Malpractice
the patient, a younger man,
walks in & sits down
the doctor, an older man,
sits in his chair with yellow legal pad in hand
as he stumbles through what happened last week,
both by tracing his own scrawlings with his eyes &
muttering some of the “key points,”
the younger man begins to blurt out what is troubling him
now---
how long this game of call & response has been going on
is anybody’s guess &
despite what lead the two of them to this point in time,
a doctor’s
“bedside manner”
translates to the office
(even if no bed is present) &
as the young man’s face twists in frustrating
spewing forth dark thoughts &
wanting some kind of reassurance that it will really be alright,
things take a turn.
“you know, you should really be grateful for what you have
left” the doctor dishes out at his patient---
“when my wife committed suicide two years ago,
i was left with nothing---i was completely destroyed &
i finally came to know what it was to be in that place that so
many of my patients have spoken of---i just don’t think that
you are there.”
with piercing eyes staring back at his young patient,
the young man looks back at him with a new gaze---
the frustrated, vulnerable, exposed look of sadness &
terror now has been replace by a deadened lack of emotion---
a pure form of hate filled the young man’s heart so quick
that only the doctor staring right back at him
could see the change,
and immediately, probably even before he finished his own rant,
the doctor regretted sharing this little iota of his own life
in such a setting, with a patient.
clenching his fist &
now, considering much darker things,
the young man gets up from his chair &
walks to the door---
“i think i’m going to neglect paying you for this one, doc,” he said,
and leaves the office with a stride the doctor had never seen before.
rather than say anything,
the doctor puts his head in his hands---
gonna double his own dosage,
because it doesn’t seem to be working.
nothing seems to be working anymore.
Copyright © Andrew Delapruch | Year Posted 2012
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