PART 2
I rush toward the restroom, passing by the halls, orderlies, and doors full of patients. My stomach churns violently, and I barely make it to the bathroom door. As soon as I open it, I vomit, spewing all over the mirror. The reflection of my insides is now grotesquely painted outside. I feel broken, shattered. The years of resilience and strength crumble behind me.
I stare at the filth-covered mirror, watching the slime and chunks slide down, collecting in the sink. Eventually, I gather myself and start cleaning up. My scrubs are a mess, but that’s nothing new in a hospital.
Still, I’ll have to do the walk of shame to the dispenser for a new pair.
Knock, knock. “Hey, is anybody in there? Are you OK?” It’s Dr. Gray. I recognize his voice; we’ve worked together for years. “Cynthia, I saw you take off down the hall like something was wrong. Slammed that door like something’s wrong too.”
“Oh God… I’m alright,” I reply, doing my best to put some gusto into the words. I don’t even convince myself.
“Are you sure? I heard you, and it sounded like you might need a hand.”
I grimace. Great, Dr. Gray and probably half the hallway heard me, saw me. So much for a smooth return. But I guess it’s better to throw chunks in solitude than in company.
A sharp pain in my stomach makes me wince. I try to massage it away, but it lingers.
Breathe, girl, you’re going to be okay. You’ve been through far worse than this and plenty of it. The ache stalks through my belly. Watching. Waiting.
“Cynthia, a lot of people have lingering symptoms even after quarantine,” Dr. Gray says, pausing to let his words sink in.
“Yeah, I know, it just doesn’t seem to—” I clutch the sink, feeling another wave of nausea. More stabbing pain. Something foamy tries to crawl up the back of my throat. After a few moments, it passes.
“I can get you an anti-nausea med if you need it,” Dr. Gray offers.
Breathing slow and deep, I don’t respond right away. I need to be strong for my patients, my family. I can’t afford to be seen as weak.
Dr. Gray taps gently on the door. “Cynthia, there are people here who care about you. I didn’t prescribe all those meds for you to come back and be miserable in a bathroom alone.”
Damn Dr. Gray and his human decency. A small smile creeps onto my lips. It takes a few minutes, but I clean up the bathroom and myself. Dr. Gray, in the meantime, keeps throwing Dad jokes my way, trying to lighten the mood.
“Hey Cynthia, why can’t you trust an atom?”
“I don’t know, Doc, why?”
“Because they make up everything!” Dr. Gray chuckles from the other side of the door. I roll my eyes but can’t help smiling.
“Hey, what did the cheese thief… wait no, hold on… oh right. What did the police say to the cheese thief?”
I shake my head, “No idea, what?”
“Nacho cheese,” he says with confidence. “You get it? Like, not yo cheese.”
My stomach complains as I laugh, but it settles a bit too. My whole body feels a bit lighter, like I’m letting go of something I didn’t realize I was holding onto.
“Do you have a book of those out there or something?”
“No, I’m just googling them.”
Finally presentable, I open the door to see Dr. Gray’s smiling face. He’s already holding a fresh pair of scrubs for me. The gesture warms me—not romantically, but in a way that says, “I appreciate you.”
“So what do you say, Cynthia?” Dr. Gray asks.
“What do you mean, Doc?”
“Do you think you can be okay with yourself? Let yourself get the rest you need? I saw you trying to pick up extra shifts. Last I checked, it’s going to be nice weather this weekend.”
Dr. Gray is right. I have been checking for extra shifts, feeling guilty about being out so long.
“Yeah, I’m not sure…”
Dr. Gray continues, “Now, what would you tell your patient if you saw them worn out, vomiting at work, looking rundown? Especially if they came back kicking down doors and solving mystery cases like they’re nothing. Wouldn’t you advise them to rest so they can keep solving cases?”
I let out a half-laugh, half-sigh, and place my hands on my hips. “Point taken, Dr. Gray.”
I put my hand on his shoulder, accepting the scrubs. “I have some friends I haven’t seen in a while. Maybe I’ll invite them over this weekend. Tom’s been itching to fire up the grill. You want to join us?”
Dr. Gray smiles, considering. “Maybe I’ll bake a cake for you. It’ll have—”
Before he finishes, my stomach lurches, and I rush back into the bathroom, slamming the door shut.
