it was as though I could hear them say they were alone now. Spread all over the grocery store aisle.

The man, released from the nefarious, piercing tentacles of GSD, startled by the clatter and now woke, looked around sheepishly as grade AAA beefy store security came rushing in, tactical combat boots replete with tell-tale Vibram soles thudding quietly against the polished floors, and he said to them apologetically before they tazed him:

“I guess I should be more careful around your nuts.”

Photo by Tetiana Bykovets on Unsplash

I had passed by the grizzled old man on the street corner every day on my way to work for as long as I could remember, but something about him today was different.

The man – his long, unkempt hair flowing about him, blending into his scraggly beard – always sat huddled on an old overturned bucket, his body occupying an infinitely small amount of space for such a large frame; his body language screaming defeat. His battered, grease-stained leather jacket had seen better days at least a few years back, if not closer to decades ago, the once ornate crest frayed bare. The knees of his filthy jeans were barely able to contain his pattellae, shredded and slashed in the style that’s become vogue in high fashion circles, where consumers pay a premium to have their products undergo targeted structural destruction prior to purchase, not wanting to wait for time and elements to do their duty.

Today, even in his haggard state, with the untold battles and demons he was surely facing, he managed to look up and smile at me as I entered his space.

It was a genuine smile, offered without malice, authentic, with the corners of his eyes crumpling into a tangled web of lines. Breaking his face, a spiderweb creasing the grey, salty grime that coated his tired, weathered skin.

It parted his dry, cracked lips, showing off his broken teeth, their stories etched in their cracks and peaks, these solitary, defiant storyboards interspersed with empty gummy spaces where their others had gone missing, their stories complete, with denouement and epilogue.

It was an unsettling smile.

Not because of the disastrous dentition, far from it. But because of what it conveyed. The weight of its meaning struck me like a thunderbolt in the moment it took me to recognize it’s source.

It was a smile of recognition.

In all the times I’d passed him by, this fixture on the sidewalk, he had never asked for money. Nor did he have any signage requesting the same. There was no overturned baseball caps, no tin cans, nor containers with sharpie scrawled words entreating charity. He was not panhandling. He was begging for nothing.

“Excuse me, Sir…”

For the first time, I stopped cold in my tracks, halted by his words.

His voice was clear, strong, and purposeful. It broke through the hubbub of the busy street, cutting through the rattle of streetcars and jangle of buses as they prattled by, barely meters away, spewing fumes and dust into the air. It overrode the low rumble and murmur of the street talk, the voices of the passers by as they passed on by, preoccupied with their own lives.

And it was directed at me.

I turned my body toward him, an involuntary movement. My mind split, fighting my own being, my drive divided by the places I needed to be and the arrows of recognition that had pierced me from his luminous smile mere moments ago.

Our eyes met and there it was again.

Recognition.

That pang, that familiar feeling coursed through me, igniting every neuron in my memory bank. Dormant pathways lit up, dendrites seeking to answer the questions being asked. The same sensation that occurs when one’s eyes drift lazily across a crowded room and suddenly connect to the infinite windows of another’s soul; to someone known, but impossible to place.

“Wordonist…?”

The voice, louder this time, more sure now that I had halted my morning commute. The act of me stopping, in that manner, instilling confidence, clarity. It had confirmed, at a subconscious level, his belief.

“It’s Mark. Mark Hews. We went to school together.”

That thunderbolt struck again, this time with the intensity of a thousand camels spitting at once. And not the little spits. The big ones. It was like my face was covered. But in actuality, it was uncovered. Naked emotion dripping through.

Recognition.

This was a former classmate. We were the same age, but he carried the weight of the world. Haggard. Eyes sunken. This was not the man I had once known, but he was.

The memories flooded in. So many at once, a cascade of images and sounds careening into each other. The labs we’d worked on together. The exams we’d studied for. So many years ago. A different time. A different place.

We had traveled different paths.

“Mark…” my voice faltered.

It was obvious that the years had not been kind to him. But unlike all the other times I had walked past him, this time I saw him for who he was.

“Mark…” I repeated, softer, my voice drifting off, fading.

I was at a loss for words. The Wordonist, silent.

We know that silence like this often cannot survive for very long, that if present, it will quickly be erased, filled by those who can’t fathom its existence, who need to keep it at bay. And my silence was no different.

“Wordonist, it is you! I thought I recognized you. It’s been forever – you look the same! How’ve you been, buddy!?”

