Bulwer-Lytton prize, here I come!
It was unseasonably warm for an early March day, even for a city like Dallas whose inhabitants in July and August considered it to be Hell's waiting room. He walked across the deteriorating asphalt of the parking lot and into the first-floor office of his neurologist thinking that in a few short weeks, it would be almost warm enough for the parking lot to melt and the chunks of asphalt to fuse together in a new pattern.
While waiting for the receptionist to conclude that the cash box didn't have enough currency to make change for his co-pay, He started thinking about the fact that in secession-minded Texas it seemed a doctor attracted less scrutiny for prescribing a hundred Oxycontin than a hundred Doxycycline. This neurologist not only accepted the scrutiny but seemed to find some perverse joy in it; as if he saw himself as a latter-day David taking on a state Goliath that was spouting the blasphemy that there was no Lyme disease in the state. Musing about the ease of getting narcotics and the difficulty of getting antibiotics; he momentarily envisioned himself on a grimy street corner trading a plastic bag of Vicodin for one full of Azithromycin. He must not have been the only one for like a Prohibition-era speakeasy, those patients who spoke about them at all, spoke of antibiotics in euphamisms as if they were trying to save their champion from yet another trip before the review board.
Not that it mattered much to him. He had Multiple Sclerosis, not Lyme. He thought it strange that a doctor willing to defy his colleagues and treat the neurologic Lyme would be unwilling to accept that bacteria might have a role in diseases like his. But that didn't matter murch to him either. He had completed two years of antibiotics before he first saw this neurologist. Still, he reasoned that anyone willing to accept Lyme in Texas had to be more open-minded than their colleagues.
The examination went quickly; evoked potentials, a quick walk up and down the hall and something that seemed more like a police field sobreity test than anything medical. Like a fortune teller, he knew what would be said before it was spoken for he already knew could now go up and down stairs without having to take one step at a time. Still, being delivered with all the sanctity that society bestows upon doctors, he gladly received the imprimatur that his "gait disturbance" was "resolved". Unlike the neurologist's other patients - that man in a wheelchair he had spoken with in the waiting room a few minutes before - he was not deteriorating, he was getting better. Of course improvements are expected in the relapsing/remitting form, but not the doctor said, like this. He had gone from having an exacerbation every three to four months to no exacerbations for nearly four years. As with all the other neurologists that had examined him over, this one explaind that what was happening was inexplicable. Idiopathic he once heard said thinking that they were insulting his intelligence. He knew even with his cognitive problems, his mental age was certainly no lower than an imbicile. Another neurologist had even asked if he was taking antibiotics, but none were willing to accept antibiotics had any role in what was standing (and walking) right in front of them. He realized that no matter what he said, he was not empirical evidence, but merely a chimera; an inexplicable outlier in the data set that was present but not actually there.
"Oh well", he thought to himself as he navigated the asphalt chunks in the parking lot with more than a little self-satisfaction as if they were stones on the bank of a creek, "Maybe next year I'll don a tutu and dance into the office. That would certainly get someone's attention."