***
“Ouch!” Tom yelps as the needle pierces his skin. I drive the point through, the suture following behind. Tom lets out a gasp as I bring it through.
“Oh, shush,” I say. Tom does as he’s told, putting on a display of bravery. I bring the needle back around and back through the skin. Tom lets out another gasp as I pull the wound closed.
Today is supposed to be a day of rest. So far, it hasn’t proven so restful. Tom decided that the best way to start our barbecue was to try and separate frozen hamburgers apart with a knife. He ended up slipping.
He’d screamed, and I ran downstairs to find him bleeding everywhere. A quick examination of the wound showed that all he needed was a few stitches. Lucky bastard—he might have needed surgery if he’d nicked a tendon.
“Are you sure I don’t need to go to the hospital?” Tom complains.
“Yes, of course, I’m sure,” I say, turning his hand over to examine where to put the next suture. Tom yelps again as I push the needle through his skin and continue working to close the wound. The wound itself is clean—the knife he used was fresh—and I’ll treat it with a topical antibiotic as well. We’ll keep this wound covered to ward off infection.
“Thanks for taking care of me, Cynthia,” Tom says and leans in close to give me a kiss.
I push him off, still busy working on his hand, and tell him to wait a moment with my eyes. A few minutes later, hubby is all sewn up and good to go, and I give him a kiss.
Now that that’s sorted, I can get back to the 100 other things I need to do: making egg salad, double-checking to see when Dr. Gray is coming, getting the margaritas served (my favorite task), and making sure I’m presentable, which has taken a backseat to cooking and triage.
“Mom,” Mikey moans from the bathroom door. His eyes are red, and he keeps sniffing and coughing. He’s been feeling unwell for a couple of days now, and it’s been getting worse.
“Are the allergies getting to you again?” Tom says, standing while I still try to trim off the last bit of suture from his hand and decide to just let it hang for now.
“Come here, kiddo,” I say to Mikey.
I open the drug cabinet, pull out a couple of antihistamines, and give them to Mikey. I tell him to wash these down with a glass of water, and he should be feeling better shortly. He says, “Thanks, Mom,” and proceeds to wrap himself around my leg. I question how sick he can possibly be feeling when I spend the next few minutes dragging him about the house.
Bang, bang. There’s a knocking at the door, rapid and fierce. I open it up to find Sarah, my best friend for who knows how long, who could also be described as rapid and fierce.
Sarah is, of all things, an influencer. How that works is beyond me, but she seems to have a YouTube channel with thousands or millions of followers—I can never be sure—and peddles everything from magic crystals to marijuana. I guess she collects sales and ad revenue… I really don’t understand how she makes a living. But she’s dressed in the latest style, with a bathing suit underneath for the pool, and her hair looks like it was done this morning, so I assume she’s doing just fine.
Rushing in behind Sarah is her little girl, Rebecca. Rebecca is a sweet little thing, and she and Mikey get along great. Even if a few sugar highs from now I’ll be regretting both of them, at the moment it’s pleasant to see them. Perhaps it’s because of all the smiles and screaming and the fun little bit of chaos that ensues as soon as they arrive.
“Girl, you look absolutely exhausted,” Sarah tells me.
“Oh, thanks. You’re so sweet.”
“Hun, you better be glad I’m here because you look like you need somebody to get this party started for you.” Sarah makes her way over to our Alexa and goes through the commands with more aptitude than I possess. Soon enough, there’s music playing.
“Alright, I better get the grill going. Besides, Tony’s outside by himself—he could probably use some company,” Tom says and heads outside.
“Cynthia, let’s dance,” Sarah says.
I don’t fight it when Sarah takes my hand, and soon enough, the two of us are dancing to whatever she’s put on. I’m doing my best to put on a show of getting into it, but on the inside, I really just want to sit down with a drink or five and relax by the pool. If everyone could just chill and I could lure Sarah outside, I might actually get what I need: a little R&R.
I lean into Sarah and ask her how she would like a drink. Meanwhile, Sarah’s looking outside and sees Tony sitting there on his phone, having some kind of light conversation with Tom.
Sarah says, “Oh God, if Tony is here, I’m definitely going to need one.”
