I Want
I met a terminally ill patient. He gave me this piece of advice: If you’re not enjoying it, stop doing it.
The wind was harsh, the sun was weak, soon to be overpowered by the enveloping darkness. It didn’t look like an especial gloomy day, it was just like any other day autumn day. I missed my footing as I stepped out of the car. The warmth of the radiator was brusquely replaced by the chill of the autumn, and its corroborative partner played along its conceived plan of sucking the heat from my body. I swung the door shut, but it merely budged a little against the resistance of a wind that blew against it. I applied greater force, ensured the heavy door was safely secured against the front pillar. My hair was all over the place, dishevelled and messed up by the wind. I turned to look at the doctor. I saw a bit of semblance there; he looked like George Clooney.
During the journey to this man’s house, he had given me his history. He was a good teacher, always probing for answers before he provided the answers. If I fell short, he would give me hints which encouraged an answer. When he introduced me to his patients, he made me feel like his protege, his apprentice, like how it should be.
At the porch, he lifted the hinge of the knocker and struck it against the door. A loud, resounding noise was produced. His knock resonated his character: loud, brash, but gentle in spirit.
We were led to the living room by his wife. He was expecting us. We sat, then he talked.
In between his words, he would pause. He needed a moment to catch his breath, a moment to process the pain he was suffering from. It was obvious- whilst his wife sobbed, he conversed non-nonchalantly. He refused to choke, the idea of him leaving his wife a widow was probably worse than the suffering he was experiencing.
6 weeks.
We left. In the car, he asked me what I thought.
Pain management? His reaction was forged into my memory. It would be a sharp reminder every time I look at a terminally ill patient.
God, I want to believe in You. And I do.
