Motion Artifact

 The door of the wound care clinic is locked when I arrive. I’ve never been here first thing in the morning before; they adjusted my appointment to be closer to my other appointment. The Widder has generously offered to shuttle me around. 

Caitlin ushers me in; I haven’t been in her care in ages, though she’s always flittering around in the background. I ask how she’s been and she says her life revolves around the lab/terrier mix she rescued in the spring. My wounds look slightly but not substantially better. I ask her if what I’m going through is unusual, and she says it happens more than I might think. “Especially with people who have to work,” she says. “It’s hard to take the time off you need for these kinds of wounds to heal. If we could make you hover in the air, you would heal up in no time.” 

“I guess the wheelchair will help,” I say. She says definitely, and that I will be in it for 2 months after the wounds are actually closed, to make sure the skin is healthy and strong and won’t just break open again. 2 months on top of all the other months. 2 months on top of God knows how many months of actual healing. I feel my gray mood darken. No one has told me when I’m actually supposed to get this surgery yet; we couldn't move forward until I got the MRI. The doctor hasn't gotten the results yet.

Dr. Beaumont comes in and asks how I’m doing. I tell her spectacular. “Spectacular, huh?” she asks. Twenty years of living in Portland has made me trade my sarcasm for light irony. “Well, I’m glad you’re seeing your primary right after this,” she says. “I had a good talk with him. They need to get you a counselor, and none of this once-every-six-weeks nonsense.” She writes something down on a business card. “That’s my cell number. If he gives you any excuses, have him call me.” My usual self would crack a joke about calling her in the middle of the night for advice on how to properly marinate Cornish hens, but I’m not my usual self. I notice that she’s wearing a different African cap than usual, with brightly colored blobs that look like they could be flowers or cartoon animals but they’re probably just blobs. I want to ask her about it but instead I just ask how her foot is doing.

She cleans up my wounds and Shelley assists her. They talk about how dangerous the world has become, about getting bitten by dogs, about how you can’t let your kids play outside anymore. “When I was a girl my mother left me at home alone once,” the doctor says, “And one of her friends stopped by and I wouldn’t let her in because my mother told me not to open the door for anyone.” 

“My kid’ll open the door for anyone,” says Shelley. “I know because when I leave the house I circle back to test her and she always just opens the damn door without even looking.”

I sit silently with my eyes closed the whole time. The doctor says she’ll see me next week and wishes me good luck with my appointment. 

Caitlin comes back to put on my new soft cast and I start crying. I feel like a building being demolished to make way for a superhighway. Caitlin is kind and lets me cry a little, then tells me about a movie she watched called Zombeavers, which is about zombie beavers.  

I text the Widder when I’m done and she drives me to the medical center at Lloyd Center. I’m led into the office by a young woman named Maggie who, if I ran into her on the street, I would assume was attending middle school. When she takes my blood pressure, I notice that her tiny fingers seem deformed. She gives me a depression checklist to fill out and says the doctor will come by in fifteen minutes. The checklist goes from 0 to 4, 4 being the most often or severe. My page is all threes and fours. 

As I’m sitting there, I get the results of the MRI. 

“Impression: Motion artifact is present which degrades many images limiting detail,” it reads. Then it goes on to repeat everything I already knew from the x-ray. At first I think motion artifact may refer to the foreign object, but it’s just a term for “patient moved around a lot.” Artifact is such a strange term. There’s no mention of the foreign object at all, probably a victim of the motion artifact.

Finally Dr. Tran comes in. He’s subbing for my regular GP, who Dr. Tran lets slip is on extended leave. I'm not really sure what this visit is for; I just talked to my GP last week. I expect him to talk about getting the wheelchair, but all he wants to know about is my mental health, so I let him have it. 

He takes in the torrent of invective-laced highlights of my past year in wound care. When I've exhaused myself, he looks over the depression checklist I filled out. asks if I’ve ever been on antidepressants. I list them as best as I can, along with the shitty experiences I had with each. He says he would like me to consider trying Cymbalta. I instantly start to protest but he addresses all my arguments with such cool Vulcan logic that I am soon exhausted into agreeing to give it a try. I feel a twinge of relief at giving in, though I know not to expect anything from this new drug but disappointment, along with dry mouth and excessive sweating. He says he wants me to talk to a psychologist as well but they won’t have one in the office until next month. I wonder if I should give him Dr. Beaumont's card.

He leaves and sends Maggie back in to draw blood and give me my flu shot. She has trouble finding a vein, despite the fact that I can see them bulging all over the place. She goes to get her supervisor to reassure her and the two talk in Spanish for a while, then she draws my blood without any trouble. She apologizes and gives me my shot, and by the end of the visit we are laughing and joking like old friends. 

She leads me to the restroom so I can provide a urine sample. The restroom latch says VACANT and when she knocks no one answers, but when she opens the door, there are two large women inside. She makes a face of horror and leads me deep into the building to another restroom. She knocks three times and cautiously opens the door. There is no one inside, but there is a sign over the toilet that reads Reclaimed Water: Do Not Drink.

“Damn, and I was really thirsty,” I tell her, reaching for one of the sample cups piled on a cart.

“Make sure and lock the door behind you,” she says with a smile. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I say, and break the seal on the cup.