The God-Botherer

I had an appointment with the internist at Saint Paul's, today. What a pain. I hate going to the doctor. It's all the picking and poking, see, and that peculiar vocabulary doctors and nurses seem to reserve for their patients. It's as if they're addressing little children. (Or maybe they only do that to me. Is it something about the way I present myself? Do I come off as, well, not quite all there, in person? Should I speak more formally, so my education is apparent? Should I avoid footering about with my keys, or swinging my feet when they don't quite reach the floor? Maybe it was the rat charm I brought along, by way of distraction. Hospitals bother me--I'm always afraid some wayward sick person's going to leap out from nowhere and vomit in my lap. Concentrating on the lines of the rat charm was supposed to keep my mind off the possibility of guerrilla vomiters, but it probably just made me look like a weirdo.)

As expected, this one damn doctor's appointment has turned into a whole string of damn doctor's appointments--lung function tests, CT scans, and God-wot-all-what. Oh, and I'm meant to buy those calorie supplement drinks old people like, too. It turns out I weigh ninety-seven pounds with all my clothes on, and not the one-ten, one-fifteen I'd imagined. To make matters worse, I'm nearly two inches taller than I thought I was--just shy of five foot six. I don't understand it. My finances have been better, just lately. I've really been eating quite well. I've even started having breakfast, on those rare occasions I get up early enough. Maybe I never weighed more than a hundred pounds. It's been a long time since I've stepped on a scale.

For all my bellyaching, I must admit that the doctor's appointment wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. The worst part was the nurse they sent to bring me to the hospital. She was kind and gentle, and careful not to bump my wheelchair over cracks in the pavement, but the whole way there, she was trying to convert me to Christianity. In the waiting room, too: "Jesus is a loving God. He brings peace to your heart." I was tempted to say "Credo in un Dio crudele, che m'ha creato simile a sè, e che nell'ira io nomo*," but it doesn't do to make fun of people's faith, especially when they think they're being helpful. Instead, I muttered something silly about germs and the sacramental chalice. It was meant to be a joke, but I don't think it was terribly well-received. I hate it when I get cornered by the faithful. They're always so bloody nice. One doesn't want to hurt their feelings, but all this God nonsense--really!

When she started telling me about the sin of homosexuality (quite without prompt or provocation, I might add!) I tuned her out, turning my rat charm over and over in my hand. I wasn't about to get sucked into that one. Calling people ignorant bigots doesn't tend to go over too well. I do hope they send someone else next time.

What was it that PZ called these folks, not so very long ago? "God-botherers," that was it. Well, colour me god-bothered.

When I got home, Rats A and B were lined up waiting, noses jammed through the bars. At first, I thought they might be excited to see me, but they were just begging for treats. Greedy wee buggers. I put a honey-drop in each of their mouths, but each rat seemed interested only in the other rat's snack, and they started a fight on top of my head. Before I could think of batting them away, they were tumbling down my arm, and the squabble finished on the couch. Rat A had both honey-drops, and Rat B was sniffing around between the cushions. Stupid, stupid Rat B. I waited till Rat A had gone, and fed her another.

"You've got to learn to stand up for yourself," I lectured. "Rat A is half your size, and she walks all over you. Look at you, with your stepped-on back, and the fur nibbled away from your neck. You let Rat A do that? Look, she's plucked you a bald spot!" I poked Rat B's bald spot affectionately. She shivered and bruxed.

"Listen to me. I can't tell you about wussiness. That nurse today, you should've heard her. On and on about God, and the sinfulness of my heathen existence, and I didn't say a word. Except, she was helping me at the time, so I had to be polite. What has Rat A done for you lately? I mean, I'm sure she thinks she's doing you a favour, finishing up your dinner every night, but what do you think? When she pushes you off the water-bottle so she can have the first swig, do you think she's poison-testing it for you? You don't have to put up with that treatment. You--"

But Rat B had gone to sleep. Socrates the Soporific, that's me.

* From Verdi's Otello: "I believe in a cruel God, who has created me in his image, and whom I name in anger."