“I’ve been good! I almost didn’t recognize you…you look…different…”

“Yeah, it’s been a ride. Twenty years? You know fortunes lost yesterday become the fortunes for today? Anyway, listen, I’m just curious, are you open to making extra money working as little as 5-10 hours a week? I’d like to tell you about a fantastic opportunity that just fell into my lap. It’s ground floor and the possibilities are limitless. I got the inside scoop on this revolutionary health system. Do you have just 15 minutes to change your life…”

Photo by Elena Koycheva on Unsplash

The young man had been struggling for a some time. The days had turned into weeks, and those weeks, advancing and growing like a virulent storm front, had transformed into months.

It was a silent battle known only to a few.

Those around him, closest to him, were privy to the extent to which his life had been altered, the extent to which he stoically faced his challenge. Braving the short nights and long days. Doing the needleful to survive. In his mind, a solitary, terrifying thought held fast: the way things were going, he wasn’t sure if there was an end in sight.

Eventually, the young man knew he needled help. From an expert. From one who had spent years in training and who had the tangible experience to assuage this struggle, to show him a sharp path to enlightenment. Doctor Google would no longer suffice. It was time.

After almost a month and half of doing seemingly endless battle, he went to his family physician. A cry for help. There he was, a handsome, brave young man at the end of his rope, reaching out to another more learned, experienced man who may have more rope. A dangling life preserver.

The Waiting Room

Upon arrival at the clinic, the young man presented his health card as required and was asked to take a seat in the bustling waiting room. It was early morning on a frigid Sunday and yet, all these others had come just like him, to be delivered from what ailed them.

The weighted, heavy silence was often punctuated by a smattering of coughs and sniffles; those seated, at every disturbance, surreptitiously craned their heads up from their typical smartphone posture, to see if they should move seats, to minimize contact with the pestilence that now surely filled the air. The air they were all breathing in together.

In the end, however, through sheer dumb luck, or through the invisible yet powerful forces of social construct, no one moved. It could also have been the fact that there were no empty seats, and when faced with standing for indeterminate time or inspiring a multitude of airborne illnesses, humans will invariably choose the latter, to be afflicted albeit in the comfort of the hard plastic Ikea chairs.

Deep in one corner of the waiting room, while on one of his surreptitious post-cough scouting missions, the young man noticed the silent whirring of an inconspicuously placed Dyson air purifier, languidly turning to-and-fro, it’s presence as symbolic as the imagined whirring sound he’d created in his mind.

With his eyes fixated on the mesmerizing motion, he was startled to hear his name called. His full name. Quickly sitting upright, he looked around, confused, broken from the hypnotic Dyson trance. That same daze that hits those woken at 4 am by their smoke detector battery warning going off, with the same trill as if a 4 alarm fire was blazing on their stove top.

Quickly, he was returned to the present time. Realizing that doctor’s staff member had called him, he stood up shakily, his balance off, and followed her through the opened gateway into the hallowed back hallway with many doors visible down the length.

Please go into room 3 and wait there.

Clinic Inner Sanctum

He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed since his arrival. It could have been 15 minutes. It could have been an hour. He could have looked at his smartphone clock and calculated, but as of now, only Dyson knew. But what he did know was that the wait would likely be shorter now that he had entered the inner sanctum. From his experience, this is where time sped up, where it caught up to where it needed to be.

He wasn’t wrong.

It was mere moments before the physician knocked on the door and entered. After quick pleasantries, the doctor acquired the chief concern and current medical history through his sharp, pointed questions, already being privy to the past history on his computer screen.

Hop on the table, let me have a look

With those words, the physician commanded action. The young man, ever the dutiful patient, hopped athletically up on the examination table and did as he was told. Mouth opened, tongue proffered. Head tilted to each side, to expose the external auditory meatuses one after the other. A frigid stethoscope gliding along cotton T shirt material, it’s cold only imagined from past experience against flesh. Ears, throat, chest. All clear.

This Too Shall Pass.

The verdict: viral. No treatment required. Rest and plenty of fluids. Over the counter medication, if required, to manage symptoms. With the advice to follow up if things got worse, the young man returned back into the world to face the untold number of viruses that surely infected him, that wracked his now slimmed body.

And battle he did.

Relentless, the purported viruses attempted to bring him down. Forcing heaving night coughs that held sleep at bay, keeping dreams undreamt and sorrow ever present. He battled through the days, working for the man, to pay his bills, to survive. He made it through the day times, where the cough was tamer and the symptoms softer, until the night fell and the monster awoke, thrashing and crashing about, leaving nothing but misery and anguish in its wake.

During the entirety of his ailment, he could count on his one constant companion, the crushing fatigue.

From a man who normally slept six and half to seven hours a night, to wake up fresh and full of vigour, he became but a mere shell of his former self. Eight, nine, ten hours. Slumber was long but fitful, broken as he was. Restless as it was requisite. Like a long ago unrequited love, there was no satisfaction. No closure.

