poem

 St Elsewhere

The patients admitted here are all extremely healthy. They come here, of their own accord, because they know something is wrong. This is a specialty hospital that caters to their very specific needs. Crisp white sheets, giant rooms for one, perfect views of ponds and forest, the sense of vigilant somnolence, the sound of lullabye and frankincense gong. None of the needles hurt. The highlight of the day is always the morning and evening rounds when the splendid young doctors go from room to room with their entourages of nurses and assistants, barking out questions, shouting out orders. Every day the patients are interrogated. How are you feeling? Any new pains? Did you eat? And what about your bowels? Was it a good hard stream? Then they are thoroughly examined head to toe— auscultation, percussion, reflex hammers, bimanual.  Sometimes additional testing is warranted.  CT scans, ultrasound, MRI.  This is always a nerve wracking time, waiting for the results. If something turns up they have to immediately leave. Transferred to a regular hospital with standard-issue doctors and silicone nurses. The sooner our doctors find the diagnosis the more they get paid. The longer it takes, the happier the patients get. Some have been there so long they don’t die. There is one doctor no one wants to see.  He comes from address unknown. He is the one who never lies. Old school crotchety, gruff bedside manner.  He has no patience for new fangled medical technologies. Doesn’t trust modern imaging. His only tool is a finely honed clinical acumen. For him, your body lights up in an alternating strobe of ancient inarticulable script. He figures out the mystery after just one visit.  He never speaks aloud, only leans over and whispers his findings into the patient's ear, who receives the news with a mixture of gratitude and fear. The eyes of the damned. The hands of the loved  

9/17/24