“Well, Sarah, you’re looking beautiful, so why don’t you go show off poolside while I pour us margaritas?”
“Absolutely,” Sarah replies and heads outside. The second she slides open the screen door, I hear the kids splashing into the pool and screaming—all in good fun. I take a deep breath myself because this morning has been absolutely draining. It’s as if I never slept last night, or yesterday night, or at any point this week. I’m absolutely dead.
But I’m not about to let that stop me. I head into the kitchen and pour those beautiful, sweet, lovely margaritas that have been taunting me all morning into glasses. I drink half of mine and then have to refill it before heading outside.
Outside, everything is perfect. Tom’s got the grill going, and I can already smell something delicious cooking. Sarah’s taken a seat next to the pool at a table where Tony is also sitting, looking at his phone. Tony’s not a bad guy; he’s just a little introverted. I’ve been friends with him even longer than Sarah, though I do spend more time with Sarah, and the two of them don’t usually get along. But since I’ve been locked up inside for weeks, I figure this is my party, these are the people I want here, and they’re going to get along for me. Hopefully.
My head spins, and I sit down a little faster than I meant to, nearly spilling Sarah’s drink.
“Whoa, whoa, watch out there, Cynthia,” Sarah says. “We’re just getting started—no party fouls.”
“You doing okay there, Cynthia?” Tony asks, his face an expression of concern. Tony’s dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt with a t-shirt underneath. How he’s wearing that in this heat, I have no idea. I am dying in my more appropriate outfit. He’s never been one for the pool or even being poolside, and he’s definitely taking one for the team for me right now, which I notice and appreciate. He’s a good guy, the kind of guy you could call up anytime and he’d help you move, asking for nothing in exchange but pizza and beer.
“Oh shoot, I forgot to get him a margarita.”
“Tony, do you want me to get you a drink? I’m sorry I forgot.”
“No, that’s okay. It’s like 11:00 a.m.”
“Oh, get out of here with that attitude. Our girl needs to party it up,” Sarah responds.
Tom comes over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I squeeze his hand and give him some loving eyes while sipping on my margarita. “How’s everything going here?” he asks.
“This man over here needs a drink,” Sarah says, pointing at Tony, who shakes his head and waves his hand, saying he’s good.
I take a deep breath and take in the scene, sinking into my chair. People seem to be getting along, all the little mini-crises that have sprung up this morning seem to be fading away, just as my drink fades away as I sip that cool, tasty sourness. For the first time in a long time, I feel okay.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Dr. Gray.
“Hey, don’t think I’m going to make it. Got called in. I’ll try to swing by later. Have a good time—you need it.”
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asks, taking a sip of her drink, finishing it, and then shaking the glass at me. Her way of saying, “Catch up and have a good time.”
I toss my phone on the table and run my hands through my hair. The sun feels nice on my face as I stretch back and grumble, “Dr. Gray got called in. He’s not coming.”
“Good,” Sarah scoffs. “That man did not take the best care of you when you were sick.”
“Sarah…”
“No, uh-uh. I know you worship the ground that man walks on, but you were sick until you took matters into your own hands.” Sarah waves her finger through the air as she speaks.
Tony raises an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Tony, it’s nothing I—”
Sarah interrupts me. “Ivermectin.”
Tony starts laughing. We stare at him silently. Well, Sarah stares at him; I pick up my phone and look at nothing.
“Wait, you’re serious? I think my vet gave that to my cat once.”
“Oh hell no, the Mectin’s being used by people all over the place. And our girl Cynthia here was literally dying until she took it.” Sarah is the definition of talk with your hands. She looms bigger as she speaks, getting into it.
“Yeah, a quick Google search shows that ivermectin as a COVID treatment has been pretty thoroughly debunked.” Tony says with a smug
look, taking a sip of his water.
“Yeah!” Sarah says, standing, empty margarita glass in hand. “That’s what they want you to think. But Cynthia here is living proof it works, ain’t you, Cynthia? Big Pharma and the media just don’t want you to know about it because they can’t make any money off it.”
“Yeah, okay. You sound like a crazy person when you talk like that, you know that, right?” Tony says, his face covered by Sarah’s shadow. He shows his phone screen to Sarah. “Look, the CDC and the WHO don’t support ivermectin for COVID. It says here that taking too much can even be dangerous.”
