FEAR

FEAR
How to demystify it.
For several months, I’d been dragging my right leg, which was causing me increasingly severe pain. I felt like one of my legs was shorter than the other; I even bought an extra insole to see if it would help me regain my mobility—but to no avail. As a result, I had to consult my general practitioner, who referred me to a colleague an orthopedist whose name I will withhold for the purposes of the following story.
When I went to see him by appointment , we were in the midst of an embargo, a time when everything slowed down due to rationing , especially fuel.

This situation had caused prices to skyrocket, as the cost of gasoline was passed on to customers , or, in my case, to patients.

Indeed, this doctor was very competent in his field. My first consultation consisted of a leg flexion test; the limb bent, although the movement was accompanied by intense pain.

The doctor prescribed an X-ray, which I had done that same day at the clinic, a facility where, luckily, all services were operational that day, as the clinic is usually only open three days a week.
The X-ray revealed that I had accumulated a significant amount of calcium deposits, which were preventing the ligament at the top of my thigh from functioning properly. I therefore needed to undergo an infiltration, a procedure involving scraping away the calcium deposits, followed by the injection of a liquid to dissolve any remaining calcified residue, all performed under local anesthesia. Once the effects of the anesthesia began to wear off, I had to pick up my daughter from school, which was three kilometers from the clinic. I left on foot, leaving my car parked in front of the clinic. I couldn’t say whether it was an overreaction after such an intervention, but I was certainly delighted with the results. However, after careful consideration, and not wanting to push my luck, I hailed a taxi back to my car; a decision that, once again, left me with a feeling of complete satisfaction. It was early December, and to raise some funds, our Hotel association had partnered with the Ministry of Tourism to organize a grand New Year’s Eve ball at the Djoumballah, featuring the Tropicana Orchestra. These were two experiences I was eagerly anticipating. It seems I wasn’t alone, as the evening proved to be a resounding success, a 100% triumph!
I had never been to the Djoumballah before, nor had I ever seen the Tropicana Orchestra perform live.
On January 3rd, the day after the party

I was suffering from such intense leg pain that I had to use crutches to get around. It had already been almost a month since my operation.
I couldn’t blame the problem on the party, though, since I’d only danced once; for the most part, I’d simply listened to the Tropicana Orchestra—which I’d thoroughly enjoyed.
When I arrived at the doctor’s office that morning—still on my crutches—he wanted to know what was going on. I suddenly remembered asking him, before the operation, what success rate I could reasonably expect. He’d told me 80%.
Perhaps that’s why I replied that, in my estimation, it seemed the 20% failure rate had prevailed.
He seemed surprised. He then performed the same flexion test as before; this time, however, I didn’t feel such intense pain. Satisfied with the result, he explained that it was probably just inflammation and that he would prescribe me some medication.
While he was writing the prescription, he gave me his instructions: he explained that the treatment would cause severe drowsiness and that I should not go to work for at least fifteen days — enough time for everything to calm down and return to normal.
Without the slightest hesitation, I asked him, “What would happen if I didn’t take these medications?” He replied, “You’ll suffer.” I retorted, “Is that all?” He said, “Yes.” Then I told him, “In that case, there’s no point in prescribing these medications; I’d rather just suffer.” 
This remark seemed to completely astound the doctor; he asked me, “But where on earth did you get such an idea?” 
It so happened that I had a small book in my suitcase—*Buddhist Meditation*—which I was reading and which dealt with the subject of fear. 
Apparently, I had frightened him so much that he let out a scream—so loud, in fact, that the security guard and his secretary rushed over to see what was going on. The doctor then shouted at me, “Get out of my clinic!” 
I hurried out immediately, forgetting to take my crutches. I had been driven there that day by a driver from my company, who hadn’t understood a single word of what had just happened. 
We laughed all the way back, and I went straight to work.
A month later, when I remembered the crutches, I asked the driver to retrieve them for me. To our astonishment, we learned from the security guard that the doctor had returned to Canada—the very country he had left at a time when professionals from all walks of life were flocking there, drawn by the rumor that democracy was flourishing. 
Was this due to the crippling embargo then in place, or was it something I did that had precipitated the doctor’s sudden departure?
Because when he asked me, “Where did you find the information you quote?” — and I produced the little book — that was the precise moment when he panicked; it was as if, in a way, I had transferred my own pain onto him, because until now, I have not felt that pain again.

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