Pills, pills, and more pills
The anguish of helplessness is a corrosive thing. Today, I find myself wrestling with this emotion as my dear friend continues to endure an agonizing ordeal. Months of severe head pains that have now insidiously spread down the left side of her head, creeping into her jaw, distorting her vision, unsettling her balance. Each new symptom is a stark reminder that something is seriously amiss.
As a friend, I feel the weight of her pain, the fear of the unknown, the frustration at the indifference she’s facing from her GP. It’s a shadowy spectre that looms over our conversations, casting a pall of dread and anxiety. I witness her battles, her resilience amid the escalating discomfort, and yet I am shackled by the limitations of my role, unable to do much more than offer words of comfort and advice.
The relentless prescription of drugs seems to be the GP’s chosen route. Each pill a Band-Aid, a temporary reprieve, a meagre offering to a situation that demands so much more. The disregard for her persistent suffering gnaws at me, each rebuff a stark contrast to the reality I witness in her deteriorating condition.
I find myself urging her, time and again, to demand a scan, to insist on a more thorough investigation into her symptoms. But her path is barricaded by the gatekeeper – the GP, whose casual dismissals threaten to mask a potentially serious issue.
As I navigate this turbulent sea of worry, I hold onto the hope that my friend’s health concerns will be appropriately addressed soon. That she will muster the strength to advocate for herself and get the medical attention she needs. Because in the dance of life, every song, every melody should be heard, and no cry, no matter how faint, should ever go unnoticed.
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