“I mean, I was on a lot of things, so maybe—”
Great choice! Here’s the revised paragraph with the National COVID Care Coalition:
“Oh please, those treatments did nothing for you! Ivermectin saved your life. There are countless studies showing it works. Just look at the National COVID Care Coalition—they’re frontline doctors who swear by it,” Sarah almost yells, pacing about.
Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. The founders of that organization are literally losing their certifications over spreading misinformation. It takes two seconds to Google. How are you falling for this bullshit?”
“No Tony, you’re the one being deceived.” Sarah gets in Tony’s face, forcing him to stand up. “There are countless testimonials about how ivermectin saved people’s lives. They have studies to back it up.”
Tony moves away, toward the pool where Tom is casting nervous glances at the commotion, and the kids are shooting each other with water guns.
“Anecdotal evidence is not a replacement for scientific study.” Tony throws up his arms. “This isn’t even a debate worth having. We have vaccines and medications that we can demonstrate work. There’s no debate here. We tested this stuff and know what works and what doesn’t.”
“Oh, and you’re some kind of expert? Going to decide what I can or can’t put into my body? How straight white male of you,” Sarah yells.
Dumbfounded, unsure of how to respond, Tony gives me a desperate look.
“Don’t look at her, I’m talking to you. Cynthia here is a nurse practitioner. She is the source of information here. Forget your studies. Are you trying to say Cynthia doesn’t know what she’s talking about? Like she hasn’t been there for you when you needed her? Please.”
Tony, about to respond, about to say something about the methodological flaws in the ivermectin studies, the retractions of papers, the lack of scientific rigor… stops. And I have the realization that these are my thoughts projected onto him, things I would say, if I didn’t feel like such a hypocrite.
But, I am here, aren’t I? I haven’t forgotten how sick I was. How desperate I was. I did everything Dr. Gray told me to, and still, I thought I might die. I thought I might give this damn disease to my family.
I’d have done anything to keep that from happening.
“Sarah, and I say this with as much respect as possible,” Tony states with eminent self-control. “But, you do not know what you’re talking about, and spreading misinformation like this can get people killed. Educate yourself on the matter.”
Sarah is about to let loose on Tony when Mikey squirts him from the pool. Sarah’s daughter joins in on the fun, and before we know it, Tony waves at us and jumps in the pool. He uses his arms to make waves to splash the kids with. Tom jumps in on the fun and the tension passes.
All of this is too much. I can hear my heart in my ears. “Not what I had planned for today, thanks.”
“Oh please,” Sarah says, wrapping her arms around me and pulling me in close. “He may have his evidence, but you lived it. You don’t need some stuffy paper telling you what you already know.”
“He’s right though. The studies have a lot of flaws…”
“Well, they don’t have the same support the mainstream research does, right? The people who talk about this stuff…”
“Lose their licenses?”
Sarah nods and sits down next to me, dragging her chair across the ground. “I got an idea,” she says with a smile that’s too big, too wide, and always means trouble. “Let me host you as a guest speaker on my show.”
My head swoons and I get palpitations. It’s like the world is crushing down on me.
“Let me put you in front of thousands of people.”
My cheeks feel tingly.
“You can make a difference, Cynthia. Get the word out. You can help people, save lives. Isn’t that what you always wanted? Isn’t that why you became a nurse?” Sarah continues. Staring into her eyes is like having tractor beams aimed at my face. The world rushes about around us while I gaze into those brown orbs, unable to pull away. “Cynthia, I think this is your calling.”
“I’d… I’d want to discuss this with Dr. Gray. If anyone knows, it’s him.” I’m shaking as I speak, and my voice is broken. The temptation is there. This medication, yeah, sure, the research is iffy right now. But maybe that’s because the research isn’t complete yet. I mean, we used to think lobotomies were amazing; we used to prescribe thalidomide until it gave kids flippers. Science isn’t perfect and it’s ever-evolving. New treatments need champions.
“Yeah, well, if you change your mind. Give me a call.” She leans back and crosses her legs, handing me her empty margarita glass. “And I will make you famous.”
I chug my drink and stand, taking hers as well.
