1.
Dad is angry
he yells and tells
me
how it is;
stridently informs me what is wrong with society and consequently, with me
We part,
having never met
2.
she told me what happened, years ago
Today the room smells thickly, and
potently,
of sweat;
fetid excretions of anxiety
she cries after the exam
(at first, I don’t notice, I’m busy charting)
I long to hold her and tell her, I know,
my love,
I know
3.
chronic abdominal pain deteriorating mental health substance use contraception pelvic exam poverty suspect abuse
fifteen minutes
medical student
at least the chest pressure is mine alone
4.
Abruptly, he turns to my resident, and tells him,
“she saved my life, you know”
Without thinking,
I place one hand on his shoulder
and the other on his wrist,
and leave them there,
for a moment,
feeling his body heat through my gloves
I look into his eyes, set in a face far older than its years, and
smile at him, forgetting that he can’t see it
behind my mask
“you know you did,” he says to me
5.
After-hours clinic
urgent CT scan ordered
await result
6.
my ear is hot; burning hot
the phone,
crushing it to my skull for endless, terrible minutes
I know what I must do
It will be a long time, before I stop hearing the weeping of a desolate soul
No please,
please don’t,
please don’t
I call 911 anyway
my chest sucks inward from the pressure
7.
He masks his terror with rage,
furious that I, alone, cannot fix him,
Desperately seeking to be cured,
he berates me
for failing to come up with a suitable solution
He is dying, he is angry, and I am not helping him;
at least we agree on that
8.
I call her and notice that I have
involuntarily spread my hands wide, palms up;
they are empty
Fortunately, she cannot see me
through the phone-line
So, I conjure,
making plans, knowing that none of us can put her back together
we can only hold her pieces, and cherish them as best we can,
Little treasures
9.
I return from a long consult to see the
highlighted
CT report
from after-hours
sitting on my keyboard
I pick up the phone
Yes, he is alone
(oh, that makes it harder)
Yes, he is sitting down
The whole time, I imagine him
has he perched on a chair in the front hall?
reached the couch? his bed?
is he hunched forward with his head in his hands?
does he have a dog to pat?
are there tears in his eyes?
I promise to call him again next week
He thanks me; it sounds so wrong
10.
The mammogram is abnormal and a
biopsy is required
The phone receiver in its cradle,
connected to the keypad by its forever-tangled cord
We stare at each other, the touch-tone
phone, and I
I call her on speaker
and spin the hope she deserves
From my empty spool
Dr. Meghan Wilson is a family physician in Kingston, Ontario.