Of course it's my neck that's giving me the most trouble, but my hand was the only priviledged body part that recieved the torture. This consisted of zapping me with small bursts of electricity to see how my hand reacted. It was a strange, almost painful feeling that interestingly enough was exactly what my fingers feel like naturally on occasion.
Then the doc asked me what *I* think is wrong. Me. How the hell do I know? Didn't he go to medical school?
"Hey, I'm not some psychosematic woman who googles her symptoms and then diagnoses herself," I replied. "The other doc suggested something and I didn't even look it up until I began to get better. You're the doctor, you tell me."
"Well I don't think it's THAT, but just to be sure, we'll send you for an MRI."
Oh. Well. How can I argue with that? At least maybe then they'll figure it out. For a long time I debated telling Jake at all, but now that I'm feeling better I've been pretty honest with him. Being the sciency, curious kid that he is he's decided that it's his job to diagnose me. He thinks I have brain damage, or a brain tumour.
Lovely kid. Just goes for the positive, doesn't he?
Anyway later that afternoon we decided to go shopping, and the weirdness of the day became out of control. With the weather being almost too warm for the beach, we have spent the last few days browsing in stores that we normally don't visit, just for fun. We wandered in one; a tiny place with floor to ceiling shelves stuffed with everything warehouse-sized. 4 liter bottles of salad dressing, 3 lb boxes of pasta, and family sized boxes of cereal loaded down the shelves. We walked half way down the aisle distracted by the contents, until at last we looked up.
A man was sitting down by the cash register, in plain view from where we were standing. With his t-shirt hiked up around his neck, his large, naked belly and pale white, fleshy, pecks stood out strangely among the bottles of salad dressing and large boxes of pasta. In my horror I didn't even realize that it was a man that we were looking at, but instead thought we were seeing a woman's breasts. Eyes closed, oblivious to the fact that we were standing there, his hands ran over his naked torso; squeezing, stroking, pinching. Chest masturbating, Jake later called it.
Jake and I froze in horror. In seconds I had turned, expecting Jake to be close behind, and made for the door. Jake wasn't as quick as I had hoped, or maybe the sight had rooted his feet. He froze, not quite sure what to do.
In seconds, the man was upon him, standing only inches away. I could hear him trying to sell Jake a 20 liter bottle of grapeseed oil and so, to give my baby an out, I called him. Jake backed away from naked-chest-guy and ran over to where I was standing near the door. The guy followed, unaware of our obvious body language that said,
BACK THE HELL OFF.
He followed us around, so close that you could smell his body odor, blocking the exit, and continued to comment on the items on the shelves. We tried to find an escape, an out, but he was blocking it the only exit. Finally I grabbed a handful of Jake 's shirt and pushed my way past him and out the door, relieved to be standing on the front steps in the fresh air.
"Hey, have you tried the ice cream next door? They give samples." his voice called from the store. I had visions of a horror movie where the pretty cheerleader would have said, "okay!" and never returned.
Not for all the ice cream in the freaking WORLD, weirdo.
Once safely on the sidewalk, Jake and I began to giggle, and finally, to laugh. We laughed at the digusting sight of the man rubbing his body. We laughed at how bizarre and creepy the whole situation had been. Most of all, we laughed in relief that we got out of the store. We laughed so hard that strangers on the sidewalk stopped at looked at us like we were, in fact, the crazy ones.
It took some time for both of us to get that sight out of our minds last night. Jake had been just a little distubed and frightened by the whole ordeal, and continually needed to talk about it. I assured him that he was safe, it was over, I would report the guy to the manager, and we will never go to that store again. It was over, I assured him.
Which appeased Jake, except then last night I dreamed about the man, with his shirt off and his pale, fleshy belly. He was in my house, using my computer. Did he download porno or make a web cam video of himself?
He deleted my blog. Every picture, every story, every link.
Talk about feeling violated.