She addled onto the elevator after me, brushing by as she reached to press the floor button. Recently I’ve tried to be much less judgemental about those who take the elevator up only a floor – replacing my thoughts of their conspiracy to slow me down with explanations involving arthitic hips and inflexible knees. It was easy not to dislike her however. She seemed like a patient. And hopefully I seemed like a doctor to her. Even though I was wearing baggy brown linen pants and a brown polo – an outfit that screamed RESEARCHER – she looked at me trustingly and divulged her entire encounter with medicine today. She told me about how she was on a liquid diet until tomorrow when she was to have an “outpatient surgery”. She told me how far she had trekked from 72nd St all the way to the hospital’s main entrance on 68th. She told me how she had just finished some Jello and was on her way home but still felt a bit weak…. I asked her how she was getting home and she said “Suwbay”. I knew she had a walk ahead of her, and her slow ambulating, gently lifting each foot barely off of the floor just didn’t seem to mesh with the speed of the rest of the world. She was still weak, and I told her as she got off the elevator:
“I want you to make sure you eat some more food so you won’t feel so weak…sit down and eat more Jello…drink more liquids.”
I realized I felt protective of her. As if she was my patient. In an era where there is so little distrust of doctors. In an era where there is so much disillusionment with our broken medical system, it was nice to see a patient, and feel like a doctor. Even if it meant only prescribing her some more juice and Jello. Even if it only meant telling her to take care of herself. It felt good to take care of her. If only all medicine could be as altruistic…
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