Aristaney had reported for her mandated check-up but instead of Dr Marcos, she was facing a new government doctor. “I’m surprised to see that your medication has an addictive component,” Dr Carr, an older, fair-skinned man, sounded more like he was thinking aloud than that he wanted an answer.
“Well, yes,” Aristaney replied anyway. “They’re my suppression meds, people really wants me to keep taking them, forever.”
“Suppression theory is bunkum,” he snorted. “We’ll get you off those, find out what’s really wrong with you and get you some proper treatment. You’ll have to stay here in the detox ward, of course.”
He jotted a few notes and was turning to his dark-skinned assistant when Aristaney said desperately, “What’s wrong with me is Watford Syndrome. Call Dr Marcos, call the Public Health Control Desk with my case number, but don’t take me off my meds!”
Dr Carr sighed. “Dr Marcos is dead, a car crash and a great tragedy, and I don’t think I need to bother the Control Desk for an addict pleading for her drug.”
The assistant asked, “Excuse me, what’s Watford Syndrome? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s what that bastard, Watford, gave me – I didn’t want it named after me. Also, I’m not pleading for my meds, I’m warning you. Don’t take me off the medication.”
This way to Cold Turkey 2.