Making my way to the kitchen, I miss a step or two. Distracted, my thoughts on the possibilities, of telling people about my experience. Maybe there are cases out there that need that extra bump. Like I did. Like Margaret did. No one else who came in with Margaret lived. Was it because I gave her ivermectin? Isn’t that the scientific process? I step too far to the left, over-correct on the right. Isn’t the scientific process merely trial and error, doing the best we can to eliminate bias along the way? My vision goes black for a moment, like I blinked too long or too hard. Can’t we explore new avenues without the profit motive poisoning everything? I hit the water.
Tom and Tony pull me out of the pool, coughing.
***
The pool incident had been embarrassing. Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was the sun. Who am I kidding… I’m just still getting better. A few days go by in a blur. I’m back at work, getting it done, saving lives, trying my best.
It’s gotten easier each and every day. My energy is a little better. It feels like I’m starting to get some traction in my life again. But I keep replaying the conversation I had with Mike and Sarah poolside. About the medication. I know what I know, and I am a good nurse, and there are hundreds of people still walking the planet because of me. But I feel so unsure. Could it have been my imagination, some mental evolutionary glitch, that has me stuck on that goddamn drug?
I’ve had questions like this before, about my career, sometimes about life. I’ve gone to my best friend in the hospital, my mentor over the years: Dr. Gray.
As patients come and go over the course of the days—older faces, younger faces, faces where I wish I’d done better, faces where it was a miracle I was able to do anything at all—I keep looking for an opportunity to talk to him about it.
“Dr. Gray,” I’d say, “I did something I shouldn’t have, but I think I stumbled onto something wonderful…”
He’d say something corny, maybe a dad joke, maybe he’d just look at me, asking questions. And then I’d have to tell the goddamn truth—not only did I take ivermectin, but I gave it to a patient.
And she was the only one who lived.
And my husband’s not a widower.
That would be it. I’d tell him, and he’d look into the research and find something everybody else missed. And then it would be real. We’d have this medication to help us save sick people, help us do our jobs.
You know, make a difference.
At least, I hope that’s how it would go. More likely—or at least, this is what I’m afraid of—he’d call me an idiot. He’d call me a fool. He’d ask how I ever got swindled by these crazy people. He’d be ashamed of me. I’d be unwanted. I’d lose someone that I really look up to and respect. But, I have this experience, and I need to know if I’m on the right track.
And Dr. Gray will know. He’ll help me figure it out, treat me with respect, and then we can move on from this.
So I found him in the break room, eating a bowl of Froot Loops.
“Heeey, Dr. Gray,” I say, extending the greeting on purpose. My gait feels awkward, like he already knows what I’m about to say, like he can read it on me. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, hey, Cynthia.” Dr. Gray had been sprawled out across the couch watching some melodramatic soap operas. He turns his head back over the couch cushion to look at me, smiles, and flicks his wrist in greeting.
I walk over and sit next to him. We exchange pleasantries for a while, skipping stuff about the weather, more hospital talk—kinda like talking about the best and worst patients of the day.
For me, it was about somebody who kept calling the front desk nurse station from a different hospital, complaining that he couldn’t poop. I informed this patient he had the wrong number, and after his seventh call, told him I had the people he needed to talk to call him. Which settled the matter.
For Dr. Gray, well, his was a bit more interesting. Apparently, someone injected themselves with bleach.
“She had chemical burns, all her blood cells split, and her kidneys were shot from managing the flood of proteins before I even got hands on her.” He says, a distant look spreading across his face. He scowls, reliving the moment. “She coded before we got her in a room, and frankly, this was about thirty minutes ago, and I’m not really on break.”
My expression softens, and for a few moments I remember how human Dr. Gray is, how personal this can be for all of us, because when people mess up we’re the ones who are supposed to put them back together. And sometimes we can. We want to. The patient does too, most of the time, but sometimes, a few times too many, we can’t.
“You needed something?” he says, his eyes focused on me suddenly. My heart skips a few beats and I’m at a loss for words so I say nothing. “I know you need something.”
His voice is cold and distant. “Maybe now’s not the best time,” I say.
“Oh, please, I’m fine,” he says, straightening up and planting a fake smile on his lips. “Give me something else to think about.”
“No, that’s okay.” I stand, about to give Dr. Gray some space, or maybe ask if he needs anything, or maybe suggest getting lunch…
“I insist,” he says, and apparently won’t take no for an answer.
