It all started with a knee. A very human knee. The kind that bends, complains, and occasionally reminds you that garage tailgates have no sense of empathy.
So I did the sensible thing — I went to Chicago Med.
You’d think that would be simple. Walk in, describe the pain, get an ice pack.
But simplicity apparently triggers medical suspicion these days.
The receptionist looked up, froze halfway between a polite smile and a CPR poster expression. I gave her my name. She typed it like it might bite.
After a short eternity of soft jazz and distant coughing, I was escorted to an exam room. Cold table. Paper sheet. Instruments lined up like suspects.
Enter the doctors.
“Mr. Chainsaw,” said Dr. Halstead, flipping through my chart as if it contained spoilers. “You said you injured your knee?”
“Yes,” I said. “Left knee. Minor impact trauma. I believe the term is ow.”
He nodded with the same concern you reserve for a neighbor who just confessed to eating drywall.
Dr. Charles, the psychiatrist, stood behind him — eyes narrowed, gears turning.
He was there for what they call an informal observation.
In the movies, that’s code for We think you’re nuts but don’t want to say it out loud yet.
“Do you feel pain when you walk?” he asked.
“Only when I watch the news,” I said.
The nurse tried to hide her smile.
“Tell me,” said Dr. Charles, “how long have you… presented this way?”
“Presented?” I repeated. “Doctor, I’m not a PowerPoint.”
He tried again. “Your… appearance. The mask.”
I sighed. “This isn’t a mask. It’s my face. I was born this way, and I’m old enough to stop apologizing for it.”
Dr. Halstead frowned at the clipboard. “It says here you have latex sensitivity.”
“Life’s funny, isn’t it?” I said. “I break out in hives when I shake hands, but no one ever questions their materials.
“The nurse leaned in. “Sir, do you experience… confusion about who you are?”
“Only when people keep asking.”
Dr. Charles cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses like he was about to deliver a TED Talk titled Diagnosing Confidence Disorders.
“You don’t feel you’re… different from others?”
“No,” I said. “But others seem determined to be different from me. I don’t see a problem with that. They do.
”They exchanged glances — that secret physician semaphore that means, He’s coherent, which makes it worse.
Dr. Halstead closed the folder. “Your vitals are fine. The knee looks good. We can discharge you.”
“Thank you,” I said, hopping off the table. “I appreciate medical care that doesn’t try to fix what’s not broken — aside from my patience.”
Dr. Charles made one last attempt. “If you ever need to talk—”
“I’m already talking,” I said. “You’re just not listening. Happens a lot in your line of work.”
And with that, I left.
Outside, I passed a man in a neck brace who nodded politely, as if to say, Finally, someone normal.
I hobbled to my car, knee throbbing but spirit intact. Hospitals are great at stitching wounds, less so at handling metaphors.
Apparently, it’s unsettling when someone walks into their fluorescent world of forms and monitors looking like he came straight from the truth department.
They poke. They prod. They whisper. They chart.
But none of it changes the diagnosis.