in college and until the final weeks of medical school, Mark’s moodiness had been infrequent and curable. Janet could cure it. Mark would come to her, kiss her, hold her and make love to her. He would feel better.
The moodiness that began six weeks before his internship was different. It didn’t go away so easily. It seemed more resistant to her love. For the sixteen months between the end of medical school and the day that Janet told him she had to get away from him, the moodiness increased until it became a dark constant presence. And it was aggravated by fatigue and pressure and his compulsion to be the best.
Mark immersed himself in medicine.
Even though he hates it, Janet decided, finally, after endless months of watching his torment.
She was convinced that Mark hated medicine, even though he did it well, even though he was the best. When she suggested to him, gently, carefully, that he didn’t like what he was doing, Mark became incensed. He loved medicine, he answered swiftly. Didn’t she know that?
No. She knew just the opposite.
So Janet hated medicine for him. She hated every part of it: the relentless call schedule, the arrogant, competitive residents—his friends—the compulsive personalities. Janet hated it for both of them. And, little by little, because Mark was on the other side, because he was one of them, because he defended them and it, Janet began to hate him, too.
It tore them apart because they both hated it, but Mark wouldn’t admit it.
And because she couldn’t comfort him, love him, out of his moods anymore.
Mark arrived home at four o’clock that Sunday afternoon, October fifth, fifteen months after his internship had started. He hadn’t been on call. He had just been in the hospital since early morning making rounds with his team. He had slept eight hours the night before. Janet knew. She had watched him sleep as she lay awake, tormented, trying to decide what to do.
Talk, she decided. Talk to him when he was rested. She watched him sleep. He would be rested.
Janet paced, herself exhausted, until she heard him return.
“Hi,” Mark said absently as he walked in the door and past her. Preoccupied, as usual.
“Mark?”
“What?” he snapped, startled.
Usually she just left him alone.
“We have to talk.”
“About what?” he asked suspiciously.
He, they, had declared a moratorium on discussions about whether he really liked medicine. That had been six months ago. They hadn’t discussed it since.
“Our marriage.”
“Our marriage?”
That was a new topic. They had never discussed their marriage. What was there to discuss?
“OK,” he said tentatively.
“It’s in trouble, Mark,” Janet said carefully. It’s over, she thought. But, maybe, she was wrong. Maybe he could make her change the way she felt. If he really cared. If he really loved her.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we don’t have anything to do with each other anymore.”
“Come on, Janet. We’re together every second that I’m not at the hospital.”
“We’re in the same house. We’re not together.”
“This is ridiculous. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m too tired to try to figure it out.” Mark started to leave the room.
“Damn you!” Janet shouted.
Mark spun around and stared at her.
“Listen to me, Mark, please. I hate this. I hate our life. I hate that you never touch me anymore. I hate your friends and medicine. And I know that you do, too.” Janet held up her hand to stop him from interrupting. “You just won’t admit it. I cannot live like this.”
“Like what?”
“Hating the man I married. Not knowing you. Not being able to touch you. Having you pull away when I try. Not being able to talk to you. Not being able to comfort you.”
“Comfort me?”
“Oh, Mark,” Janet said softly as tears filled her eyes. “You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“No,” he said honestly, his voice tired, “I don’t. I can’t
The moodiness that began six weeks before his internship was different. It didn’t go away so easily. It seemed more resistant to her love. For the sixteen months between the end of medical school and the day that Janet told him she had to get away from him, the moodiness increased until it became a dark constant presence. And it was aggravated by fatigue and pressure and his compulsion to be the best.
Mark immersed himself in medicine.
Even though he hates it, Janet decided, finally, after endless months of watching his torment.
She was convinced that Mark hated medicine, even though he did it well, even though he was the best. When she suggested to him, gently, carefully, that he didn’t like what he was doing, Mark became incensed. He loved medicine, he answered swiftly. Didn’t she know that?
No. She knew just the opposite.
So Janet hated medicine for him. She hated every part of it: the relentless call schedule, the arrogant, competitive residents—his friends—the compulsive personalities. Janet hated it for both of them. And, little by little, because Mark was on the other side, because he was one of them, because he defended them and it, Janet began to hate him, too.
It tore them apart because they both hated it, but Mark wouldn’t admit it.
And because she couldn’t comfort him, love him, out of his moods anymore.
Mark arrived home at four o’clock that Sunday afternoon, October fifth, fifteen months after his internship had started. He hadn’t been on call. He had just been in the hospital since early morning making rounds with his team. He had slept eight hours the night before. Janet knew. She had watched him sleep as she lay awake, tormented, trying to decide what to do.
Talk, she decided. Talk to him when he was rested. She watched him sleep. He would be rested.
Janet paced, herself exhausted, until she heard him return.
“Hi,” Mark said absently as he walked in the door and past her. Preoccupied, as usual.
“Mark?”
“What?” he snapped, startled.
Usually she just left him alone.
“We have to talk.”
“About what?” he asked suspiciously.
He, they, had declared a moratorium on discussions about whether he really liked medicine. That had been six months ago. They hadn’t discussed it since.
“Our marriage.”
“Our marriage?”
That was a new topic. They had never discussed their marriage. What was there to discuss?
“OK,” he said tentatively.
“It’s in trouble, Mark,” Janet said carefully. It’s over, she thought. But, maybe, she was wrong. Maybe he could make her change the way she felt. If he really cared. If he really loved her.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we don’t have anything to do with each other anymore.”
“Come on, Janet. We’re together every second that I’m not at the hospital.”
“We’re in the same house. We’re not together.”
“This is ridiculous. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m too tired to try to figure it out.” Mark started to leave the room.
“Damn you!” Janet shouted.
Mark spun around and stared at her.
“Listen to me, Mark, please. I hate this. I hate our life. I hate that you never touch me anymore. I hate your friends and medicine. And I know that you do, too.” Janet held up her hand to stop him from interrupting. “You just won’t admit it. I cannot live like this.”
“Like what?”
“Hating the man I married. Not knowing you. Not being able to touch you. Having you pull away when I try. Not being able to talk to you. Not being able to comfort you.”
“Comfort me?”
“Oh, Mark,” Janet said softly as tears filled her eyes. “You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“No,” he said honestly, his voice tired, “I don’t. I can’t
Similar Books
