childrenâs toys on a low chest.
I understand, said Dr. H., you havenât been feeling so well.
No, said his new patient. I havenât.
A woman, thought Dr. H., would now begin to speak. A man would wait to see if it was safe. A man would make sure the other man in the room would not be dangerous. A man would stay on his side of the wall until he could not any longer. Dr. H. said, I understand that you lost your wife.
Mike Wilson said, Her name was Lourdes. We were colleagues. We met in Buenos Aires.
Dr. H. saw that his patientâs hands had lifted as if to hide his face and then lowered to his lap as the gesture was suppressed. Dr. H. asked if his patient was having trouble sleeping. He spoke in his softest voice. It had the quality of a dust-speckled moonbeam floating through the room. The voice said: safe, quiet, private, not like the park, not like a restaurant, not like your friendâs living room, but something else, a hiding place, without noise, a place where thought was sacred and an attempt would be made, a valiant attempt (be brave, patient, or would-be patient, of mine) to speak the truth, to rush after the truth, to force it from its hiding places.
Mike Wilson said, I would be willing to die now. Iâve had a full life. I donât need more. This was a statement. It was not dramatic. It was said the way a person speaks of the rain and mentions that he has forgotten his umbrella.
Dr. H. nodded, Often, after a great loss people find it hard to continue.
Silence.
Dr. H. said into the silence, Tell me about your wife.
Mike Wilsonâs internist had referred him to both a male and a female doctor. He had chosen the male. Perhaps that was a mistake.
It had been a year, Mike Wilson explained that he was tired, tired by ten in the morning, but of course that was because he couldnât get to sleep until the sinking moon appeared outside his window and no sleeping aid seemed to work for more than a few days.
How did your wife die? asked Dr. H.
Mike Wilson answered swiftly, the way you respond to the customs officer on your return to the United States, no plants, no foods, no purchases over a few hundred dollars.
She died of lung cancer at home. We had excellent hospice care.
Only the drumming of fingers on the arm of the chair indicated that there was more to say, much more to say, but Dr. H. knew that would come. Inside his own chest he felt a dull ache, a wish to spare himself, a desire to get out of his chair and pace the room. He said, Tell me how she died. Were you with her?
And Mike Wilson told him about his son and daughter-in-law and told him about his other son who had not been able to come to the funeral, reasons to be explained later. He told him about the bottles of oxygen and the last thing that Lourdes had said to him: something to do with a soccer goal she had scored in high school.
Melancholy, loss, mourning, pathological or notâwas there really a ânotâ? Dr. H. knew more about the subject than he would tell his patient. He knew enough to say almost nothing. Mike Wilson fell into the silence and said, Iâve been in three war zones, Iâve seen people die before. You see it immediately, the skin turns pale, the body is empty of itself, you know it, no question.
Thatâs true, said Dr. H., but there are still a lot of questions to ask.
I know all the answers, said Mike Wilson.
Dr. H. said, If you did you would be sleeping.
Mike Wilson said, Iâve lost my appetite: not just for food.
Dr. H., I think you might want something else before you die.
Iâm seventy-two, said Mike Wilson. And Iâve had enough.
Are you a gambling man? Mike Wilson asked Dr. H.
Silence.
You want to make a bet I donât live to Thanksgiving?
What year? asked Dr. H.
This year, said Mike Wilson.
You know the odds? asked Dr. H.
Mike Wilson smiled. This was a good game.
I donât bet, said Dr. H., ending the game.
There are days and months and
I understand, said Dr. H., you havenât been feeling so well.
No, said his new patient. I havenât.
A woman, thought Dr. H., would now begin to speak. A man would wait to see if it was safe. A man would make sure the other man in the room would not be dangerous. A man would stay on his side of the wall until he could not any longer. Dr. H. said, I understand that you lost your wife.
Mike Wilson said, Her name was Lourdes. We were colleagues. We met in Buenos Aires.
Dr. H. saw that his patientâs hands had lifted as if to hide his face and then lowered to his lap as the gesture was suppressed. Dr. H. asked if his patient was having trouble sleeping. He spoke in his softest voice. It had the quality of a dust-speckled moonbeam floating through the room. The voice said: safe, quiet, private, not like the park, not like a restaurant, not like your friendâs living room, but something else, a hiding place, without noise, a place where thought was sacred and an attempt would be made, a valiant attempt (be brave, patient, or would-be patient, of mine) to speak the truth, to rush after the truth, to force it from its hiding places.
Mike Wilson said, I would be willing to die now. Iâve had a full life. I donât need more. This was a statement. It was not dramatic. It was said the way a person speaks of the rain and mentions that he has forgotten his umbrella.
Dr. H. nodded, Often, after a great loss people find it hard to continue.
Silence.
Dr. H. said into the silence, Tell me about your wife.
Mike Wilsonâs internist had referred him to both a male and a female doctor. He had chosen the male. Perhaps that was a mistake.
It had been a year, Mike Wilson explained that he was tired, tired by ten in the morning, but of course that was because he couldnât get to sleep until the sinking moon appeared outside his window and no sleeping aid seemed to work for more than a few days.
How did your wife die? asked Dr. H.
Mike Wilson answered swiftly, the way you respond to the customs officer on your return to the United States, no plants, no foods, no purchases over a few hundred dollars.
She died of lung cancer at home. We had excellent hospice care.
Only the drumming of fingers on the arm of the chair indicated that there was more to say, much more to say, but Dr. H. knew that would come. Inside his own chest he felt a dull ache, a wish to spare himself, a desire to get out of his chair and pace the room. He said, Tell me how she died. Were you with her?
And Mike Wilson told him about his son and daughter-in-law and told him about his other son who had not been able to come to the funeral, reasons to be explained later. He told him about the bottles of oxygen and the last thing that Lourdes had said to him: something to do with a soccer goal she had scored in high school.
Melancholy, loss, mourning, pathological or notâwas there really a ânotâ? Dr. H. knew more about the subject than he would tell his patient. He knew enough to say almost nothing. Mike Wilson fell into the silence and said, Iâve been in three war zones, Iâve seen people die before. You see it immediately, the skin turns pale, the body is empty of itself, you know it, no question.
Thatâs true, said Dr. H., but there are still a lot of questions to ask.
I know all the answers, said Mike Wilson.
Dr. H. said, If you did you would be sleeping.
Mike Wilson said, Iâve lost my appetite: not just for food.
Dr. H., I think you might want something else before you die.
Iâm seventy-two, said Mike Wilson. And Iâve had enough.
Are you a gambling man? Mike Wilson asked Dr. H.
Silence.
You want to make a bet I donât live to Thanksgiving?
What year? asked Dr. H.
This year, said Mike Wilson.
You know the odds? asked Dr. H.
Mike Wilson smiled. This was a good game.
I donât bet, said Dr. H., ending the game.
There are days and months and
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