Come on, Cynthia, isn’t this what you wanted? You got him. He’s here. He’s looking for a distraction and you’re looking for a deep conversation. You can both have what you want.
“Well, alright,” I say and sit back down. “I’ve been thinking about off-label use of medications.”
“Right.” Dr. Gray says, leaning towards me, obviously interested in the topic, or at least the distraction. “Off-label uses of medications can be an effective treatment for those creative enough to see something of use.”
“Exactly,” I say, his initial agreement warming my hesitation and loosening my lips. “Like, there are a ton of medications that might have benefits for people off-label, especially when our primary treatments have been poorly tolerated or ineffective.”
Dr. Gray smiles and thinks for a moment, “Sure. I mean, if memory serves, gabapentin was originally developed for seizures, but we prescribe it all day for neuropathic pain. In fact, that might even be its main use now.”
I clap my hands together. This is going great. He is certainly open to the idea of off-label use.
“Uh-huh, and Viagra too,” I laugh.
“Right, for, uh, pulmonary hypertension.”
“So you think it lowers the pressures by just shunting blood… elsewhere?”
The two of us laugh like little kids hearing bathroom humor. Hey, just because we’re in healthcare doesn’t make us not human. Besides, it helps us cope.
“Yeah, that’s probably it.” I see Dr. Gray drift off for a moment, remembering, mourning in his way a patient he had no chance to save. He snaps back after the moment passes, the tiny death fading away from him. “Is there a specific medication you wanted to ask about, off-label?”
“I guess I’m trying to decide when or if I should prescribe something off-label,” I say honestly, but still scared to admit to my real concerns. My real, specific concerns.
“Well, Cynthia,” his tone suggests suspicion. I’m not doing a good job beating around the bush on this topic. He knows something is up, just not what. “As I’m sure you know, it comes down to experience, evidence, and the patient’s presentation.”
I nod. He lets the silence sit between us, goading me into talking, saying more. He’s right, and I’ve used meds off-label before. It’s not uncommon. But, I don’t think I ever veered this far from the evidence before. I mean, I can find evidence that supports its use, tons of it, paper after paper, whole organizations… but then when I turn to my typical sources, the best medical journals, all of that support just vanishes.
It’s like when I do my own research, I just find what I’m looking for. I’m blind to everything but the answer I want to be true.
And so that’s all I see.
“Okay, well, there’s obviously more going on here. So, let’s do this.” Dr. Gray says and smiles. He starts pacing around the room. I LOVE when he paces around the room. It typically means he’s about to give a lecture in a funny kind of way, jokes and sass and a few puns. “Let me tell you about how to not use a drug off-label, and maybe that will answer whatever question you don’t want to ask me.”
“Hah, busted.” I blush, just a little. Thank God he’s making this easier than I thought it would be. I thought he’d be scolding me and yelling at me, and worst of all, thinking I’m some kind of idiot.
“Ivermectin,” he says with a smile, drawing the word out with his hands, as if this was the punchline to a joke. At least, that’s what his face says. But it’s a joke I don’t get. And my stomach takes the elevator to hell, except there are no brakes.
“What?” I ask, stunned.
“You know, horse dewormer. It’s what all the crazies are taking instead of Paxlovid,” Dr. Gray says and starts his pacing. I stay silent. Jaw clenched. Trying to decide how I feel. Is punched in the gut still a saying? What about mauled internally by a bear in the guise of a friend?
“Okay, so, with zero evidence, and an effective dose that will kill the person, we have doctors out there prescribing this medication off-label.” He continues his pacing, becoming more and more animated as he talks.
“Well…” My voice is timid and I hate it. Be strong, Cynthia, you know your stuff, you’re a smart lady and people respect you. “You said there are some doctors on board there, so, there must be something to it?”
“Oh yeah, those guys are literally in the process of losing their certifications as we speak.” He chuckles at the thought. “And I checked out the other founders of that organization, and you know what? When they originally published their research, they claimed no conflicts of interest.”
Dr. Gray leans down over my brooding face and says, “And it turns out they all have stakes in that cocktail they’re promoting, trying to cure COVID by lining their pockets. Oh, and they had to retract the research anyway since it makes claims that the paper literally doesn’t support. These guys did such a hack job you’d have to be an idiot to take that medication.”
