Most of my family died prematurely because they wanted to be liked by the doctor. Not to bother, shorten consultations, lighten waiting lists, say it wasn’t that bad, ignore ailments, have a good day, doctor and that’s it, in Carolingian genuflection, ask if we leave the door open or closed. Empathy, submission or, perhaps, class complex.
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As a teenager I had a girlfriend and four diopters. When I went to the optician, I went with my mother, crazy to please doctors, witches and, while at it, opticians. The tests consisted of distinguishing, projected, letters and numbers in rows from largest to smallest size. To avoid upsetting the optician and out of shame for what, to her, was an exam, I ended up telling on letters and numbers from the last rows. If the optician suspected, she made hand gestures to me, letter e down or up, left or right. The glasses were never properly prescribed, but we never lacked an optician’s smile.
Since there are more patients behind and delays, we explain what hurts us in haiku format
The way we die prematurely is by making an appointment at the doctor’s office. Arriving on time. Waiting for hours and when that angel from paradise calls our name, out of gratitude, we no longer feel the ailments that brought us there. If we were limping, we now walk. If we were blind, we see. The doctor asks: how are you? And we always say fine and it seems like Faemino and Cansado. Since there are more patients behind and delays, we explain what hurts us in haiku format. What hurt is annoying. Insomnia is now “we have trouble sleeping.” We omit pain, clues, body signals just so the doctor doesn’t worry, doesn’t make an effort, doesn’t know that he doesn’t know. We don’t want him to waste time with us, not to refer us to anyone, we already ask for the blood test ourselves. The only thing we want is for him to finish the visits and go home with his husband, his children and his dog Hippocrates, all healthy, all with their proper diopters.
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If we are admitted, we seek to be discharged even while being operated on. We don’t howl at night, don’t ask for dinner or breakfast. We accept wedge, snoring and flatulence from a roommate, injections and saltless soups and all for a smile, to be liked by the doctor and nurses. Without feces or vomit. So that, once at home, they can say “a very nice patient has died.”
