Beauty and the Beast Within Ch. 02

Case #2. Brain tumor and the fast Ferrari. Susan seeks her revenge by taking matters in her own hands.

While imagining the worst case scenario, Susan's headache was back again. Only now, unable to afford to see her primary care physician, she was unemployed, had no money, and was without health insurance. Feeling as if the pain was going to split her head wide open in the way that a Californian earthquake splits the ground in half, she wondered if she made the pain worse by imagining all that was wrong with her. Having gone to the doctor complaining about the same headache pain, even though he was an expert in his field, seemingly he couldn't help her.

Tired of fighting with doctors for treatment and tired of begging for the medical help she needed to relieve her pain, she was now without medical coverage. That only thing that helped with her headache pain was sleeping. She needed to put a cool cloth on her forehead, close her eyes in a darkened room, and relax while waiting for the pain to subside and for the sleep to take her to a place where there was no pain. Only, as soon as she awakened, the pain returned with a vengeance. She's had lots of headaches before but nothing like this. She wondered if what she had was more than just an ordinary headache or a migraine. Seemingly with her headaches getting worse, she figured she had a brain tumor.

Unable to do anything to lessen the pain, when she made any movement at all, walking, talking, or raising her arms, she only made the pain worse. Impossible to find a comfortable position laying down, she spent her day sitting up in a chair or standing. The one thing that helped her was to close her eyes and to remain silently still. Only, she couldn't stay like this laying down with her eyes closed and a cool compress on her forehead all day. She had things to do and places to go. Needing to earn a living to support herself, she had a job to do that is when she was employed. She couldn't live like this. Now that she no longer has a job, when not out looking for a job or going to an interview, she spends most of her days in bed.

Hoping to alleviate her pain while helping only for a little while, she was popping pain killers as if they were peppermints. Worried about the warnings on the back of the bottle that stated not to take these pills for more than 10 consecutive days, she had been taking excess pain pills for months. After consulting with her doctor, a renowned brain surgeon, she told him all that she was taking for the pain. He told her not to worry, so long as she didn't take more than three Aleve and more than 4 extra-strength Tylenol a day. She told him about the warning on the back of the bottles that said not to take this medication for more than ten days without consulting with a doctor.

"Well, you just consulted with your doctor," he said smugly, "and I told you that the over-the-counter medication is safe to take so long as you don't overdose on it in a twenty-four hour period."

Then, one day, while sitting on the toilet moving her bowels, she gushed blood. She didn't just gush a little blood, she gushed a lot of blood. After the second gush and the third gush, she gushed so much blood that she knew that if she didn't call for an ambulance, she'd pass out and die.

* * * * *

Admitted to the hospital, she remained there for three. Having lost so much blood, she nearly died from stomach bleeding caused by over the counter drug poisoning from taking too much Acetaminophen found in Tylenol and Naproxen found in Aleve. Anally bleeding, she lost half of her blood supply in three huge gushes. Taken to the hospital by ambulance, she had three emergency blood transfusion to save her life. A side effect from taking all of the over the counter pain medication combined with the pain medication prescribed to her by her doctor to ease her pain, Tramadol, which didn't work, she was a mess. Not only did she nearly die but also she developed Tinnitus, a bothersome, not stop, ringing in her ears. If the ringing in her ears wasn't enough, now not only did she have a headache but also she couldn't take any pain relievers to help subside her pain and relieve her constant headaches.

"Fucking doctors don't have any idea what in the Hell they're doing by prescribing me these pain relievers," she said angrily. Not only did she still have the headache but also she had nothing to relieve her pain. "This constant ringing in my ears is driving me crazy," she said feeling as if her head was about to explode.

Not really thinking it through, but without having any medical insurance that gave her other options, she was desperate enough for some much needed pain relief to seek out the free health care clinic. Willing to try anything, even lying about her symptoms, she needed her headaches and the ringing in her ears to go away. Her way of receiving psychiatric coverage hopefully to subside her headaches, she told a doctor at the free health clinic that she was hearing voices. Hoping then, that he'd treat her for her headaches, instead he treated her for something else and something entirely unrelated. He treated her for Schizophrenia. Her fault for telling the psychiatrist that she heard voices, he misdiagnosed her mainly because she didn't have the health insurance to cover all of the testing necessary to correctly diagnose her mental health condition.

