“To live their life out as comfortably as they can.”
That option is tempting. To accept that nothing will be as you imagined. That control was never yours, no matter how much you convinced yourself otherwise. “If you and I went out, we would have dinner a few times, catch a movie. I would laugh at your jokes and you would listen as I told you about my experiences traveling.”
“Sounds normal, appealing even.” He takes a deep breath, his frustration clear. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”
“We may start to care about one another.” Like a daydream, I see us holding one another. Sharing each other’s lives and passions. Trusting the other one to always be there. “I may fall in love with you.”
He stays silent, watching me. “And I may fall in love with you.”
Tears well up but refuse to fall over. They stopped years ago. My hands begin to shake and suddenly I am very cold. “That would be a mistake. Because like your patients with advanced stages of cancer—I have no hope. I have no future, not one that you would want to be a part of.”
“Why don’t you let me decide that?”
“Because I’m broken and I can’t be fixed.” I see Trisha, sitting on her sofa. Reaching out to me. Lost in a sea where a storm is always brewing. “And if I go out to dinner with you it would end with me having to run. And I can’t do that. Not right now. Not until my father dies.”
“So that’s it. You’ve decided we can’t take the first step because there has to be a last one?” He slams his hand against his desk. “That sounds like a cop-out to me. Bullshit.” He takes my hand, holds it even as I try to pull away. “I’m not a romantic. It’s probably not allowed in my profession.” He rubs his thumb against my palm. “But the first time I met you . . .” He drops my hand, running his hand through his hair.
“What?” It is self-flagellation, me asking him to elaborate. To finish the sentence when the decision is made. I am sure of what he wants to say. He felt something when we shook hands, that we both fantasized about more. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you meet a stranger who holds the piece of you that has been missing. “You felt something?”
“No.” He holds my eyes. “I saw more.” He glances at the shut door. “When I first went to medical school, I gorged on the science. Every action had a reaction. The blood had to follow a certain path in the body, the brain so powerful, any modern computer should fall to its knees in awe. I was sure every question had an answer—a scientific answer.” He stops, his eyes shifting as if remembering.
“What happened?”
“I started seeing patients. Real people with real problems. And suddenly A didn’t have a straight path to B. Two plus two never equaled four. Bodies weren’t always a science experiment.” He takes a deep breath. “I had to see past the disease to the person. Hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Not many doctors would bother,” I tell him, his words drawing me to him.
“I wasn’t so impressive.” He shakes off any admiration. “I screwed up more times than I want to admit.” He smiles, as if begging me to understand him. “But I learned you have to know the patients. Understand what they’re telling you past the illness.”
“How?”
“Their mannerisms, physical appearance. The people they have around them. All of it, put together, you see whether they will survive the disease. Or not.” His voice takes on an edge. “There are those who come in and you know nothing will beat them. Those are the ones to admire. To learn from. The illness is a side note. They can and will fight anything. And win.”
“So when we met?”