Treatment

              *Author's note:  This story is written as an interview with a former patient following a major epidemic.  It is (hopefully) going to be part of a larger body of work written in interview format discussing the efforts to rebuild society following a major catastrophy (epidemics, war, etc.).  The * indicates the interviewer speaking.


                (Once the coughing fit ends, Leonard Jacobs takes a deep breath and regains his composure.  He sits back on the plush leather couch across from me, a small trace of blood evident on the handkerchief that comes away from his mouth.  With no more than a glance at the stain, he folds the cloth up and stuffs it back into his pocket.  A large glass of white wine is in his hand before I know it.  He takes a long drink then returns to our conversation.)

         You think that’s getting better?!  I still cough up half a lung everyday!  The only reason they saying we’re “getting better” is so they look like they’re helping us, so it looks like they’re righting the wrongs.  Now where was I? 
         
         *The treatments.*

                Oh yeah.  Well, a couple nurses would come to your room, all covered up and wearing respirators just like the rest of the staff and doctors.  You’re too weak to do much so they have to lift you onto the gurney and wheel you out of your room.  You can’t see much except the fluorescent lights of the ceiling as they take you down the hall.  I remember there were exactly 25 lights between my room and the treatment rooms.  I didn’t start sweating until the 20th light. 
         In the treatment room you’re again lifted up, this time onto an operating table.  Usually a doctor leans over and looks into your eyes, your nose, your mouth.  He makes you feel like a piece of meat, or a hog going to slaughter.  No sympathy from them, just all business.
         The “treatment” begins with an injection, somewhere in your arm or hip.  They never tell you what they’ve given you, but you begin to notice when they’re trying different shots.  Sometimes it feels like ice water rushing into your veins, sometimes like burning oil.  It would usually take a few minutes for anything to happen, if anything did happen.  The waiting was the worst part.  The doctor would check your eyes again, shining a light directly into your pupils.  The negative reactions always happened quickly. 

         *Can you describe what those reactions were like?*

         Searing pain in your toes, your fingers, then spreading its way up your body until it feels like your eyes are going to pop out of your skull.  Sometimes they’d have to hold you down or strap you to the table.  The doctor would lean back over and check your eyes.  If he didn’t see anything positive, he’d shake his head, smack his fist on the table, something like that, then disappear from sight.  Shortly after you’d feel another shot, then, if you were lucky, the pain would subside.  You’d be lifted back onto the gurney and wheeled back to your room.  25 lights back.  The 25th always seemed to take for ever.