Instead of treating her for the headaches that she complained to him about having, he treated for manic depression and paranoid schizophrenia that she didn't have and even gave her medication that she didn't need. If she didn't have manic depression and paranoid schizophrenia before, she had that now with all the needless medication that they gave her and that she finally stopped taking on her own and without consulting the doctor who prescribed the medication. Yet, thinking of the positive instead of only the negative, at least the ringing would override the nonexistent voices, that is, if ever she heard voices in her head. Nonetheless her trying to have positive thoughts about her headaches, she was angry that doctors couldn't and/or wouldn't help her.

* * * * *

Glad that the day finally arrived that her CT brain scan results were in, she had her doctor's appointment today. Ready to hear the results of her brain scan tests, hoping for the best results but expecting the worst diagnosis, she was glad that she now had the medical insurance that she needed to afford the best medical care and treatment. This was it. This was really it. Today she'd find the reason for her headaches. Today, they'd give her something to lessen and/or totally remove her headaches. Maybe they'd give her something to eliminate or at least lessen the ringing in her ears too.

After losing her job before finding a new one, she had a lapse in medical coverage before she had health insurance again with her new job. She was unable to pay for her ambulance ride to the hospital, for her hospital stay, for all the medical test they ran, and for the doctor's bills. While recovering for three, long days in the hospital, a small army of doctors visited her in her hospital room. Not knowing who they were and why they were there, they came by just to say introduce themselves, to say hi, to take her temperature, to listen to her heart, and to ask her if she had any questions. All such a scam, she knew that these doctors were just padding her hospital bills while upping their fees. If they only knew that she didn't have health insurance then, doctors would never waste their billable time stopping by her room.

When she was released from the hospital, once they knew she had no health insurance, not willing to waist anymore healthcare on her, they rebuffed her by telling her that what she had was just a migraine headache and to take an aspirin. After her stomach bleeding episode, she was unable to take any pain medication after taking excessive amounts of aspirin, which also contained Acetaminophen and taking extra strength 650 mg Tylenol, and then excessive amounts of Aleve, containing Naproxin, when the Tylenol didn't work. Sometimes, when the pain was worse, as if a pain reliever cocktail, her own concoction while prescribing medication to her without having a medical license, she'd even take them together. Now, she had to suffer her headaches in silence and without ceasing.

Even now with her having medical insurance and with her having her appointment made long in advance because the doctor was always so busy, she hated going to the hospital to see the neurosurgeon. He was such an arrogant prick. Always late and seemingly preoccupied when he did finally arrive, never giving her his full, undivided attention, he had enough of a terrible bedside manner to give her a stress filled headache even when she didn't have one. Acting as if the last place he wanted to be was sitting across from her, he made her feel anxious by his diagnosis instead of making her feel relieved by his prognosis.

The first time he examined her, he told her that there was nothing wrong with her. No doubt, influencing his medical opinion, he said that there was nothing wrong with her because she didn't have medical insurance. He told her that there was nothing wrong with her when he couldn't charge her insurance company by giving her unnecessary tests and prescribing medication that she didn't need to take. Obviously, with his time more valuable to help someone who had health insurance than to help another human being by easing her pain, obviously he didn't want to take her on as a charity case.

Then, when she insisted that there was a lot wrong with her, he's the one who called her a hypochondriac. He's the one who suggested that she see a psychiatrist. When she thinks about how terribly he treated her, she gets so angry. How dare he rebuff her when she was in so very much pain? She swore that she'd never see him again but he was the very best in his field and, unfortunately, if there was any doctor would rid her of her headaches, it would be him.

