That Stupid Heroin Doctor

Ah-ah-ah-ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive!

--The Bee-Gees

I've spent more time asleep than awake, these last few weeks. I'm told I missed one rare Vancouver snowshower, two days of sunshine, and several excellent passerine sightings on the harbour. Mostly boring sorts of passerines, of course--passerines I've certainly seen a thousand times without realising it was them, but I was disappointed all the same. I'd studied up this year, see, for all the birds I'd planned to spot. And my preparations hadn't ended there. I'd corralled my errant socks (against frozen feet), pinned a drawing of a bird to the sleeve of my overcoat (against police officers mistaking me for a bum), and scouted out a prime vantage point by the sea. I'd even located my oft-misplaced specs. I was--I was--well, I was asleep, wasn't I, when it came right down to it? Probably snoring, and all, frightening off all the birds.

There was a day when I dreamed about Snow Lake. "I'm floating on my back," I mumbled, as I surfaced from the dream. "I'm floating on my back with my arms flung out to the sides, and the sun burning the end of my nose. My feet are dangling down in the duckweed. I've got fish mouthing my toes--poh! poh! poh!--and there's a couple of leeches stuck to my ankles. There's always a couple of leeches. You can't do anything about it. You just ignore them, and they drop off after a while. My hair looks like a big green halo. It's not really green, but the water, there's algae, and...."

The next time I woke up, it was two o'clock in the morning, and a woman was shouting in the street: "Fuck you, Gordon!" I couldn't tell if it was an amiable "Fuck you" (Gordon's just nicked her scarf, and is pelting down the block with it. Her neck is cold, but she doesn't really mind. The scarf's gone all lovely and billowy in the wind. Snow's swirling, cars are swishing, and the streetlamp's shining through the silk, picking out those little gold threads it has. It looks like something off a Christmas card. She'd never admit to going for all that Hallmark rubbish, but secretly, she'll remember this fondly), or an angry one (Gordon's just broken it off with her, citing cowardice, confusion, and a corrupted sense of self. Her Christmas plans are ruined, and it's too late to make new ones. All her friends were Gordon's friends, and her parents, they're off to Majorca. She'd never admit to going for all that Hallmark rubbish--all that firelight and pine smell and kisses under the mistletoe--but secretly, she'd looked forward to it.)

"Fuck you, Gordon," I echoed. I meant it in a bitter and envious way (Gordon's out in the street partaking of life, for good or for ill, and I'm not. I hate all that Hallmark nonsense, and I especially hate being out in the cold, but why should Gordon have--why should Gordon get--stupid Gordon's using up all the fun!)

I've been seeing a lot of these smart cars lately. I woke up for a while yesterday afternoon, and there was one parked across the street. It was still there in the evening, but it's gone today. It was tiny and shiny, and about a third the size of a proper car. If you parked them sardine-wise, headlights-to-curb instead of end-to-end, you could stuff four of them into a regular parking space. Or you could stack 'em double-deep along the shoulder, without impeding traffic. I could see myself in a smart car, I think. It would be just like a bumper car, only without the bumping. (Well, hopefully without the bumping. With me driving, you never know.)

What else? My body is infected with pain. Everything hurts. I think I slept funny, pinched a nerve in my neck, maybe. I first noticed it near the middle of November, when I woke up with my feet tingling as though they'd been asleep. The sensation didn't go away, though. It lasted for days, and then it got into my hands. It started as a burning just under the skin, a pins-and-needles sort of feeling, then turned to a bone-deep ache. It invaded my mouth next, setting my tongue aprickle (my tongue, if you'd credit it! It'd be funny, if it weren't driving me mad). I don't think I've lost any more weight, but I can't have gained much, either. I'll have to have the much-hated Dr. S----- round again, if this keeps up, the one who thinks I'm a junkie.

Oh!

A junkie!

This is funny!

Richard rang the other night. He said he'd heard my doctor--not Dr. S-----, but the internist he referred me to--on a radio show. She was talking about heroin users in the downtown area. She thought they ought to be helped, rather than arrested. But sod what she thought: Dr. S----- referred me to a bloody heroin doctor! Stupid cunt! I'm demanding a proper doc, next time. This is getting beyond a joke. I'm going all decrepit, here, and this internist's doing bugger-all.

How many more months of winter is it? Augh, it's only December!

At any rate, the above, that's why I've not written lately. I've got to get back on my ordinary schedule, though. It seems like the world's getting away from me. I have to get in some birdwatching, and some letters to the Internet, and some Christmas cheer. It can't be all sleep and work and doctor's appointments. What a bore.