Demonologist (13 page)

“So, what brings you in?”

Bev summarized what’d happened, narrating the same list of events he’d shared with Kristin the day before, starting with the onset of everything while on stage, right through all the odd physical elements that still beleaguered him. He elaborated in more detail how he
really
felt: scared, tired, quarrelsome; for the moment he left out the odd hallucinations he’d experienced before coming here, and the voice in his head. “Two days ago I was feeling fine. Today I feel as if I’ve lost my mind.” He kept his hands facing downward, keeping his fresh injuries to himself.
No explaining that
.

“You have no temperature. Your blood pressure’s fine.”

“That’s good.”

“Any insomnia?”
Palumba
asked.

“No, no, I sleep fine.”
Except for the dreams, and these damn lacerations on my hands. Got those while sleeping
.

“You mentioned that you’ve been feeling angry. Are there any personal issues that might be driving you to this?”

“No...everything is fine. I’d never been happier, really, up until all this started happening—this has all gone on over the last forty-eight hours or so. It feels as though I’ve been hit with some terrible disease—it’s come on that suddenly. And honestly, it’s scaring me.”

Palumba
took notes in the folder. “Appetite?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“You mentioned this
scratching
sensation in your head. Any headaches?”

Bev shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Palumba
nodded, unimpressed. “You drink regularly?”

“No. Only on occasion.”

“Smoke?”

“Yeah.”

“Drugs?”

“Doc?”

“Process of elimination. Everything’s confidential.”

“Nothing. Well...your occasional puff on a joint, but even that’s more not than often.”

“Did you take any pills within the last few days? Prescription medication? Anything?”

“No. I don’t even think I’ve had anything to drink, outside of a beer at lunch yesterday.”

The doctor walked over, felt Bev’s glands. Checked his ears, nose, throat, eyes. “Since you haven’t been here in a while, I’m going to give you a complete examination.” He ordered Bev to lie down, then ran the cold stethoscope over his chest.

“What is it, doc? What’s wrong with me?”

“Well, I’m not sure yet. All those things you’ve experienced are strongly symptomatic of panic, anxiety, even depression. However, as an internist, I need to rule out all possible physical ailments first before heading down that road. Anxiety and panic can mimic a great deal of true physical ailments, most commonly heart attacks, brain tumors, fibromyalgia, even schizophrenia—you know, all the bad stuff that’s very easy to worry about. So, we have to be careful. However, considering the sudden onset of your symptoms, I’d venture to guess that all those possibilities are improbable. We can go ahead and treat you for anxiety and panic, see what happens, but still have to be certain that it isn’t anything else. Even dehydration can cause many of the symptoms you’ve described, especially the ‘feeling of being out of control’.”

Bev sat up. Felt a slight wave of relief, but still wasn’t wholly convinced. “What’s next?”

“The nurse will come in and draw your blood. The lab will run a standard work-up to check your cell counts, cholesterol levels, thyroid activity, diabetes too. We’ll also need a urine sample to test your liver and kidney functions.”

The doctor excused himself and a different nurse came in with a plastic cup and a syringe. She drew his blood and afterwards waited outside the room while Bev filled the cup in an adjoining bathroom. After all samples were collected, she left and
Palumba
returned.

“How long have you been away Bev?”

“Eight months.”

“I’d gather that touring the world in a rock and roll band isn’t very conducive to a healthy lifestyle. Late nights, constant traveling, poor diet, not to mention being away from home and your loved ones. The parties at night, the public appearances, and the ongoing pressures of being expected to perform at the top of your abilities night after night. That’d get to anyone, and you have to remember, you’re only human just like the rest of us.”

Bev nodded. It did seem to make sense.
But then what of the...?

“Doc?”

Palumba
was scribbling in the folder. “Yes?” He didn’t look up.

“There’s something else.”

Palumba
finished what he was writing then put his pen down and looked at Bev.

“I’ve been, well, I’ve had some...some hallucinations.”

“Hallucinations? What kind exactly?”

“I’m scared to admit this for fear that you might think I’m nuts, because I’m not...but...I’ve been hearing this voice in my head, and then, well, yesterday I saw a face.”

“A face?”

“Yeah...” He rubbed his hair; pressed his cheeks; eyed the doctor seriously. “In the mirror. This is gonna sound crazy, but for a split second, the person staring back at me wasn’t me. It was someone else.” He’d wanted to say
something
else, but refrained from doing so.

 
Palumba
nodded as if he understood, as if the advent of hallucinations were significant to his pending diagnosis. He went back to taking prolific notes, remaining silent throughout. Finally, he began tearing sheets of paper. “First things first, I am going to recommend an immediate change in your lifestyle. Any travel plans coming up?”

“No.”