* * * * *

Forty-eight-year-old neurosurgeon, Paul Martin loved cars, especially fast, expensive cars. Made in Maranello, Italy and designed by Pininfarina, when he wasn't driving his two-hundred-fifty thousand dollar, 570 horsepower, Ferrari 458 Spider, he was driving his quarter of a million dollar, 500 horsepower, 8 speed, Bentley Continental GT. A special fifteen thousand dollar custom paint color option, his Ferrari had a Rosso Fiorano exterior with crème colored leather seating trim interior. His two tone Bentley, the color of his favorite football team, the Baltimore Ravens, was painted in azure purple and black, velvet metallic, with a royal purple leather interior, anytime anyone saw him driving his custom Bentley, no doubt, they imagined a Baltimore Ravens football star was driving the car.

With his personalized license plates that read DR SPEED and FAST DOC, he filled his own prescribed prescription by driving fast cars fast back and forth to work every day. Forcing himself to focus his mind on driving his cars instead of on thinking of his patients' needs, illnesses, pains, and problems, driving his fast cars fast relieved his daily stress. Driving his fast cars fast allowed him to take pleasure from the pain of others who paid him so very much money for the privilege of diagnosing their neurological problems and operating on their brains.

An excellent driver, he was always prepared for the unexpected. At the ready for a deer to jump out of the woods and dart across the road, or for an unsuspecting car to pull out in front of him, feeling in control of his finely tuned, professionally setup, and expensive automobiles, he was ready for anything. A mind altering experience, with him serving as an extension of his drivetrain, he was relaxed enough in his cars to feel as if he was one with them. Having spent hours of track time taking high speed driving instruction, confidently in control when driving double and triple the speed limits, he loved his cars as much as he loved driving fast.

Other than when driving on the track, the deserted mountain road, was the only place that he could make his Ferrari sing the metallic vibrato of its high pitch song while going through the gears. Too crowded on the weekends, the mountain road was littered with campers and tourists looking for available camping spots while enjoying the scenic views. Sometimes difficult to pass them, he hated tourists. He hated slow, road hogging recreational vehicles and campers, he wished they'd all go away or all go somewhere else. Truth be told, not possessing the social skills that a world renown doctor should have, he hated people and barely tolerated his money grubbing, spoiled, young wife. Able to entertain himself for long periods of time, the only person that he endured sharing his life with was his wife, Priscilla. She understood him enough that as long as he threw enough money at her, she'd leave him alone. As long as he gave her an unlimited spending allowance, she'd suck and fuck his cock whenever he wanted.

In the way that rich men hoped to buy their very own deserted island for a few million dollars to get away from the mad mob of people, he hoped to buy and/or build his own private road and/or track one day. One of the benefits of being rich, he was happy that his professional career as a top neurosurgeon afforded him such luxuries that weren't available to the average person. Head and shoulders above the average Joe and Jane, having graduated Harvard University and receiving his medical degree from Yale Medical School, he did his internship at Boston's prestigious Massachusetts General Hospital. Yet, more than his large house and his affluent lifestyle, being able to afford such fine performance and luxury automobiles made him feel special. Where others were content driving their Mustang GT's and Camaro SS's, until and if ever they drove a Ferrari or a Bentley at speed, they'd never know what they were missing, albeit and admittedly at ten times the cost.

At the opposite end of the spectrum, with the Ferrari so totally different from the more than three ton Bentley that weighed twice as much as the Ferrari, he drove his Ferrari back and forth to work and drove his Bentley on weekends. Feeling as if he wasn't really driving when driving the Bentley, so eerily quiet, especially when compared to the Ferrari, he felt as if the Bentley drove him. His 35-year-old, ex-model wife, Priscilla, not much of an automobile aficionado preferred riding in the Bentley than in the Ferrari, especially if they had dinner reservations at a posh or swanky restaurant.

Suddenly, after becoming rich, she became modest. Having worked as a runway model, a lingerie, fit, and swimsuit model, while spending as much of her modeling days naked as she was fully dressed, inexplicably she didn't appreciate extricating herself spread legged with her short skirt hiked to her crotch from the low slung Ferrari. She complained to her husband whenever having to give the parking valet a free show of her panties, that is, when she wore them. Replaced with fine, superfast automobiles, the fun of their relationship changed when his devotion to his supermodel wife was superseded by superfast supercars. Actually, preferring driving her non-descript, black Mercedes or cream white Range Rover, she didn't like the gawking attention that both the Ferrari and Bentley commanded whenever she was out driving with her husband driving too fast behind the wheel.

