By Victoria Bonebakker, Ruth L. Nadelhaft
This anthology grew out of 'Literature & drugs: Humanities on the center of future health Care', a countrywide award-winning studying and dialogue application for future health care pros.
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I knew how sick I felt, but I kept telling myself it would go away, like mono or the flu. And then. . ” I let my voice trail off. ” prompted Dr. Reynolds, as sympathetically as a friend. As sympathetically as a friend. These days, kindness affected me like music: immediately, automatically, even when I knew the kindness was professional and purposeful. Why couldn’t someone invent a vaccine for it? Already I could feel myself wanting to yield, to say, Oh, Dr. Reynolds, I am so scared. Please let me live.
Anything. My BMW, all my family jewelry—” “Christ! Look, I’d like to help you, even with the crummy way you treated me. I just can’t. Don’t have that kind of time now, not if I want any chance to keep my lousy job. ” He hadn’t asked why. Probably he could guess that I’d been too busy being a success to get close to anyone, just as he’d been too busy resenting not being one. One thing I had to say for Nick: at least he didn’t think that having no loved ones in your life was a personal defect. ” My voice had almost broken, and I hadn’t even tried to control it.
I wondered what he did for fun. I pushed myself up further against the pillows and asked him. He cracked two knuckles simultaneously. ” “You heard. I can sleep ten, twelve hours a day. Don’t have much time for it now. When you sleep, you could be anyone. ” He rubbed his puffy eyes longingly and glanced at his watch as if it were nearly bedtime. It was five-fifteen. For a moment I felt sad. Nick had had a lot of vitality once. But then, so had I. “Well, don’t come out with that at your interview,” I said.