PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 34: The Pinched Nerve That Became A Social Commentary
Written August 2003

Okay, here’s the situation…

Nobody likes to be hurt. And by hurt, of course, I refer to all pain in general, be it physical, emotional, or otherwise. Pain is synonymous with discomfort, and everyone strives to be comfortable in all facets of life. To be uncomfortable is to suffer, and the only people I’ve ever encountered in my 27-plus years who enjoy discomfort are the sexual deviants I see on “Kink” Friday nights on Showcase… and I really don’t think I have to elaborate too much on that topic.

At any rate, for the purposes of this article, we’ll focus on physical pain. More specifically, my physical pain. As I write this, I have a pinched nerve in my neck that’s been driving me crazy for over 24 hours now. So, then, I ask you (as most of you are, in my opinion, normal people), what would you do in my situation? Play through the pain, as it were, and hope it goes away on its own? Gorge yourself on pain medication to forget the nagging injury that’s been plaguing you? Or, go to the hospital to get to the source? Now, maybe I’m a complete nut case, but I went for option three at around 3:30 last night, upon the realization that the pain was severe enough to keep me from my slumber. Am I so wrong?

Apparently so. You see, somewhere along the line, our health care system has been raped and pillaged, especially in poorer provinces such as New Brunswick. It seems that, between cutbacks, strike threats and the ever-popular “brain drain” to richer sectors, the so-called health care “professionals” that remain in New Brunswick have turned into spiteful, vindictive assholes who are eternally pissed off that they can’t be making the big bucks down south, or out west.

So, here’s how it all breaks down. Around noon yesterday, shortly after waking up, I realize this pain in my neck. I must have slept on a bad angle or something the previous night, I think to myself. Whatever the case, little kinks have developed here and there over the course of my years, and they’ve always worked themselves out, so I decided to ride the wave, as it were. However, once the pain became so bad I couldn’t sleep, I changed my tone. Maybe my injury is more serious. After all, it hasn’t ever been this severe, or lasted so long, before. So, using my best judgment, I decide to get it checked, to err on the side of caution, and hopefully receive some sort of closure as to the actual severity of my situation.

Arriving at the local hospital, I notice the typical darkened, catatonic setting that’s indicative of most hospitals late night / early morning. I enter the building, walk up to the desk, and am promptly brought into triage, so that the night nurse can hear my tale of woe. The normal papers are filled out, a tag is placed around my wrist, and I’m told to have a seat in the waiting room, and that someone will be with me shortly.

Now, I realize that hospitals operate with a somewhat shortened staff at the best of times, let alone in the middle of the night. But, when I’m the only person in the waiting room, I wouldn’t think it would take a half hour to get me a fucking doctor. Regardless, this is the way it was, and I waited as patiently as I could for someone to come. Finally, at about 4:15am, a doctor calls my name. Now, we’re getting somewhere.

Or are we? This is exactly how my visit broke down from the moment my name was called…

Nurse (gesturing to the adjacent examination room): Right in there, Mr. Williston.

I walk into the room, where the doctor who called me is waiting. He gestures for me to have a seat on the table. I do so. From there, the doctor approaches, and stands to my right (ironically enough, I had told the triage nurse that it hurt a lot more when I turn my head to the right).

Doc: So, you’ve got neck pain?

Me: Yes, it feels like it might be a pinched nerve. I would have waited until tomorrow to come here, but the pain is so bad I can’t sleep.

Doc: Show me where it hurts.

I reach behind my head, and outline with my fingers the area affected. The doc nods, and looks to his clipboard, then starts scribbling while rattling off the following apathetic tirade:

Doc: yeah, it’s probably a pinched nerve… Tylenol… Advil… showers… ice… chiropractor… accupuncture… maybe all of the above.

Then, he lifts his head, actually looks me in the eye, and says…

Doc: How about that?

I was stunned. That’s it? 15 hours of excruciating pain, followed by a half hour wait, to come into this room and have you say THIS? In all, the whole thing took about 45 seconds, and they’re finished with me, without even so much as a few probing (no pun intended) questions or an X-ray? Talk about insulting. I’m in fucking pain, and all this jerkoff can think of is getting me out of his sight as quickly as possible. How the fuck is he supposed to know what’s wrong with me? Christ, he didn’t even lay a finger on me. I’m no doctor, yet apparently I portray myself as a good enough judge of my condition that he’s taking my fucking word for it! I don’t KNOW what’s causing the pain, which is why I went to the fucking hospital in the first place! For all I know, a piece of vertebrae broke off and lodged itself between my spine and my shoulder. But I’ll never find out, because the health care “professionals” won’t check it out.

At any rate, I was shocked and in disbelief, too much so to question why I was being treated (or lack thereof) this way. I walked out of the office, looked at my fiancee and said, “This has been a colossal waste of fucking time”. We exited the premises, and drove home, in more pain than I was when I arrived. Because the doctor on call had literally added insult to injury.

