because i was asked to fill out a paper asking who is my favorite patient, and why.
i had a list of six just off the top of my head
and was not answering the question right.
so i was asked, commonalities? (maybe the six characters
are actually one author.) well... there's mr. jasper, the guy
who looks just like bernie mac (rest his soul),
whose wit is dry and slow, and he's so strong looking
you would never know he has di-beetus. and there's mr. king,
who said he always told his wife when he dies, the first thing he
wants her to do is to buy a red dress, and the second thing is
get out of town, but she died first, and now, years later, he's
still living. the other day i told him his di-beetus had been perfectly
splendidly beautifully under control, and he replied he'd celebrate
with a big piece of chocolate cake. and there was zina, that goddess,
mother of twelve, statuesque with graves-disease eyes that make her
look like she's looking every direction at once, and with all her kids
and their school uniforms to keep track of, she may very well
be. she has gold filigree teeth and tattoos. she loves her newest
baby with quiet ferocity. i wish they lived next door! she's
pregnant again, and i couldn't figure out how to stay here for her...
mr. pastor is the dashing little old-school puerto rican
spanish-only-speaking man in linens, who comes back every 3 weeks
even though i tell him, through our sad little speakerphone translator,
"i don't need to see you for another three months!" and even though
he always nods agreement. a few years ago, his wife suddenly collapsed
and died, like a bolt from the blue, and then he didn't know how to
do his pills, or feed himself, or how the washing machine worked.
his mom came over and helped him, and then, a month later...
his mom died. now he goes to the latino men's club every day.
he hugs me with his bony little shoulders, and says, with
tremendous force of meaning, "I Do You Tell Me."
there's jamilla, who finally realized she was pregnant
seven months along, outcome of a stupid set of experiments
with her best friend, a boy, not her "boyfriend." a homeschooler,
studying geometry and arabic and hatha yoga. vegetarian. five siblings.
she had a fine strong fearless birth of a sweet shine eyed little gal,
now a year old, and now jamilla no longer homeschooled, is
taking classes at the engineering school. she's sixteen.
you may notice i have a little more to say with every story
every little memory cue is like a pop-up labyrinth
of rich full scary beautiful amazing mansions. who was the
last name on my list? she was actually 3rd. mrs. martin. we have talked
for hours and hours, mrs martin and i. suffice it to say she gets nervous
alone in her hourse sometimes. she takes a nerve pill once in a while
which helps. she works as a church nurse. she goes to the casino
with her friends. her grandchildren hover around her most of the time.
she doesn't like doctors. i see her every month, and we talk.
i hadn't even mentioned mrs gaudio - she's still alive and kicking!
or poor little drama queen, the raving beauty, with her black eyes
and cesareans, or mrs sutherland, on her way to north carolina
where her best friend is dying of cancer, who always calls me "honey"
instead of "doctor," or beautiful, adventurous judy, with her midwest-
glamorous family (soon to move to aspen, to take the midwest off
their shine) - all she needs is a little bit of ativan
to get her through her day - or mr petrovsky, who is deaf as a post,
so i go around all day shouting, after half an hour with him -
his memory is shot, but he's full of stories
about when a service station was really a service station,
down at michigan and cass. what about mr maley and his
hundred-year-old mum (yes, hundred-year-old mum), coral?
my favorite patient? i've got dozens.
so anyway, because of this little exercise, i dreamed
i got down the polaroid and went to the store
and bought a hundred dollars worth of polaroid film
and kept it at the nurses station
and whenever "my favorite patient" showed up on my schedule
i'd say to the nurse, "will you come take a picture of us?"
and i had a big stack of photos of me holding cute babies,
hugging ladies, posing nicely with gruff old dudes. and in my
dream i realized, the kids, the kids' pictures too,
so at the same store i got a medium sized box of crayons
and emptied my pockets of otoscopes and calendars and rx pads
and put the crayons in there instead
and then whenever a child came to visit me, i'd say,
"can you show me how you're doing? show me something new,"
so then i had a big stack of crayola drawings too,
and all these pictures travelled over mountains, and across the high plains,
and came to rest on a bulletin board as long as i'm tall, and in my new world
with my new strange vistas and my good new devotions,
in my new work space built for care, not efficiency,
there they were still, all lined up every day on the board,
smiling and brightly-colored, well-known and true to life - abiding with me.
...then in the morning in a sleepy daze i headed for the polaroid
but took a moment to wash my face and peer in the mirror and think,
do i really want all those pictures with me in them?
i take crappy pictures. i am not the most photogenic ever
in the history of the world...
i hesitated, then forgot.
until now.
