Star-crossed Lovers

The two sides of the coin never really get to see each other or any one thing at the same time - and yet, they are bound to the same fate and to each other so intimately.

Thus is the love affair between patient and doctor. The doctor gets in at 6am, spends the day rounding, checking lab results, reading notes, making phone calls, scrutinizing over his diagnosis, discussing or even arguing with colleagues, going home late, thinking on the subway ride home, and laying awake worrying about his patient, wondering whether he made the right decision. The patient wakes up to the touch of cold stethescopes on his chest, spends the day staring restlessly out the window at his cancer, going over the five words the doctor spoke yesterday in his head, waiting in the repetitive noise of the beeping IV box for him to come again, calling his wife to tell her those five words he heard, wondering whether what the doctor really meant by them, staring at the clear fluid feeding into his veins that the doctor ordered, and laying awake hoping that he knew what he was talking about. And in the morning they meet for the usual five minutes of the day in a desperate exchange of information, each hoping they guessed correctly about the thoughts of the other: the doctor hoping the patient feels better, the patient hoping that the doctor is reassured. The meeting is brief. It is cold. There is relief, familiarity, disappointment, apathy, and maybe even resentment. "How are you feeling today?" "About the same." "We'll do our best to figure it out today." "OK...I hope you do."

As the meeting is cut short by the pressure of time or the lack of things to say, whichever comes first, they are both left feeling alone. The doctor wonders whether the patient realizes the extent of obsessive details that have taken place and are about to take place again that day. The patient wonders whether the doctor realizes the extent of perseverative thoughts and behaviors he will go through again surrounding the five words they just exchanged. Both obsess about whether the other gives a damn about how hard they work for the other, how much they really do care. No, they conclude. It's impossible for him to see the truth. They each obsess over the other while the other is not looking. They are the center of each other's lives. They love each other while the other is not looking, then wonder if they'll ever be loved in return. They learn to accept this.

Then there comes one brief moment when I imagine a glimpse of the birds' eye view of this perpetual battle: I feel from a distance in space the brush of air against my skin of the cosmic explosion that is the power of all the care, energy, pain, longing, and love that the two throw out for each other - the explosion that is otherwise silent to them both. For just that moment I see a beautiful dance - not a smooth or harmonious dance - but one that is full of passion, tension, and intimacy - the kind that is danced so closely it makes one tremble.

I realize I will never truly see the face of my patient, but I will continue to love him as he will go on loving me. The dance we share moves me beyond belief.