About half way home, it hit me. It all became clear. I mean, here I was, a 27-year old man in Miramichi, coming to the hospital in the middle of the night and complaining of pain. The feeling of insult grew, and brought some primal hate with it. After a long string of cuss words, I related my theory to Carrie. And now, I relate it to you. See, I put myself in the doctor’s shoes, being summoned to check on a young man with a goatee who hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, who is complaining about a sore neck. I would assume (and probably safely so) that the doctor in question wrote me off as a case of a pill junkie looking for a prescription. After all, my eyes were red from lack of sleep. At least, that’s what I told them. Of course, that explanation would make sense, so it can’t be true. Yes, I must be addicted to Demorral, or Tylenol 3, and my stash must have run out, so obviously I’ve concocted this whole neck pain thing to score some drugs. It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? I even timed it so that I’d show up when no one else was around! Good lord, it’s a good thing they thwarted my evil plan!

There’s just one thing… I’m not a junkie, I’m not looking for a fix, and I told them the truth (which is probably something they never expected from a punk like me).

The levity of the situation has angered me deeply, because I strongly feel this far-fetched (?) conspiracy theory is more than just a hunch. In fact, just last week we were having a conversation. The young woman, fiancee of a friend of mine, was telling us that she is an asthmatic. She went on to say that, on one occasion, she went to the hospital after having a severe asthma attack. Upon getting to the examination room, still having trouble breathing, the doctor asked her if she was on drugs. When she told him that she wasn’t, he responded with something along the lines of, “Well, you must be on drugs, or you wouldn’t be here”. What kind of brain-dead hack says shit like this? The kind who is too busy thinking about the guy he graduated with who’s now raking in $200,000 a year in Florida to worry about his own fucking job.

The point is, I’m getting really sick and tired of young people being treated like an unwanted minority around here. And, when I go to the hospital with a pinched nerve in my neck and get pigeonholed as a drug addict, it makes me think long and hard about leaving this geriatric paradise of a fucking shithole in favour of any place that will treat me like the human being I am. Meanwhile, the drunkards and rednecks at city hall cry, “children are the future”, pissing and moaning about the fact that all of the kids are striving to get the hell out of Miramichi.

A couple of weeks ago Allison Lynch, the valedictorian one of the local high schools wrote an article in the paper, which summed up the feelings of Miramichi’s youth quite nicely. I wish I could post the article here, because it was well written, to the point, and a sure eye-opener for the aged and wealthy apathetics in this place. Regardless, the young lady had proclaimed loud and proud that she was leaving Miramichi, and more than happy to do so. In response, she got letters of praise from many Miramichi residents. But, she also got blasted with hate mail, dubbed as “immature” and “arrogant”, and told by at least one reader never to come back, that she wasn’t wanted. That’s the response that stuck with me. Lynch, obviously of a high intellect, stated her opinions as she has every right to. She told it as she saw it, and I personally hold her courage and her refusal to compromise with the highest respect. The point is, these are exactly the kind of people Miramichi needs to grow and thrive as a community. And yet, these are the kind of people who are being pushed away by the busload, and told that they aren’t wanted here. What, is Miramichi already a utopia? Well, I guess it is, if your idea of utopia is a hillbilly fishing town with a skyrocketing crime rate, aging population and nowhere for the youth to go besides burger joints and call centres.

All I’m trying to say is that this city has garnered a bad reputation, what with Allan Legere, the stink of the mill, high unemployment rate and the pitifully high alcoholism rate. To look at a young girl (or anyone for that matter) who, if kept around, could inflict a significant change for the better, and tell her that she’s not wanted, is a be-all, end-all of sorts for this village. And, in a way, I applaud the person who stood up and told her never to come back. Because you had the balls to say what the majority of residents, and those in office, are thinking.

It’s painful to see it all happening, but I realize that it’s all true. Any attempts at a youth centre have failed, because so many restrictions have been placed on them. In a way, it seems as though these facilities, built for the purpose of giving all youth a place to go, have become exclusive facilities to a select group of kids. If you're underprivileged and young in Miramichi, there’s nothing left to do but drink and take drugs, and this sickens me. Vandals are running rampant in this city (it happens on a weekly basis outside my apartment). Alcohol and drug use by teens is at an all time high. The town square on the city’s west side, once a place of relaxation and beauty, is rapidly degenerating to a cesspool of drug dealers, vandals and low lives. And, across the city, people are saying, “how did it ever come to this?” Well, gee, it might have something to do with the lack of available activities. I clearly remember, while growing up in Blackville (a small village 30 minutes east of Miramichi, with a mere fraction of the population), having a world of entertainment options. We had an arcade (with a skating rink in the winter), plenty of places to swim in clean water, several “hang out” locations, and a beautiful park was being built. This was ten to fifteen years ago. Has that much changed in such a short amount of time? I guess so. Or, maybe I was just a better kid. Sure, I got into my fair share of trouble, but I never recalled knowing anyone while growing up whose favorite activity on a Saturday night was to smash cinder blocks on the street, and hope that motorists damage their cars by running over the debris.

This is what it’s come to. And, through it all, I’m left with a striking thought. I miss them dearly a lot of the time, but I’m really glad that I’m no longer with my ex, and that my children don’t have to grow up in Miramichi. I’ve seen too many pregnant 15-year olds, teenage junkies and violent youths in the past couple of years to advise any parent to raise their kids in a city like this. And, though there are some people in Miramcihi who are committed to the right causes, their voices are drowned out by the drunken roars of the majority. And, looking at the big picture, I know that my little girl stands a far better chance at becoming the next Allison Lynch, and much less chance of becoming a pregnant, violent junkie if she’s not here.

Here endeth the ePISSle.