Often assailed by a dry, hacking cough, the young man was reminded that these little beings, these viruses, could do untold harm should they choose to do so.

A Fortnight

In two weeks time, voice cracking, eyes sunken, the now haggard young man could battle no more. He conceded defeat. He needled help. Again.

This time, there was incredible pressure around and behind his right eye. And that fatigue. Encompassing. Out of the ordinary. It called for investigation. Something wasn’t right. And something was wrong.

His preliminary research prior to re-engaging his professional helped him elucidate some preliminary diagnoses: it was likely cancer or a brain tumour. Potentially a concussion. These were plain to see on the Internets with even a cursory search of his symptoms. But these differential diagnoses would have to be independently verified by one who could actually make them. And treat them. The duly licensed doctor with a degree from an actual medical school, not the Google one.

With that realization, he returned to his family physician.

Seated on that examination table once again in room 3, the crinkly paper affording but a thin veneer of sanitation between the shiny table surface and the back of his shrunken thighs, he waited patiently as the doctor did his thing. The symptoms were concerning enough that the doctor decided the young man required an elevated level of diagnostics: gallons of blood drawn, head and chest x-rays, along with a starting course of simple antibiotics. Requisitioned and prescribed, respectively.

The next day, at the crack of 9 am when the imaging laboratory opened for the day, the young man was there, requisition in hand, ready to possibly find out what ailed him. His homemade diagnoses had been discarded for the more plausible pneumonia or sinusitis, with the latter edging out the former with verified bookmaker odds of 17 to 1.

As the technologist set up the machine, he was pleased to note that she had ensured the proper placement of the lead skirt pad around his now extra narrow waist.

The machine whirred and hummed, a click here, a click there. Within minutes, the technologist confirmed that the images were clear and useful, that the radiologist would be able to interpret them prior to sending the detailed report to the family doctor.

Confirmed

Three days passed from the follow up, three days of that simple course of antibiotics. And one day from the x-rays. The phone rang. The call display flashed a name. It was the family doctor calling. With some level of trepidation, the young man answered, coughing his hello.

Sinuses affected. Chest clear.

The doctor, based on the imaging results wanted to change the antibiotics. Same class of drugs, but stronger. Much stronger. The prescription was changed and lengthened. A week longer. It was what it was. There was no way around it. Drugs. Some are good. Some are bad. Here, these were the good ones. Like vaccinations.

Over the next five days many of the symptoms dropped off. The cough, abated, reduced to an occasional sputter, less harsh, less insistent. A friendly titter here and there. The veil of fatigue lifted, it’s gossamer threads pushed aside, present but a ghost of its former self, an echo.

Tragedy

On the sixth day, the morning gave way to the evening.

And with it came the return of incredible right sided sinus pressure. This should not have happened. The young man was 2 pills away from finishing his course of antibiotics and a reversal of symptoms had reared it’s ugly head. As he lay his weary head upon his soft, goose down pillow, he knew, in his heart of hearts, that something had gone terribly wrong and he would need to call his family doctor again.

His third cry for help. The last vestiges of his toxicly manly pride stripped off his being like forty year old wallpaper flippantly peeled off the living room wall, exposing the ragged underbelly, jagged and vulnerable.

The next morning, he picked up his phone and made the call. After briefly explaining the situation, the receptionist conferred with the doctor. Without delay, they would see him later that evening to plan a new course of action.

The Third Visit

Having been squeezed into an already full schedule at the last minute, the young man realized the wait would be long. He arrived prepared with his hand computer fully charged, outrage inducing articles at the ready.

Eventually his name was called and he was shuttled back to his familiar room 3. The doctor arrived promptly and with no preamble the young man recounted the last 24 hours, explaining the worsening of the right sided sinus pressure even though there was only one more antibiotic pill to take later that evening.

The doctor looked at him. Was that concern the young man saw etched in the lines that marked the physicians forehead? Or perhaps the lines of force from the doctor’s frontalis muscle contracting as he pulled his eyebrows together while analyzing the problem at hand? We would never find out.

In any case, the physician decided that further investigations were needled – the fatigue, the pressure – as these were not normal for the otherwise robust and healthy young man. The lack of change after the initial two courses of antibiotics also gave reason to pause and ponder. As he was submitting the diagnostic requisition, the physician paused mid-typing and said simply:

I may have another solution…

The Solution: One Word. Two Meanings

The young man was all ears.

The doctor then mentioned injectable antibiotics. Two shots, two days in a row. A third generation drug. A different class from the previous interventions, known to be effective against more resistant bugs. Stronger than what went before. If these failed, the doctor said, it was unlikely that the issue was bacterial.

