Northern_Lights_2017

85 Faith in our Medicine Kelson Brewer “May I take your file, Mr. Carter?” asked the doctor as he stretched out his hand toward me. His face looked younger than his eyes, which were staring at me over his silver-rimmed spectacles. I picked up the clean manila folder from my lap and passed it over the desk. His hand shut over it like a clamp, putting a crease across its even surface. He promptly opened it up and examined its contents closely—this time looking through his glasses instead of over them. “Depression, lack of motivation and irritability,” read the doctor as he let the folder drop out of his hands and onto his desk. “Is that all still correct?” “Yes” I replied quickly, “It’s been about three weeks now.” The doctor sat down and leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head. He stared at me with a slight squint and wet his lips with his tongue. After a couple seconds of staring he lowered his eyes and stood up from his chair again. Each of his actions was accompanied by a small exhale like he was annoyed at something. “Have you had any thoughts of suicide, Mr. Carter?” he asked in a light tone as he turned away from me and folded his hands behind his back. “No . . . Well, not really,” I said as I stood up too, thinking it might be time to leave. “Please, Mr. Carter, sit down and speak so the D.M. can hear you,” he said as he pointed at a small black box sitting on his desk with a small red light on top that blinked every few seconds. “Right . . . sorry,” I replied as I sat back down in my chair. “Ignore last symptom,” commanded the doctor in a clear and loud voice. “Acknowledged,” murmured the box in a thin robotic tone. I looked down at it again. It was made of polished metal and had no opening except a small square where the light was coming from and a long, skinny slot on one side “Please, Mr. Carter,” the doctor repeated, sounding slightly annoyed. “Any other Symptoms you can think of?” “Not really,” I replied. “Well, except, well . . . the television.” The doctor slowly turned around and sat back down in his chair. After looking at me over his glasses again, he leaned forward and folded his hands on top of the desk. “What about the T.V.?” “Well . . . it’s stopped working really.” “What do you mean?” he said as he sighed and leaned back yet again in his chair. “It’s just not really fun anymore. There must be something wrong. I never feel like watching it anymore.” “Interesting,” said the doctor. I paused for a second, then said, “But it’s probably just the channels. This week’s rotation isn’t my favorite.” “Yes, I’m sure,” said the doctor under his breath. He wasn’t looking at me but was staring off over my shoulder with his hand massaging his chin. “Well, if that’s all, then. D.M., diagnose and prescribe.” A beep came from the box accompanied by another red light. “Printing,” it said shortly. A small slip of paper pushed itself out of the slot. The doctor tore it off and turned his chair around so he could sit at his computer. At the top of his screen it said, “Diagnosis: Mild DePr and small disassociation.” Directly under that it read, “Suggested Cure: Personal ‘X,’ SP: B, and BBL booklet for instruction.” The doctor turned around and looked at me with narrowed eyes, then left into the next room. I sat there in silence. He came back a couple minutes later holding a small skinny box made of thin, white cardboard. “Take this home with you,” he said in a flat stern voice. “Do exactly as it says and don’t open it until you are home and by yourself. Other people do not need the medicine.” He set it down on the desk and looked up over his glasses. “Understood?” “Yes,” I said without hesitation. I was eager to get better again. “Very well, go home now. You should be better by tomorrow.” I thanked him, picked up the box, and walked out through the door. With a smile on my face, I stepped onto the express sidewalk. It started to move as I stepped on it and quickly picked up speed in the direction of the train station. The streetlamps also lit up as I passed, lighting up the other shops on the outskirts of the city. I barely paid attention to anything as I stepped onto the train and sat in a seat next to the door. The trip would only take about ten minutes as I lived right next to the city. The other people around me were coming home for the night from work, and all of them looked content as usual. A look of suspended exaltation frozen on their face, anticipating the release of arriving home after a day of toil, they were free now to do as they pleased until tomorrow. Who wouldn’t be happy? Me, I suppose , I thought, answering my own question. At least, now I had a cure! When I finally got off, it was approaching 11:00. The automatic lights that started turning on as I stepped onto the autowalk were identical to the city lights except that these had speakers, which now played a quiet orchestra piece. It was designed to calm people down and stop them from getting loud after 10:00.