Yes, yes. I was a grown man and should have passed that childish stage of hating doctors years ago. Yet there I sat, irritated by every movement of the old man who had wrapped a cuff around my arm, trying to take my blood pressure.
He'd already gone over me from head to toe. Checked my pulse, listened to my chest, shone his little torch straight into my eyes, and ordered my pupils to wander left, then right, then left again. Breathe. Stop. Breathe again.
Part of me found the whole routine thoroughly irritating. The other part grew more uneasy. Every small sigh, every thoughtful little sound he made. "Mm, I see. Mm, right." And the quiet scratching of his pen across the paper in his hand did nothing to ease my nerves.
Truth be told, that doctor wouldn't have set foot near me at all if the pain in my head had eased even slightly.
Also, there was another matter just as important. Michael refused to stop trailing after me.
He followed me everywhere. Literally everywhere. A stubborn piece of chewing gum stuck to the sole of a shoe, the sort that refused to come off no matter how much one scraped at it.
He'd been pestering me without pause until I finally gave in and agreed to see the doctor.
I gave in to him and to the fact that none of the things I had managed to get without a doctor had done anything at all. I had taken tablets, powders, liquids, anything I could find. The only thing I managed to do was to numb the pain for a short while.
It got to the point where I could no longer focus on work. I started making mistakes, slipping on things I would never normally miss.
I ought to have dealt with it myself. That would have been the proper thing. Endure the headache, shake it off somehow, carry on.
Instead, I failed at even that, and the whole affair left a faint, unpleasant sense of uselessness clinging to me.
Someone might say the obvious solution was to visit a doctor. Simple enough in theory. In practice, it was anything but simple.
The moment I so much as stepped in the direction of a hospital, it would be in the papers within the hour. Then the speculation would begin. Shares would wobble, investments would follow, and before long, the entire business would be dragged through another round of public drama.
Someone would decide I was dying. Others would invent something worse and far dirtier.
The last time I'd merely been in a foul mood and answered someone a little too sharply, the newspapers managed to chew on it for weeks.
Weeks!
It proved extremely inconvenient for the company. And whenever matters become inconvenient for the company, my father enters the scene.
His method never changed. Nerves first. Then the threats. Dismissal. Disinheritance. The usual repertoire.
Good Lord, the old man had been making those threats for years, but I still found myself reacting to them.
That was precisely why I was sitting in my office now.
I'd sent my secretary out to fetch me lunch from the most distant restaurant I could think of. The errand would take time, which suited me perfectly. It meant we could meet in peace, quietly, without curious eyes wandering in at the wrong moment.
Michael had brought the doctor to me.
That, in fairness, stood among his more useful talents. He possessed a remarkable ability to locate almost anyone in almost any profession who knew how to keep their mouths shut when it mattered.
Speaking of Michael, he was by the windowand looked entirely satisfied with himself, as though he had won a war by forcing me to accept the meeting with that doctor.
He sipped his tea slowly and with relish, stirring it with a teaspoon.
Click. Click. Click.
Each tiny strike rang straight through my skull. The sound landed inside my head, spreading there in sharp pulses of pain.
Judging by the smug expression on his face, he knew perfectly well what he was doing. Worse still, he appeared to enjoy it. I had little doubt he was pleased with my reaction to the doctor as well, and with the way this entire situation was wearing me down.
That was it. I'd had enough.
"Doctor, we've been sitting here for quite a while, and I'm a busy man," I said sharply. "What's wrong with me?"
He hesitated. "Well… It's hard to say. We need additional tests, but the main things I can check here are all fine," he muttered with a shaky voice. "I've checked your blood pressure, your pulse, your temperature, and your general state. I've also done a visual examination. Everything seems to be in order. However, headaches can be caused by different things."
"Like what?"
"Sometimes the reasons are quite simple... You may spend too much time sitting, or perhaps not in the best posture. Or it may be something as ordinary as not drinking enough water." He glanced down at his notes. "In other cases, it can be something more serious. I do hope we'll determine that after a more thorough examination." He paused for a moment, then cleared his throat. "And… occasionally…" He hesitated. "Occasionally, it may be psychological. There could be some form of stress, for instance."
His muttering made my head hurt more.
"All right," I said. "What comes next? What do we need to do to determine the cause and put an end to this?"
"I can take your blood, run some tests. It might help us figure out the cause."
"Then do it."
"Yes, sir." He nodded and immediately started fumbling through his bag with shaking hands, pulling out one thing after another, getting things ready, disinfecting my arm.
With a low growl, I pulled my arm aside and leaned back in the chair, pressing the fingers of my other hand against my temples.
"Relax," Michael said from the window. "Don't be so impatient. Let the doctor do his job."
I turned my eyes toward him. He met the look with a broad, thoroughly satisfied smile, far too pleased with the fact that my time was being spent on this nonsense.
Shifted my gaze back to the doctor and watched him take another vial of my blood. Then another.
How much did he need? Was he planning to feed a nest of vampires?
I let out a quiet breath. It would be over soon. I'd get back to work.
Once the doctor finished, he started putting the vials away.
"I'm done," he said. "I'll contact your assistant when the results are ready."
"No," I said firmly. "No contact with my assistant. All communication goes through me. You'll send the results by courier. It will be handed to me directly."
"Sir, but you're quite a busy man. This may take time. It might be better for me to speak with your secretary." He looked at me, uncertain, then at Michael, as if asking for help.
Michael only shrugged and went back to his cup, which was surely empty by now.
"I said all communication goes through me."
Apparently, my voice sounded convincing enough, because he nodded straight away. "Yes, yes, of course. I'll contact you directly. I'll make sure no one at the clinic knows whose blood they're analysing. Then I'll be on my way?"
"Wait," I stopped him. "Will these tests actually tell you what's wrong?"
"I'm not entirely sure. We may need additional tests, but I won't be able to carry those out here. This is all we can do remotely, for now. Without you coming into the clinic."
I let out a breath and rubbed my temple, a dull discomfort settling where he'd taken the blood.
"Fine. You may go."
"Hold on," Michael cut in. "Can you prescribe him something stronger than what he's been buying over the counter. Otherwise, he's completely unbearable, as you can see."
The doctor nodded, then glanced at me. "Yes, I can send the medication to you, or would you prefer a prescription?"
God, how tired I was of this.
"Send the medication here," I said.
He nodded quickly and gathered his things, clearly eager to leave as soon as possible.