He

He sits on the stoop when the sun's out. He doesn't talk too much. He just sits. And watches. He watches the raucous He watches the dogs. He watches the children. He watches the wind get tangled in leaves. He watches it all. When I see him on the stoop I respectfully take off my headphones, I shift my cell phone to the other ear, I pry my eyes from my book and wave hello. When he sees me from his stoop, his face lights up. I'm used to that though, so it's easy to ignore. He is unable to break through my sheilded existance

He lives here, I know. But, I never see him in the building. Only when the sun is out. Only when he occupies my stoop, do I notice his presence. He is not a tenant to me, he is a fixure.

Today the sun is out and like lawn furniture back from it's winter hiding place, he is returned to my stoop. He is eating tangerines and watching the side walk shadows drift. Peels and pits halo his feet. I am ready to return his greetings in a detached manner and am caught off guard by a gift. This is for you his sticky, outstretched palm bares the fruit of his afternoon snack. His voice is laden with excited anticipation. Thank You!, my tone is that of kindergarten teacher. I turn to face the building door, standing, key sheathed in lock, the realization that I am the recipient of a strangers gift settles upon me. I join him on our stoop.

********

We tracked the shadows together, not knowing much about one another, except that we were neighbors...perhaps even friends. Finally, he asked me if I liked music and intoxicated by the sunny peacefulness of our stoop, I waxed dreamily about my love of Miles Davis. He peppered my soliloquy with grunts and sighs of agreement. When returned the question, he spattered words sewn together with hand movements and bouts of befuddled silences. At anyother time or in any other place, I imagine this would all have been quite inscrutable, but I followed his thoughts with ease, interjecting the words that craftily eluded him. His musings meandered considerably and settled on his past. He confided about his days "eating crack" and I couldn't help but wonder if this wasn't the root of his noticable mental....lapse.

Eventually, after he had accepted my excuse about needing to walk the dog, I peeled my self from the warmed concrete and dawdled up the stairs to my apartment, thinking furiously the entire way. I wondered at his solitude and his obvious contentment with such an existence. I wondered at his seemingly defenseless life: He shared himself and his affection so freely that I could not help envisioning an open wound, begging for infection. He is so different then I, I thought. I carry my entire life wrapped neatly and inconspicuously in a tiny lockbox that remains gaurded by my sarcasm and silence. And yet, during our breif encounters, his joy is unfaltering-absolutely impenetrable by the teasing of passing adolescents, by my obvious indifference, by his unaccompanied afternoons on our stoop.

I marvel at the idea of such an unfettered state of being. He is more protected by his unencumbered happiness than anyone could be by iron clad defenses and secreted emotions. Ironic, I think, and hastily type away, sharing my thoughts only with the anonymous abyss of the blog.

A girl by any other name

**wrote this a few days ago. Damn blogger. Anyway, all the names and medical information have been changed, duh! HIPAA!! HIPAA!!**

Today, for the first time ever, I was introduced as Dr. Thomas. Okay, maybe not the first time ever. But, until today, the words Dr. Thomas have been reserved for mocking friends and classmates on whom I'’m practicing my physical exam. However, this morning was different.

I followed closely at the heels of my pulmonary fellow. I call her mine because I was assigned to her, but in the hierarchy of medical practitioners, she reigns as close to supreme as a lowly first year medical student is likely to get, so it is more appropriate to assign the title of proprietor to her. She rounded the corner, white jacket billowing importantly, and stopped abruptly in the middle of a tightly packed waiting room. It occurred to me that these patients nervously awaiting their medical sentencing were quite unaware of the 9 or 10 fellows attendings and students casually chit-chatting on the other side of that bleak gray wall. Ms. Torres? Ms. Torres? The authority with which Dr. Leana hurled the words rendered the question a command. A bulky woman hurriedly gathered her belongings, including a teenaged daughter and rose to meet the command of Dr. Leanas small stature. Terrific. Great. I'’m Dr. Leana and this is Dr. Thomas. Follow me. The three thoughts were so rushed I almost missed it. Dr. Thomas?? Had she really just introduced me to a patient as Doctor?? In the time it took her to exhale, my fellow had assigned to me years of authority and experience I was no where near deserving.

I began to think to myself: I have barely a single year of medical education under my belt...is that enough to warrant such a title? Perhaps the last three years are just filler compared to the rollercoaster of courses I'’ve recently survived. I did do remarkably well on many of my exams (I swallowed back thoughts of the microbiology final). Already, I could feel the anxious pride trickle in. My White Coat felt whiter, somehow, despite the coffee stains that speckled the cuffs and smatterings of similac across my left arm. I was important. I was the link between well and unwell for Ms. Torres and now she knew it. And I knew it. And I knew she knew it. Was she comforted by the sight of me, Dr. Thomas?

I looked to check. Hi I said, with as much authority as that brief salutation would allow, and extended my hand. She took my hand in hers, which was leathery and warm, and covered the union with her other hand. Her eyes met mine directly and she replied, Hell-low, Dear in a tone used by kindly grandmothers on 5 year olds who spontaneously declare their life's ambition is to be a fireman....or a pterodactyl....or both: a pterodactyl fireman. Of course you're a doctor, sweetheart she said silently with her two handed shake and large engaging eyes. I was instantly deflated. The coffee and similac stains settled back into the fabric of my boxy yellowed coat, returning me to my reality: I am a child parading around in big girl shoes.

I followed Dr. Leana through the labyrinthine hospital halls once again, Ms. Torres and daughter bringing up the rear of our bizarre parade. Once settled in the exam room, I took my usual place in which ever corner was currently on reserve for medical students and cleaning crew (the only individuals to take less precedence) and listened carefully to the the patient history as it unfolded. As the embarrassment of my earlier delusion evaporated from my mind I begin to instinctually piece Ms. Torre’s case together. Later, when my fellow and I were secreted away in the physician lounge (which is really an enclave originally intended for mops and brooms, i think) she would show me the Torre’s Labs and we would discuss the physical findings, Did you hear those lung sounds? she would inquire. I did, they were localized to the middle right lobe. I noticed she was tachycardic, too. We poured over CTs and I silently formulated my differential as Dr. Leana presented the case to the attending.

When my time in the clinic was over I gathered my stethoscope, which, unlike Dr. Leana’s bares no scars or scratches, and shoved a handful of physical exam '‘cheat sheets'’ into my pocket. It wasn'’t until I was on the elevator it occurred to me. Perhaps I am just a child in big girl shoes, but Ms. Torres was not my grandmother and I am no pterodactyle inspired 5 year old. These shoes which loll haphazardly on my too small feet fit a little better every day. Sure, I'’m no physician, but I can be a damn good medical student. And that'’s not half bad...when I'm humble enough to recognize it.

Dreamer

I am wishing I was someone else today. Someone with air conditioning.