her practice — saw her as frigidly professional. Or at least that was what she assumed. She preferred that; it made her feel safe, self-contained, in charge. Or had she simply lost the ability to recognize a sexual advance when it was made? Yes, that was a possibility. But it worked out the same in the end, didn’t it?
***
When she came today, I refused to see her. The nurse who came to tell me she was waiting said, “She’s been waiting all morning.”
I said, “She can wait forever. She can wait until hell freezes over. Why should I want to see the doctor who almost killed me?” The nurse told me that wasn’t fair, but I told her I didn’t care about what was fair. I was in no mood to be friendly. I said, “Look at me! Has life been fair to me?” Instead of seeing Dr. Stein, I showed the nurse the note I’d written the night before. The note that let Dr. Stein know what a fake she was, and what a liar, and how much I hated her. “Give her this,” I said. The nurse scowled at me. “You’re being a brat,” she said, but she said she’d deliver the note.
A few minutes later, Dr. Stein came to my room anyway, as if it didn’t matter what I wanted. She simply walked right in, the bitch! Why didn’t I notice before how bossy she is, how pushy, especially when she thinks she’s dealing with a child? Since I was tied down with feeding tubes and IVs, I couldn’t get away from her. I turned away and wouldn’t speak.
She said, “I know you’re hurt, Aaron. I know you’re disappointed and angry.” I tried to pretend I hadn’t heard her. Then she said something that took me by surprise. She said, “Maybe you’d like to show me how angry you are. Come on, show me.”
I thought she was teasing me. With my face turned, I said, “What do you expect me to do? Hit you?”
She said, “All right. Let’s try that. Hit me. Hit me if you think I’m such a fake, such a liar. Hit me.”
She didn’t have to encourage me. I turned over and gave her a good, solid slap on the cheek. It felt good to slap her. I wanted to do it again.
I could see how surprised she was by that. There was a small, red patch on her face where I’d hit her. She reached up to rub it, but all she said was, “Is that the best you can do? Here, try again.” And she held out her hand. “Come on,” she said, “you must be a lot madder than that. You have reason to be. Think of how I failed you, led you on, raised your hopes. Show me how disappointed you are.”
This time I hit her with all I had, hard enough to turn the back of her hand red. She flinched but she kept her hand out, asking for more. So I slapped her again and again and again.
Finally she said, “All right, that’s enough!” and she caught hold of my hand. I was furious with her, I wrenched myself loose and raised my hand to hit her again, this time with my fist right in the face. But before I could swing, she shouted, “Look!” and held up her hand. “When you first came to see me, you were weak as a kitten. You couldn’t hold a glass of milk. Remember? Now see? You’ve bruised me. That really hurts. A sick, old man couldn’t leave me marked like that. Two weeks ago, you couldn’t get out of bed without help. Now I’ll bet you could jump out of that bed and strangle me if I gave you the chance.”
And just then, in that instant, I realized she was right. She was right! I couldn’t remember when I last felt so much strength in my arms, my legs. And then she was on the bed, holding me close to her. And I was letting her hold me. She was saying, “Aaron, you are getting better. I don’t know what I’ve done to make you better. But anger is a good sign — when there’s that much energy behind it. Can’t you feel it inside?”
I couldn’t answer her. I was blubbering like a baby. All I could do was grip her tight and press her to me.
***
When she came today, I refused to see her. The nurse who came to tell me she was waiting said, “She’s been waiting all morning.”
I said, “She can wait forever. She can wait until hell freezes over. Why should I want to see the doctor who almost killed me?” The nurse told me that wasn’t fair, but I told her I didn’t care about what was fair. I was in no mood to be friendly. I said, “Look at me! Has life been fair to me?” Instead of seeing Dr. Stein, I showed the nurse the note I’d written the night before. The note that let Dr. Stein know what a fake she was, and what a liar, and how much I hated her. “Give her this,” I said. The nurse scowled at me. “You’re being a brat,” she said, but she said she’d deliver the note.
A few minutes later, Dr. Stein came to my room anyway, as if it didn’t matter what I wanted. She simply walked right in, the bitch! Why didn’t I notice before how bossy she is, how pushy, especially when she thinks she’s dealing with a child? Since I was tied down with feeding tubes and IVs, I couldn’t get away from her. I turned away and wouldn’t speak.
She said, “I know you’re hurt, Aaron. I know you’re disappointed and angry.” I tried to pretend I hadn’t heard her. Then she said something that took me by surprise. She said, “Maybe you’d like to show me how angry you are. Come on, show me.”
I thought she was teasing me. With my face turned, I said, “What do you expect me to do? Hit you?”
She said, “All right. Let’s try that. Hit me. Hit me if you think I’m such a fake, such a liar. Hit me.”
She didn’t have to encourage me. I turned over and gave her a good, solid slap on the cheek. It felt good to slap her. I wanted to do it again.
I could see how surprised she was by that. There was a small, red patch on her face where I’d hit her. She reached up to rub it, but all she said was, “Is that the best you can do? Here, try again.” And she held out her hand. “Come on,” she said, “you must be a lot madder than that. You have reason to be. Think of how I failed you, led you on, raised your hopes. Show me how disappointed you are.”
This time I hit her with all I had, hard enough to turn the back of her hand red. She flinched but she kept her hand out, asking for more. So I slapped her again and again and again.
Finally she said, “All right, that’s enough!” and she caught hold of my hand. I was furious with her, I wrenched myself loose and raised my hand to hit her again, this time with my fist right in the face. But before I could swing, she shouted, “Look!” and held up her hand. “When you first came to see me, you were weak as a kitten. You couldn’t hold a glass of milk. Remember? Now see? You’ve bruised me. That really hurts. A sick, old man couldn’t leave me marked like that. Two weeks ago, you couldn’t get out of bed without help. Now I’ll bet you could jump out of that bed and strangle me if I gave you the chance.”
And just then, in that instant, I realized she was right. She was right! I couldn’t remember when I last felt so much strength in my arms, my legs. And then she was on the bed, holding me close to her. And I was letting her hold me. She was saying, “Aaron, you are getting better. I don’t know what I’ve done to make you better. But anger is a good sign — when there’s that much energy behind it. Can’t you feel it inside?”
I couldn’t answer her. I was blubbering like a baby. All I could do was grip her tight and press her to me.
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