And as luck would have it, the doctor would be able to inject the medication right there in his office, using samples supplied by the government. The power of universal healthcare.

The young man watched as the doctor prepared the solution, carefully drawing then injecting the contents of one small vial into the contents of the slightly larger vial using a sterile syringe. In the physicians deft hands, the mixture was gently rolled back and forth, the molecules blended in perfect rolling rhythm. Two became one, their power magnified, summated.

Opening a new hypodermic needle blister package, the doctor carefully attached it to the syringe after discarding the initial mixing needle.

Meanwhile, as the physician was preparing the treatment, the young man thought that he would be helpful, that he would save the doctor some time and get ahead of the process. While the doctor was occupied, he slipped his arm out of his shirt, leaving the meaty flesh exposed on the counter, ready for injection.

The syringe was finally ready and prepared to deliver it’s precious solution. The doctor looked up, a smile played on his lips, only to be revoked almost as fast as it came out. Or was that imagined?

Reality Strikes

It won’t be in your arm, but in your buttock…

Eyes widened. And they were not the doctor’s. A soft “oh” was heard escaping from the young man’s parted lips. Realization struck.

“OH”.

Louder this time. Again, it wasn’t from the doctor.

The young man assumed the position as requested. And the doctor kept up the friendly banter about how these new high tech needles barely make a prick.

As quickly as it began, it ended with only a dull ache, a throbbing deep within the left cheek. The young man had completed the first shot of two. He would return the next day for the second dose, advised that within 3 days if symptoms didn’t significantly improve they would have to continue to investigate further.

The Next Day

The young man opened his eyes. Blinked twice. Closed them. And opened them fully, willing his eyelids to reach their end limits.

It was a miracle. Or sorcery. Or magic, white or black, it didn’t matter.

The sinus pressure was virtually non existent. The fatigue having dissipated like the steam rising from a hot cup of coffee, becoming nothing from something. Only a mild ache in the left buttock remained as a reminder of yesterday’s penetration.

If that was the effect of the first dose, what would be the effect of both? That was the young man’s pressing thought as he made his way to the doctor’s office once again. His excitement was palpable. And why wouldn’t it be? This was the best he had felt in almost two months.

He arrived and after a brief wait was escorted to the back. Room 3, again. As though mirroring the set up of yesterdays visit, they were both seated the same way. Both in the same position, under the same context. Today held none of yesterday’s pleasantries. There was no preamble again as the doctor prepared the vial in the same manner, with the same care and attention. The syringe was readied, the solution measured.

This time, without pulling his arm out of his sleeve, the young man stood up, pulled down his pants, and turned the other cheek.

Photo by Hush Naidoo on Unsplash

In that one moment, it all changed.

It would never be the same. It couldn’t. There was no turning back.

Once it had been set in motion, there was no way for him to stop it. The point of no return. Irrevocable. Pulling the trigger and then wishing, as you spend the rest of your life behind heavy steel bars, that the bullet never left. Too late, damage done. There are no time machines nor magic DMC DeLoreans. This is real life.

He takes a deep breath. Tries to collect himself.

Time stops. Or rather, slows down. He thinks to himself how funny it is, in those final moments, how the powers that be press the slow motion button, bringing incredible acuity in those very moments he wishes could be scrubbed off of him. He sees and feels it all. His senses heightened. Perception elevated.

Breathing heavy, labouring for each breath, under the effects of his fully engaged sympathetic nervous system, he brings his hands up in front of his face in the brightly lit bathroom. His stubby calloused hands, palms up, fingers slightly spread and curled up to the heavens as if offering imagined piety, coated in that thin, sticky sheen. His loss plainly visible in his hands.

There is so much of it. It is dripping everywhere as he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, his panicked countenance, one he barely recognizes gazes back, eyes widened in horror at the sight of the incredible trauma.

How did this happen?

It was a terrible accident.

The events are etched clearly in his mind. It is his fault, he knows that. The blame is his own to bear. He will have to live with it, if he survives the fallout.

The moment he felt the sharp, slicing pain, he knew he’d made a mistake. That viscous fluid everywhere. It shouldn’t have felt like that. He knew he’d taken a big risk with his decision, but he never, in his wildest dreams, thought it would come to this. His life forever altered, perhaps even extinguished.

His girlfriend was due back in a couple hours, and for sure he would be dead.

He could only ask himself…

Why had he decided to use her special hair care products in the shower to wash his hair, the ones he knew were explicitly off limits? And how did he not notice he’d grabbed a bottle of Nair ™?

As the puddle of water, Nair ™, and hair grows at his feet, he knows there will be consequences.

He just doesn’t know what the final judgement will be.

Photo by Pablo Padilla on Unsplash