Jamie Kahn: Diagnostics
Photo: Joanna C. Valente
Diagnostics
I think I need to get this checked out. I’ve tried turning it off and on again, emptying the trash bin, and restarting, but no matter what I do, there is a pain in my side and my abdomen, a bit below the belly button. It’s not so much a stabbing pain as it is a dull ache. I call up my mother first, then three of the wisest women I know to see if they’ve ever experienced this—as most women would in my case. And—like most women do in my case—I am dealt a variety pack of problems and solutions. None seems precisely right to my pain. So I go to the pharmacy. At the pharmacy, they offer me a virus protecting software, but they say they can’t be sure what the problem is without opening it up and running a full diagnostics scan. I install the software anyway.
After three days the virus protecting software has run its full course, but the pain hasn’t gone anywhere. I don’t like doctors. All the clattering, unscrewing, clicking on my private files. Once I was even put to sleep without my permission. But I don’t know what else to do, so I make the appointment.
I tap my foot in the waiting room as I sit stiff and patient. I am called into the cold and sterile room, and I tell the doctor that no matter what I do I am still in pain. It seems like nothing is working. There is this ache coming from the middle of me. I think it might be my ovaries. Maybe my intestine or my spleen.
“Maybe the emotional center is the problem,” he says, clicking his thin, flappy tongue. Next, he gives me a keyboard combination that he thinks might help. I groan at the alt-shift. It makes me squirm in my seat, but afterwards I feel no different. I thank him, of course. I don’t think it helped, but I don’t know much about technology. I’m just a girl, after all. I walk out a little funny.
The next doctor I see doesn’t like the virus protection software that the pharmacy gave me. He lowers his glasses at his clipboard and says that this is the problem for sure. He writes me a prescription for another. Something stronger.
Before I install the software, I go online and run a search on what my problem might be. I search:
Unexplained pain in abdomen
Unexplained pain in abdomen women
Pain in side and pain in abdomen
Pain in side and abdomen
Side and abdomen pain virus protection software
Virus protection software and ovaries
Emotional center?
In the results, kind people inform me that I should never use virus protection software. That it could lead to resistance for other, stronger viruses. That I should press all the numbers on the keyboard at once before a long, restful sleep. That I should simply update to the newest model. That my emotional center really is the problem. That I should go to the hospital right now or else the whole system might fail. Don’t wait, they tell me, this could be fatal.
I call my mother again. I am crying, though I don’t want to admit that the tears are out of fear and frustration rather than the persistence of the pain. She is perplexed. My operating system is so new. So healthy. Never seen a bug in its life.
The next doctor shakes his head at me as his Adam’s apple buzzes with a notification. He ignores it, but I can see the twitch of his fingers reacting. I want to dare him to click it. “I don’t see any issues in your system, honestly. Are you sure you aren’t stressed? Women sometimes have different operating capability than men. Maybe your emotional center is taking up too much storage space. Mind if I take a look?”
I thank him, of course. He tried his best. Maybe it is just the emotional center. I make a note to see a psychiatrist to enquire about deleting some of it. Maybe if I do that, some of my hardware will work properly again. But before I can schedule an appointment or even search for a reputable provider in my area, I am faced with another pressing issue.
As I open up my computer to begin my search for a psychiatrist, error messages pop up across my screen. I try to close them out, but they come back with a vengeance. Like hives. Like the smell of apple cider vinegar. Like glitter tracked into the shower after a rough evening out. Even when I can clear the error messages for a few minutes, the search results run slow. I do the only logical thing. Call tech support.
The woman who answers on the other end sounds so kind that when she puts me on hold, I don’t mind very much. I listen to jazz music as I wait, and somehow the cyclical twang makes me notice the pain again. Luckily, she picks up the phone soon.
I recount the whole problem to her, and I wait with the hum of the line before she asks me a series of questions. “Have you had enough vitamin C recently? Are you a smoker? How often would you say you drink alcohol? Do you have a family history of error messages?”
“Yes, no, one drink a week if that, not that I know of but maybe a bit on my father’s side,” I reply sheepishly.
She places me on hold again, but before she does, she lets me know that this sort of thing happens more often than I might expect. In the shallow twitch of the jazz music, I consider asking if there are holistic remedies I can use to take care of this problem. Perhaps some teas or supplements. A special root vegetable or leafy green that will disintegrate the error message into pure nothingness. I would try to search it up if I could see past the flashy, blocking text.
When the hold ends, a male voice booms on the other end, asking if I have a warranty. “I do,” I say, “I have it through my employer. Do you need the policy number?” I read it off for him, and he asks me to repeat it one more time. I do, speaking slower and clearer this time around. He transfers me back to the woman.
“Hi sweetheart,” she says in the way that these kinds of people always do when they have no good answer for you. “This type of error message is usually infection-based. We’re going to put you on an antibiotic, and you can call us if nothing changes.”
The pain in my abdomen kicks me gut deep as I sit hunched over my desk. “Do you know where it’s coming from? Can you tell me what’s wrong?” I ask, trying to keep myself on task.
“Oh, it doesn’t really matter. This sort of thing happens all the time.” Her voice is so calming that it annoys me now. “In the meantime, try a warm compress. Maybe a hot bath. If the machine starts overheating and has trouble going to sleep, we could also prescribe you some Xanax if you’re interested.”
Somehow, this feels worse than sending me away from the jump, but I figure I have nothing to lose. I accept the antibiotic and the Xanax. They run my warranty and tell me that my prescriptions are waiting at the genius bar. I thank the woman on the other end and hang up. I don’t think it helped, but I don’t know much about the body. I’m just a girl, after all.
Once my room is silent—no tech support, no jazz music—I yelp through my pain. I don’t care if the neighbors hear. I want somebody to listen to me.
I retrieve a warm compress. Heat a cup of herbal tea; pour until it runneth over. Put on sweatpants. I curl up in bed, and try turning it off and on again.
Jamie Kahn is a Brooklyn-based writer of fiction and nonfiction with work featured in The Huffington Post, The Los Angeles Review, The Spotlong Review, Capsule98, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, The Hunger, and Oyster River Pages. She serves as a reader for The Barcelona Review and Epiphany Magazine.