“Good. Get some rest. Change your diet, eat only healthy foods. No parties. No traveling, and above all, no work. I’m not recommending a vacation yet, although one might be good for you once you get your nerves all settled.”

“Nerves? Is that what this is?”

“I suspect so. Ten years ago it would’ve been the very last consideration on a long list of probable physical ailments. However, these days, with the economy the way it is and the pressures it induces upon everyday life, nearly half my weekly visitors complain of ailments that are directly related to the stressors of their routines: their jobs, situational problems with the family. I’ve seen it enough to know that what you’re probably experiencing is a nervous breakdown. Generalized anxiety disorder, coupled with severe panic attacks.”

“But, why all of a sudden?”

“Oh, it hasn’t been a sudden onset. It’s been there all along, for years maybe, building up in you—kind of like water behind a dam. You just didn’t know it was there. When you were on stage the other night, for some unknown reason that was the catalyst causing your dam to finally burst—and you had a full blown panic attack. Now the anxiety is unleashed, racing through your bloodstream. In actuality, we’re talking adrenaline here, and you’ve got copious amounts of it squirting through your body, more than you can handle. Hence, all those irritable symptoms you’re feeling. You see, your mind
thinks
your body is in trouble, and as a result your fear/response system is working overtime to compensate, when it really shouldn’t be working at all. It’s apparent just in your demeanor...you haven’t stopped fidgeting since you got here. That’s an involuntary physical response to the surge of adrenaline.”

“Then, what about the hallucination? The voice in my head?”

“All symptoms of a hyperactive mind...and common ones I might add. Ever get a song in your head for days at a time and it just won’t leave?”

“Of course. Part of the job.”

“Well, that’s your mind working non-stop when it really should be at rest. That voice in your head is a memory
engram
in your subconscious that found its way out when the dam broke. Now, uncontrollably, you’ve got a little green man in there making your life miserable, tossing words your way at any given moment—just like that song in your head that won’t go away.”

“Well, I suppose that makes sense. And the hallucination?”

“Not so bad, all things considered. You’ve only had one episode, correct?”

“Yes.”

Palumba
nodded. “I’ve had folks come in complaining that their furniture was sliding across the room, that their walls were breathing. Everyone’s different, but the cause is usually the same. Now, don’t get me wrong, we will check for any possible physical causes for your discomforts, but we’ll treat you for your attacks in the meantime. Frankly, there’s no physical ailment we know of that can cause a cocktail of all the symptoms you’re describing, in so quickly a time, other than panic. And if you were suffering of something on a psychotic level, then you really wouldn’t be having such a coherent conversation with me right now.”

Bev nodded. “Should I go see a shrink?”

“It wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone in more detail about what’s ailing you. If anything, it might help relieve some of the pressure. In the meantime, I’m giving you a prescription for
Celexa
.”

“What’s that?”

“An anti-depressant. Twenty milligrams, once a day. This’ll take some time to kick in, but will eventually aid in upping the serotonin in your brain, which in turn will smooth out the adrenaline levels in your body. Until that begins to work, here’s a prescription for
Xanax
, a mild tranquilizer. Two milligrams, twice a day, as needed. The results of your blood tests will be back tomorrow, but I’d venture to guess that you’re physically fine.”

“That’s good news,” Bev said, taking the scripts from the doctor. “Thank you. Does this mean I’m not crazy?”

Palumba
shook his head and smiled warmly. “No, I don’t think you’re crazy. I do suggest going home and getting a good night’s rest. And try not to worry about anything.”

“Thank you doc.”

Thank you
.

When he got to the car, he called Kristin. Again, her answering machine. He left a message. Told her that he’d visited the doctor, and that it was all nerves. Nothing else. He apologized again for his outburst at the beach, then hung up, feeling utterly alone, and lost.
Where is she?

He started the car and began to drive, wondering how on earth it’d come to this.
The doctor was right. I’m only human and eight months of touring will do that to a person
.

He again opted for the back roads, keeping his pace slow. He was starting to feel better, actually, as he had at the party, as though the holes in the dam had been plugged. Perhaps knowing what was wrong—that it wasn’t anything life-threatening—was already aiding in his recovery. After all, anxiety isn’t a physical illness, it’s a negative result of stress and the improper thinking patterns that arise from it.
The best medicine is positive thought
, he told himself.
Mind over matter
.

He stopped off at the Eckerd’s Drug a mile from his home. Left the prescriptions with a short bald man named George. He bought a copy of
Men’s Health
magazine, a few protein bars, two packs of cigarettes, and a small register-side pamphlet on combating anxiety.
 

Back in the parking lot, the fingers came back. Quickly. Suddenly. But not powerfully like before. It was more like a little tease.
Scratch, scratch, scratch
. No digging. No crumbling. And then, they settled down. As if they meant to say,
don’t forget about us, we’re still here
.