Dr. Walker
Character experiment
This is a bit of practice. Flash fiction you might call it, or character experiment for a series of stories I’m working on.
The last of the sunset had been overtaken by the fluorescent light creeping in from the emergency room entrance below. The brand new beacon "St. Joseph's Medical Center" shone from the opposite wing of the hospital, across the cul-de-sac. "That light, it's too bright." the patients always complained. The nurses had gotten used to shutting the blinds at night.
The anxiety of the nurses' shift change had begun to settle. Shift change is the most dangerous time in any hospital. The elevator dinged down the hall. Dr. Walker's purposeful stride announced his arrival as he fiddled with his glitchy laptop and, without looking, backed through the double doors of the oncology floor. His lab coat twirled and curtseyed as he turned to walk forwards and gave a polite nod to the staff nurses. This was his 12th straight hour conducting a symphony of blood pressure machines, O2 sat monitors and chemotherapy pumps. Centuries of science and industry, compassion and tragedy all leading to this moment - moments like these in oncology floors all over the world. He had never taken any of it for granted.
A seasoned oncologist, he had told innumerable patients the good news of "no detectable disease". Watched their shell of apprehension and angst, steeled by setback, hardened by determination, slowly peel away as the words sunk in. Every shell was different, each cracked in their own time and in their own way.
Just as many patients had heard him ask about their end of life wishes. "Wishes". That's the word hospital administrators required them to use. But what other word was there? "Plans?" "Hopes?" "Desires?". He didn't have the answer.
Will I make it to Christmas?
My daughter is getting married in June, can I walk her down the aisle?
Oh... No... Oh my…? But you said this would cure me!
He had never made such promises, but each and every time, he had felt as if he was wrapping their hope in his hand, a robin's egg, nestling it in his warm, dry grip, giving it a new home - then squeezing it until it was completely crushed, the yoke dripping through his fingers. It broke his heart each and every time. Maybe it was time. Maybe he had helped enough. Maybe he had caused enough pain.