I wrote a particularly emotional story the other day...
The patient was silently twiddling her thumbs on the cold metal bench. The examining room was ordinary, to say the least. It consisted of toothpaste-green walls, the slow ticking of a clock over the wooden door, a scale, and several diagrams of the human body. She looked around in the windowless room. She looked at the picture of the gastrointestinal tract, the vision diagram, the skeleton, and the heart. The heart… that’s what worried her. She was afraid that she had something. Something nobody could ever cure. The Doctor walked in. There was a moment of awkward silence, she and he together in the room again. He sat into his rolling chair and began to twist around, avoiding the topic at hand. The patient gently put her hands on his thighs, steadying him. She looked him as he looked at her.
“So… what is it?”
“Nothing, it’s just…” replied the doctor.
“I mean, there must be something... right?”
The doctor began to shift around uncomfortably in his seat, and her hands became dislodged. She decided to put them in her lap. He said “Well… I just don’t know anymore. I mean… I can’t.”
The patient sat confused. “I don’t understand…” He sat at the edge of his chair and tried to explain: “There’s… nothing, alright? …Nothing.” She was not completely surprised, but more at a loss for words. “You… don’t have anything…” The Doctor repeated himself, very sure: “No, Cindy.”
Now Cindy began to feel another type of something. She felt it in the pit of her stomach. It was that something that she was afraid of all along. That something that made her feel horrible, that something that ultimately brought her to see The Doctor in the first place.
“I feel sick… is there something wrong with me?” The Doctor said “No, of course not, you’re perfectly-” Cindy insisted. “Yes, there IS something wrong with me. That must be why you don’t have anything… tell me.” The Doctor was wary. “Tell you… what?” “Tell me what’s wrong with me… you’re The Doctor.” “I said there’s nothing wrong with you… you’ll feel better soon, I promise.” “I’ll never feel better…” “Yes, you will…” “Never…” “Yes, Cindy…” The patient shoved The Doctor to the floor. “YOU’RE LYING!! TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG WHITH ME!!!!! I’ve been feeling the pains, not you! You’re The Doctor!” She paused, then looked down and drew back from The Doctor, afraid of herself. “You’re the one. You’re supposed to cure me.”
The Doctor was taken aback. He’d never seen Cindy that way. On the floor, he began to push himself up and turned his head. He said “Cindy, It’s not you.” Cindy was angry, and she began to feel that bad feeling again. “You’re just saying that! It IS me, it just IS!!!” Cindy cried onto the thin paper covering the bench. “It has to be… why else? Why else… why…” The Doctor stood over Cindy, and Cindy sat up. He began to speak:
“Cindy, I’m tired of this. Why can’t this visit just be over?” He looked at the clock, then at the lock on the door. He whispered into her ear as she continued to cry. “Your time in here is up. There’s someone else. Another patient, waiting. For me. She’ll be coming in any moment, so I suggest you leave.” He straightened his body and began walking to unlock the door. He muttered to himself: “There’s no way in hell I’m going to cure you.”
She wouldn’t be cured. Cindy rolled over like a dead pill bug, onto her back on the bench. Her voice was wavering. “I can’t leave.” He was calm and cold as he opened the door to the dark, empty hallway. She looked up at him. He said “Next patient, please.” “You’re the one…” “Next patient.” “…You’re my healer. I…” “Next.” She sat up on the bench and looked at him with tears in her eyes. “Please.” She said it a little quieter. “Please.” “NEXT!!!!!!!!” Cindy threw his hands aside and ran out of the room, sobbing. It turns out that the patient’s illness was terminal. Later that night, she died of a broken heart.