"Slip him your pills in his clara," muttered mild-mannered Isabel Boix, her white coat pulled taut against her shoulders as she gripped me by the shoulders and peered into my left ear. "That's what you do... when his back is turned, just shove your Celexa in his cafe con leche."
I waited. "Yes, I can confirm you have a waxy build up. I'll need to extract it."
My hand moved instinctively to my right lobe, and I began to cost a wave of panic as Doctora Boix reclaimed her seat and started to punch directives into the keyboard between us. Her eyes followed her progress across the unseen screen, then shifted to me, a light I had never seen before dancing beneath her lashes. "Anne Marie," she said, "if you are seriously in doubt about what to do with these pills, I'm telling you now, slip 'em to Serrrge."
I was aghast.
How had we come to this?
How had my medico de cabecera of more than six years, a woman so good her sumer vacations were spent mopping foreheads and diahrrea in Bangladesh, how had Julia Fuster come to this pass? Urging, impressing on me the benefits of spiking someone's drink with anti-depressants. Hijacking someone's neural pathways whilst their back was turned ?
