The Patient

I have worked all my life in this business, and I won’t go ahead and tell you that none of it mattered to me– that would just make me seem like some emotionless cutter. But yes, none of it ever mattered to me. I never let any of it get to me– the pain, the horror, the stories and their aftermath.

It’s as though it was the years of silence that has made me callous. The usual nodding, pretentious eyes and handing over the box of tissues were good enough to those who came to me. I could pretend to be someone who gave a damn about their sob stories, but frankly, they came to me. They came to me to undo what they did, or set them free from the guilt train. I charged a fee and they asked me to clean up their mess.

Housekeeping for the guilty.

Twenty three years in this business, of cutting up the unborn and making unsure mothers happy, I can tell you, that this is not just an easy way out. I was finally retiring from the cumbersome routine of taking and giving lives. It was my last day at work and I could hardly get excited about the gap that was about to come.

“Good morning doctor,” said my assistant. I went to my office and sat on my chair, awaiting the cases for that day.

My assistant was rather cheerful, given the nature of the job. Working in an abortion clinic, one really could not keep a smiley face.

“Just one case today, doctor,” she said, “A… Miss Johnson, twenty one years old and she is waiting for you.”

I told my assistant to send her in. I was going over her files when she started to speak.

“I can say by the sight of you that you never had children,” the patient said and I looked at her.

“It seems you didn’t read the sign as you came in. You think I would have children of my own, looking at what I do everyday?” I replied.

“You could have been an exception.”

“But I am not, am I?” I said. “So, why are you here?”

“To get an abortion, you think?”

“No, no. That is not what I asked. Why are you here?”

She looked at me with the same ambiguity with which I was asking her the question.

“I know you don’t take the money to share a few stories,” she said.

“But you are the last one to come, and for once, I would like to actually hear what you have to say.”

She smiled at me and spoke, “Well, you know, a child out of wedlock. A ba*tard child is unwelcome.”

I laughed.

“That is bull. I didn’t just spend two decades hearing girls like you opting for this on those kinds of reasons. I can say that you are lying,” I said.

“Why do you care?”

“Actually, I don’t know either.”

We just sat there, facing each other with the same contempt.

“Yes, why should I care?” I replied. “Come back at three, we’ll get started then.”

She nodded and left.

There was something about her. Maybe it was her vague idea of being stubborn that she wanted me to believe, or just the trend among girls.

But she did turn up at three, on the dot.

My assistant prepared her and she was waiting for me.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” I asked and she gave me a look. “Standard procedure, honey.”

“Yes, doctor. This is what I want,” she replied.

“Why are you doing this? It is because you are afraid it will be a girl?”

“Oh no, no. I would love to have a girl, name her Lydie and dress her in pink. Kevin, if it would have been a boy.”

I sighed, and I did not know why, but I wanted to hear the story behind it.

“Then, is the father of poor choice?” I asked.

“No, the father is by the best. Tall, intelligent. You know, the good genes.”

I waited, for a second, before I pushed in the ether.

“You better have a good reason. And I know, it is weird for a doctor like me to be saying this.”

“I do. I have an excellent reason.”

“Okay then.”

The surgery was a success. She made it through, without any complications. The day was over and I was heading home, having put an end to a career many would turn their backs on. I was finishing up when my assistant came.

“She ever say why? The girl?” she asked.

“Oh yes, she did,” I replied.

“What reason?”

“She didn’t want to raise a child knowing it may never have a parent. She had HIV-AIDS.”

I walked home that night, took a shower and washed away twenty years of silent guilt.

__END__