Come sit with me, let's visit

Come sit with me, let's visit

Saturday, January 22, 2011


From time to time I will mention a patient, or two or ten. Please be aware that it would be illegal for me to mention any particular patient. I could be sued and be poor and then be in an even worse place.  But I do need to vent the information in my head. What I have done is write for me, and I will share some of that here now.

No patient is one whole patient, they are a conglomeration of patients. If you think you know who I am talking about, or you think it one of your family, it is not- it is many people and places all jumbled into one scene.

With that said, here is the first of the Doodles:

            It’s my favorite time of day. Pre-dawn. The sky slowly lightening, the birds are not quite awake, the only sound a few quizzical calls back and forth between them: are you up? Is it daytime? Is it safe? It is at this time of day that with the smell of fresh hot coffee, clasped in both hands, and a blanket wrapped around me, I sit on the back porch, watching my dogs slowly make the rounds, checking for intruders, reestablishing their territory, giving me the enthusiastic morning greeting I get every day. Yes, good morning to you too.
            The light slowly becoming brighter, dimming the stars first one by one, then by the dozens. I hear the rustle of dog feet whispering of contentment and the promise of surprise to the dry and tired winter grass. The trees, devoid of a single sprig of foliage, trace lacy shadows on the ground. I dip my face into the fragrant coffee cup, close my eyes, and sip at the still slightly too hot contents, enjoying the steamy warmth on my face. Winters chill sending tendrils of icy needles to the least protected areas the soft blanket just doesn’t cover. I slowly open my eyes to continue to take in the deep serenity I so thoroughly enjoy.
            There is a 42-year-old Hispanic male hanging in my tree. Dead as disco. His hair fairly is unwashed and sticking stiffly in many directions. Where the rope has been rubbing the back of his head in the gentle swinging motion he has adopted, his hair is rubbed flat. His dark brown eyes are half open, dry and gazing in slightly different directions. His tongue, barely visible between swollen lips, is purple, dry and swollen too. His clothes are that of a mechanic, once dark blue saturated in engine fluids for years. They could be clean or just lightly dirty. His hands are heavily muscled and have dirty stains around the nails from years of hard labor. A pair of heavy-duty work boots on his feet, feet that seem dainty for man. The boots are also the nondescript color that engine fluids can generously provide to leather and fabric equally. Family photos are scattered like leaves at his feet. People on mountaintops, in large groups, and at play. I can see a graduation, a Christmas tree with lots of presents and an older woman standing next to what I think is salmon nearly as large as her. Each person in each of the photos smiling out from the safety of their flat photograph world, smiling up at the bottoms of his gently swinging shoes. Among these items is a bright yellow piece of paper with the words “I am sorry” written in marker.
            Well, it was a nice morning. 

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