Saturday, March 06, 2004
the good doctor revealed (part two)
"So," you may be finding yourself thinking right about now, "tell me more about the saga and the drama that is The Life and Times of The Good Doctor Noyz."
"alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright" - Andre 3000
So today I've had some time to sit and think while trying to comfort a two year old with at best pneumonia or at worst a nasty strain of the strep bacteria and who knows only that he feels very bad. He is possibly angry that while he finds solace and comfort in my words and in my arms, I do nothing to relieve his pain.
Time to sit and think about a two year old, who although he will grow up and grow old, will never fully understand why he feels bad. It is unimportant why, he only knows that he does. According to the medical doctors, he should not feel bad. According to the medical doctors, he should not feel anything at all. According to the medical doctors, this boy has virtually no brain. He is a perpetual Tommy, unable to see me, hear me, touch me, feel me.
Fuck the doctors. Doctors are professionally trained to see what is wrong, what is defective, what is deficient. You can't blame them, it's how they're taught. "She blinded me with science" as the 80's techno pop guru Thomas Dolby once proudly proclaimed.
I'm professionally trained and philosophically inclined to see what is right, to see "ability" beyond the bounds of "disability."
So I hold and gently rock The Boy. Secure in the knowledge I have gained from my experience and my insight that The Boy who was abandoned by and will never know his own mother; The Boy who was never given a chance by the doctors because they did not, will not, take the time to know him; The Boy whom the doctors said would be dead before he was a month old; The Boy knows me, The Boy trusts me, The Boy loves me.
And then it's time to take him back to the cold blue walls of the institution in which he currently lives. It's time to take him back to the twisted black heart and care of Ms. von Munchausen and her so-called Home for Infants and Children with Significant Medical Needs. It's time to take him back to a place where things are done to him, not with him.
How can you look two year old in the eye who loves and trusts you and tell him that you have to leave him in a place where they shove tubes down his throat until he coughs blood?
How do you tell him not to scream and cry and act like any other two year old awake and alone in the dark of night because Ms. von Munchausen interprets this as a symptom which gives her license to drug or otherwise "treat" him to satisfy her own perverse need to demonstrate her martyrdom and sainthood.
How do you tell him that you love him with all your heart and soul and then leave him in a place where Ms. von Munchausen burns him with a curling iron and has the audacity to lie about it because she knows he can't tell what happened?
You can't but yet you must, and everytime the door slams shut behind you, your heart shatters and you fear for The Boy.
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"alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright" - Andre 3000
So today I've had some time to sit and think while trying to comfort a two year old with at best pneumonia or at worst a nasty strain of the strep bacteria and who knows only that he feels very bad. He is possibly angry that while he finds solace and comfort in my words and in my arms, I do nothing to relieve his pain.
Time to sit and think about a two year old, who although he will grow up and grow old, will never fully understand why he feels bad. It is unimportant why, he only knows that he does. According to the medical doctors, he should not feel bad. According to the medical doctors, he should not feel anything at all. According to the medical doctors, this boy has virtually no brain. He is a perpetual Tommy, unable to see me, hear me, touch me, feel me.
Fuck the doctors. Doctors are professionally trained to see what is wrong, what is defective, what is deficient. You can't blame them, it's how they're taught. "She blinded me with science" as the 80's techno pop guru Thomas Dolby once proudly proclaimed.
I'm professionally trained and philosophically inclined to see what is right, to see "ability" beyond the bounds of "disability."
So I hold and gently rock The Boy. Secure in the knowledge I have gained from my experience and my insight that The Boy who was abandoned by and will never know his own mother; The Boy who was never given a chance by the doctors because they did not, will not, take the time to know him; The Boy whom the doctors said would be dead before he was a month old; The Boy knows me, The Boy trusts me, The Boy loves me.
And then it's time to take him back to the cold blue walls of the institution in which he currently lives. It's time to take him back to the twisted black heart and care of Ms. von Munchausen and her so-called Home for Infants and Children with Significant Medical Needs. It's time to take him back to a place where things are done to him, not with him.
How can you look two year old in the eye who loves and trusts you and tell him that you have to leave him in a place where they shove tubes down his throat until he coughs blood?
How do you tell him not to scream and cry and act like any other two year old awake and alone in the dark of night because Ms. von Munchausen interprets this as a symptom which gives her license to drug or otherwise "treat" him to satisfy her own perverse need to demonstrate her martyrdom and sainthood.
How do you tell him that you love him with all your heart and soul and then leave him in a place where Ms. von Munchausen burns him with a curling iron and has the audacity to lie about it because she knows he can't tell what happened?
You can't but yet you must, and everytime the door slams shut behind you, your heart shatters and you fear for The Boy.
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