The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [158]
Dr. Kellner cocked his head further. “I believe you about the pain, Mike. Believe me, I believe you. I quit doing marathons because one of my knees looks half as bad as both of yours do, and you’re half my age. How’s that for bad math? If I gave you an MRI right now and looked at the results I’d have to shut you down for good—you and I both know that. But a person can be in legitimate, significant pain and still be attached. These are habit-forming drugs.”
“I don’t care about the drugs per se. I just don’t want the pain to affect my play.”
“So we’ll do another shot. Cortisone with the lido.”
“It’s not enough,” Schwartz said. “It did shit last time.”
Dr. Kellner leaned back in his chair, arms folded, and contemplated Schwartz. “When did you last take any pain meds?”
Schwartz counted back the days. It was now Wednesday; he’d run out on Saturday, the day Henry walked off the field. This season had been rough, painwise; much worse than previous years, worse even than this past football season. Until recently, he’d been getting painkillers both from Dr. Kellner and from Michelle, a nurse at St. Anne’s whom he’d dated on and off since sophomore year. But Schwartz had stopped answering Michelle’s texts when he met Pella, and now—of course—Michelle wasn’t answering his. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Have you been having trouble sleeping?”
“Only a little,” Schwartz lied. “Because of my back.”
“Any chills or excessive sweating?”
“My sweating is always excessive.” Good thing he’d left his windbreaker on. Kellner couldn’t see that his T-shirt was drenched.
“Have you been feeling unusually anxious or irritable?”
“Me, irritable?” Schwartz joked.
Dr. Kellner didn’t laugh. “You drink with the meds? A few beers here and there?”
Schwartz ignored the question. “We’re not talking about habits,” he said. “We’re talking about a well-defined short-term situation. I just need to make it to Sunday. To give my team a chance to win.”
Julie poked her blond head around the door. “Doctor K. Your two o’clock is here.”
One of her eyes had a sleepy tic, but otherwise she was cute enough. No doubt she had a steady stream of meds at her disposal, working here. Schwartz should have laid the groundwork a long time ago; too late now. He’d asked around at school, steering clear of his teammates, who might get the wrong idea, but all anyone had was Adderall and coke, coke and Adderall.
Dr. Kellner shooed Julie away. Schwartz went on: “In moderation these aren’t dangerous drugs, right? They’re legitimate treatment for lots of people. People in way less pain than me. I mean, you can walk into any dentist’s office in town holding your cheek and they’ll write you a scri—”
Dr. Kellner shook his head. “Stop right there, Mike, or I’ll call every doctor, dentist, and pharmacist in a fifty-mile radius and tell them to be on the lookout for you. Moderation means small, non-habit-forming amounts. That’s not you. You’ve got a problem with these narcotics. Period. You’re going through withdrawal, and the sooner you ride that out the better. I should ship you over to St. Anne’s to see a counselor, but I know you won’t go and I don’t have time to play babysitter. You want cortisone, I got cortisone. You want to tell me what else is going on in your life that makes a little oblivion so appealing—I’m all ears. Otherwise I’ll see you next month.”
Doctors were the most self-righteous people on earth, Schwartz thought. Healthy and wealthy themselves, surrounded by the sick and dying—it made them feel invincible, and feeling invincible made them pricks. They thought they understood suffering because they saw it every day. They didn’t understand shit. Plus they could prescribe themselves what they knew they needed without having to listen to lectures about the meaning of moderation from people who hadn’t even read the goddamn Ethics.
Dr. Kellner stood up, looked at his watch.
“Fine,” Schwartz said. “Give me the goddamn shot.”
62
On the way back to campus, Schwartz told himself that he wouldn’t. Then he turned the Buick