* * * * *

At the expense of keeping his patients impatiently waiting, he loved taking the long way to work via the scenic, mountain road. When the expressway would have him at work 20 minutes sooner, he didn't mind the longer ride that allowed him to rev his Italian supercar to 9,000 rpms while shifting through all seven, F1, dual clutch gears. At the expense of keeping his wife holding supper, routinely having to have his chef reheat his food and his maid wait around to serve him, he loved taking the long way home via the scenic, mountain road.

With all of its turns, twists, bends, hairpin curves, and a straightaway that plunged down the mountain, giving his Ferrari and his driving skills a challenging workout, he loved the scenic, mountain road as much as he loved his Rosso Fiorano, 458 Ferrari. A thrill seeking junkie, the faster he drove his Ferrari the more he loved the exhilarating feel of knowing that one false move or one blown tire and he'd fly off the mountain and be dead. The faster he drove his Ferrari, the more he appreciated the subtle and not so subtle traits of driving such a fine, mostly handmade, Italian supercar.

"Che bella," he'd say with his Boston accent getting in the way of his non-existent Italian one.

Having driven all the modern day supercars, Bugatti, Lamborghini, Maserati, Mercedes, Audi, Mclaren, Aston Martin, Pagani, Koenigsegg, Gumpert, and even a Saleen, hands down, Ferrari was his favorite supercar. There was just something about the feel of them. As if he was one with the car, intuitively, it was as if he could steer, accelerate, and slow without thinking. With some supercars faster and other supercars even handling better than the Ferrari, no matter, a comfortable fit and feeling more in control of the car, he felt as if he fit in the car perfectly and could feel more what the car was always doing. If only by the musical sound of the exhaust, no other car compared to it. No other supercar was the same as driving a Ferrari that was mostly handmade and hand assembled just for him and by his selected optional specifications.

* * * * *

Ironic that she'd be seeing a doctor, a neurosurgeon with a death wish, when in fact she was armed with her own death list and at the ready to cross out names, Susan took a seat in front of the doctor's imposing desk. After running more expensive and unnecessary tests and after receiving the worst medical diagnosis, expecting the worst medical prognosis, she already knew what her doctor wanted to see her about.

"I'm sorry to give you this bad news Sarah," said the doctor coming right to the point and blurting it out, "but you have an inoperable brain tumor."

"It's Susan," she said with annoyance.

"Pardon?"

"My name is Susan and not Sarah," she said.

"Oh, sorry," he said.

Even though she long suspected that she had a brain tumor, she couldn't believe she had a brain tumor. In the way that John Travolta played George Malley in Phenomenon and could read so very many books in such a short amount of time, a brain tumor may explain why she was able to write so very many erotic stories. It was surreal hearing the doctor making what she suspected official by saying the words, inoperable brain tumor. Yet, keeping the faith, a death sentence before, there's so much more that they can do with brain tumors today. If they can't operate on them, they can shrink them. There are drugs that they can give her to relieve her pain to give her a better quality of life while prolonging her life, she hoped.

"A brain tumor?"

"Yes," he said seemingly preoccupied with something on his desk, a die cast car of his beloved Ferrari 458.

"Are you sure?"

She couldn't believe he was racing his die cast car along his desktop as if he was imagining driving it instead of talking seriously to her about her medical condition. If anything, instead of imagining driving his car, he should be visualizing operating on her brain. If anything, he should be paying her the undivided attention that she needs instead of him splitting his focus on a toy car.

"I'm sure," he said removing his focus from his toy car to briefly look up at her.

Holding up her chin in bravery, she looked at him in shock.

"Is that what's causing these terrible headaches?"

Paying more attention to his toy Ferrari than he was to her, waiting for him to make car noises, as if he was a little boy pretending to be driving his toy car, he suddenly looked up at her with confusion and curiosity.