Please Hold

Letting myself be angry.

Thank you to my friend Frances Lee for the prompt, “What does anger mean to you?” This was a cathartic exercise; we just need to let it out sometimes.

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Anger had been but a small red dot when I first picked up the phone to call the clinic. Mole-sized, a beauty mark on my skin.

“You need a referral from your primary care physician. Oh, and also—the earliest appointment we have is October 2026.”

I glance at the calendar on my desk. One whole year from now?

“You mean one year from now?” I repeat aloud, dumbstruck.

“Yes. But you can at least get the referral started and then call back?”

The anger spreads into a little pool. What kind of world are we in where a person is forced to wait one year to get medical help?

Acquire the referral, call again.

“I don’t know who you spoke to, but we cannot schedule an appointment for you. Fibromyalgia can’t be treated here on its own—you need another inflammatory disease—like arthritis—to be seen by a provider.”

Fibromyalgia means nothing, then? I’m not sick enough?

Anger grows into a rising tidal wave that I attempt to yank back. I grit my teeth and imagine myself ladling it back into a tub, elbow-deep in its redness. Still, it seeps out and starts to trickle off the edges, staining scarlet everywhere.

I contact another clinic. Same music, complete with the warbling flute. I press my forehead into my desk. Crimson lands on my feet, spreading out at a more rapid pace as each minute goes by.

“Hello,” a robot voice says. “Do you have a referral for our clinic? If so, press one.”

I message my primary care doctor. “Please, I actually need a different referral.”

A new message with a new referral pops up the next day. Perhaps the tide can be stemmed.

Back to the hold music and keypad menu. A real human’s voice asks me for more details, then alas—puts me on hold.

Please. Please. Make it stop. But the chirpy music continues to come out garbled as I sit with my phone on speaker and wrestle with the threatening flood, waiting. Five minutes go by. Then ten. Then fifteen.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I snap. No, no. Be nice.

“Thanks for holding. So unfortunately…”

Screw it. Anger pours faster and faster and faster.

“We’re not able to accept your referral right now because our rheumatologists aren’t seeing any patients with fibromyalgia.”

The wave crests and splashes up to my waist.

“You’re telling me,” I say slowly, “that I can’t be seen by a doctor because I have fibromyalgia?”

“Yes, uh—”

“Do you know of anyone I can see, like a different clinic or something?” What I really mean: Is there anyone who will see me?

“No, you would need to talk to your provider about that. Okay?” What she really means: We’re washing our hands of you.

Anger soaks my body, filling my mouth and nostrils. When I scream aloud in my empty apartment, bubbles trail upward. Drowning me.