And there, in that moment, is everything I was afraid of. “You’d have to be an idiot to take that medication. Of course. Of course he thought that. “You’d have to be an idiot.” Dr. Gray paces about the room, perfect, glorious, better than you, me, and everyone else. “You’d have to be… an idiot.” Do you think there’s a feeling, something tangible, when a friendship breaks? Like a snap. I think I feel a snap. “You’d have to be a…” A breaking under too much weight. “Idiot.” Something about the true thoughts and feelings of someone when they think they’re better than you. “Idiot.” And the blood starts pumping. And your ears start pounding. “Idiot,” and every muscle tenses in your whole body and you think you’re going to die and “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m not an idiot!” I scream. I didn’t mean to. But I did. I scream, and I nearly snarl at Dr. Gray who looks taken aback. “I took the goddamn medication when I was sick.”
Dr. Gray’s eyes go wide and then back to normal. An expression of shock and disbelief.
“Cynthia…” He starts.
“No, I did everything you told me to and none of it helped.” I’m still yelling. I don’t care anymore. “I was so scared, so alone, and you did nothing!”
“Cynthia, I prescribed you Paxlovid, meds for symptomatic relief… I…”
“Shut up!” The room spins not because I’m still worn out, but because I’m furious, because I’m hurt. “I did what I needed to do to keep those I care about safe. And now, now I look at the research and it tells me it didn’t help? It was fake? All in my head? No! It worked. It’s the reason I’m still here, so why can’t I use it to help other people, huh?”
“Cynthia, you were on all the treatments I gave you, you can’t say it was the ivermectin that worked for you and not just time and…” He hesitates, shakes his head when he can’t find a better way to say it, “proven methods of treatment.”
“Good.” I say and take several deep breaths.
“If you think ivermectin helped you then it was likely just placebo.”
“I know that. I know what placebo is and how it works, thank you very much. I’m not an idiot.”
“I never said you were.”
We both stand there for a few minutes. Catching our breath, trying to calm down.
Dr. Gray speaks first. “Listen, Cynthia. This is how it is. We have medications that we know work. We should use them. Giving ivermectin to people fuels the political bullshit around that medication, it’s not scientifically grounded. It’s a fucking talking point.”
His words make me feel small. He’s speaking to me like I’m a child. Not his peer. He’s talking to me like I can’t figure reality out on my own. Like my opinions don’t matter. Like my experience doesn’t matter. Just whatever they say in his little journal.
“Science doesn’t know everything.” Is all I say.
He takes me by the shoulders, his expression pleading, begging, “You sound like a crazy person right now, Cynthia.”
And I see red.
Everything from the moment of being sick, to all the talk radio I’ve listened to, to all the news, and forums, and social media, all the research from this journal or that, all the evidence pointing in any direction, it all collides into this moment. And something breaks. Something important. Something vital.
I push Dr. Gray away, and turn my back on him.
“Listen,” he continues. “Your body, your choice, alright. I’m glad it worked for you.”
His words reach into the cracks forming within me. Tries to pull them together, mend the wounds.
“You do what you think is right for you. Hell, I’ll write you the prescription myself if it helps you, Cynthia.” His dumb smile and cold eyes cool me down. I’ve been all out of sorts, unable to think clearly since I was sick. All I really needed was some comfort, some understanding. “But for the love of God, don’t prescribe this to your patients or recommend it to anyone else. You’ll do more harm than good.”
And the pieces inside me shatter. A door is closed. A path untaken, turned away from, and into the depths of darkness we go.
I turn back to Dr. Gray, see the hope there, see the clever mind trying to find the right joke to calm poor Cynthia down, since she’s an idiot who can’t do it herself.
I fix Dr. Gray’s white coat and his name tag and pat him on the chest. Then I go on my tiptoes so we’re eye level and say, “I’m going to treat in the best interests of my patients.” Dr. Gray’s tense body eases slightly, and his lips move to deliver whatever joke his mind has grabbed hold of. “Which means I’ll prescribe whatever, whenever, however, I want.”
And with that, I exit the break room. Dr. Gray calls after me.
I pull out my phone, wipe away the few tears crisscrossing my face and falling on my phone, and I text Sarah…
“How many people can you get me in front of?”
