Wishes

Occasionally I wish I were a pathologist, not personally seeing patients, but instead analyzing tissue samples and blood cells. I would be surrounded by a wall of instruments and chemical reagents, totally insulated from the world of pain and suffering which the cells I analyze reveal to my all knowing eyes. I would find it interesting that the cell field I was studying was more like a mob of drunken partiers, rather than rank upon rank of orderly soldiers. I would, sometimes I am sure, revel in the fact that of all the people on earth, I was the only one who knew for certain that Patient # 363772514’s fate was sealed by the swollen nuclei and jumbled cells that filled the field of my expensive microscope.

Perhaps I could be a radiologist, having only brief contact, or preferably even no contact, with the patient before interpreting the butterfly like shadow slowly spreading in his brain. Looking at it, I would think, ‘this is no butterfly, this is a vampire bat, slowly consuming the life from that poor grey haired man lying in the MRI.’ But I am not a pathologist or radiologist; I am the one who must tell Mr. F the grim news.
 
I imagine his brain like a city, all lit up at night. The lights spread from horizon to horizon in neat rows and sectors. Nerve impulses travel along pathways like cars on roads, flashing patterns of thought and memory, signals streaking to muscle groups, all repeating in endless combinations, each pattern unique, each pattern forming a part of the perceived world inside Mr. F’s mind. Now I see a shadow over the city. The invading darkness short circuiting the glowing lights, the highways blocked with debris, travel and communication among the sectors slowly becoming difficult, then impossible.
 
I never stand over a patient as I talk to them about serious matters, as a boss would do to an underling. I never sit across a desk when I say the dreaded words, somehow insulating myself from their pain. I sit down beside Mr. F, and gently tell him what the tests have revealed. We go over the few options available. He asks what the most likely outcome will be, and I answer honestly, looking at him, not the wall or ceiling, as I have seen others do when delivering bad news. He actually thanks me at the end of our conversation, thanking me for being kind and direct, for talking to him man to man. Imagine, I have given him terrible news and he thanks me. I want to cry with him, but instead I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze gently, then take my leave.
 
I find myself in the mall after my shift ends at six PM. I have not decided consciously to go here, but I somehow navigated here instead of my apartment where I would be alone. Usually, if I were not so exhausted, I would have driven to the ocean and been reassured by the eternal sea; but it’s too far a drive after 32 hours without sleep, and instead I look at a sea of faces. I purchase a shirt, brighter in color than I usually buy, and as I leave the small shop I notice two scantily clad girls looking at me and smiling. If I didn’t know better, I would think they had just left their jobs at a local bordello. One pokes her friend with an elbow and nods in my direction. At first I am flattered to be noticed. The girls are pretty indeed, tight little tops revealing pushed up breasts and taut little bellies, low cut jeans clasping firm, shapely buns more tightly than even my strong hands could. I then realize they are around fourteen. I want to tell them to be kids for a while, enjoy some innocence before plunging so precipitously into the adult world, but I knew if I mentioned my concern to them, that I would be considered the pervert, not the two fourteen year old girls dressed like cheap hookers.
 
I thought about my girl as I walked away from the two Lolitas; she wasn’t in town this weekend and I would be alone. I found myself in Sears, near the furniture section. I wandered in and saw, in a deserted area, various bedroom sets on display. It was like walking into a dozen different bedrooms with no walls between. Queen sized beds with dressers, armoires’, and mirrored bureaus. I remembered our fantasy, the one where we decide to pick out a bedroom set in a big furniture store just prior to closing time. As we test out a mattress we begin to get amorous right in the store. We look around and no one is nearby, and we allow ourselves to get totally carried away. She lifts her skirt and we baptize our new bed right there in the store. In our fantasy, my girl notices someone watching us from a distance, but by then neither of us care and we finish the act of love with great enthusiasm, then laugh quietly after as she hastily smoothes her skirt. As I stand there, alone, I wish she were with me now and we would fulfill this fantasy, celebrating our lives and the sheer joy of being together.
 
I turn and walk away, knowing I must reluctantly return to a dark apartment, but I can stay away no longer for I must sleep.