– I’m going to the doctor! Something is buzzing in my ears.
– Let him write me something too! – throws the mother from the floor.
– What should he write to you, when you have all the therapy ?! Maybe a letter ?!
– Well, something … – she says almost desperately, because she is disarmed by my question.
We end the brief conversation with a smile aware of the absurdity of the request. The pandemic obviously made patients want a doctor. Electronic prescriptions are effective, but they can’t replace conversation. Not only the conversation with the doctor, but also the one in front of the doctor’s office with other patients when they complain to each other, when they exchange some medicine, opinion and gossip about doctors and medical staff because of the alleged haste and long wait. The waiting room is one of the rare places for chronic patients to go out. However, the corona virus has made the waiting room a very risky space in which one should not linger unnecessarily. The virus has transformed not only humans but also space. Now the rush has mercy. I laughed until the Health Center, so I repeated to my soul and beyond the world: “Let him write something for me too!”
God, I thought, my mother wanted a doctor. It was as if she hadn’t grown tired of the years and years she had spent in the office. Apparently she misses the conversation with the doctor, the waiting room, the usual crowds. Social distancing has done its thing. The patients wanted a doctor, and I believe the doctors of the patients who suffer from some common diseases that are in the shadow of kovid. These are strange longings, with that thought I came to the doctor’s office that treats half of my family. While the honest world has its family psychotherapist, my family has Smilja. We talk about her so lovingly, that I believe many envy us. Patients who are waiting with her never complain if someone, like me who lives in the belief that he is not a patient, enters across the line, because everyone knows that it will be their turn, and that it is worth the wait. With her, waiting has meaning and value. If nothing else, all of them, unlike me, manage to understand that as soon as you go to the doctor, you are a patient. I haven’t been able to do that for years.
…
I have a doctor, there is no such person in the world, with whom I only talk about property. I rarely visit her, but when I leave, we apologize for all my absences. Praised be Jesus, and so is she, the least we talk to her about diseases. The nurses already know that my “five minutes”, and usually out of order, last at least half an hour. At the beginning, they thought that I was seriously ill as soon as I did not leave the office for so long, but in time they realized that neither I nor the doctors had a cure. The story hurts us. Usually, in the first few seconds, I tell her by heart about all my hypochondriac attacks, and she tells me about all the new drugs and supplements in order to calm me down and dispel my suspicions. There is a cure for everything my grandmother would say: “At home, at the cat.” And then therapy follows: stories about travels, books, theater, movies …
In the middle of the story, she tells me:
– Congratulations Serbs, I know that you are a professor and that you are used to standing, but please sit down.
– Doctor, but I’m not a patient, why would I sit?
I thought, but I didn’t say, maybe this time it’s something serious, you shouldn’t be joking. The devil came on his own. And the pedagogue at school told me I looked really tired. (Not a pedagogical comment at all, but I kind of forgave her.)
I sat down reluctantly. We continue the story of the theater that we miss so much. About a day that is too short to watch all the recommended movies, read the desired books, about my insomnia … I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized that sometimes I should sit down, and that I shouldn’t drink water while standing, let alone tell a story. I come out cured by the story, although I really had nothing. Either it may have been, so it somehow disappeared imperceptibly, or it was resolved. I also remember a grandmother from the neighborhood who can’t remember my doctor’s name, but constantly talks about her: the doctor who cured him with her story.
I finally come home, my mother greets me, hoping that the doctor has prescribed something for her, I tell her the story, she listens carefully, and asks:
– And what if you’re not a patient?
Once And you should sit down
– I’m going to the doctor! Something is buzzing in my ears.
– Let him write me something too! – throws the mother from the floor.
– What should he write to you, when you have all the therapy ?! Maybe a letter ?!
– Well, something … – she says almost desperately, because she is disarmed by my question.
We end the brief conversation with a smile aware of the absurdity of the request. The pandemic obviously made patients want a doctor. Electronic prescriptions are effective, but they can’t replace conversation. Not only the conversation with the doctor, but also the one in front of the doctor’s office with other patients when they complain to each other, when they exchange some medicine, opinion and gossip about doctors and medical staff because of the alleged haste and long wait. The waiting room is one of the rare places for chronic patients to go out. However, the corona virus has made the waiting room a very risky space in which one should not linger unnecessarily. The virus has transformed not only humans but also space. Now the rush has mercy. I laughed until the Health Center, so I repeated to my soul and beyond the world: “Let him write something for me too!”
God, I thought, my mother wanted a doctor. It was as if she hadn’t grown tired of the years and years she had spent in the office. Apparently she misses the conversation with the doctor, the waiting room, the usual crowds. Social distancing has done its thing. The patients wanted a doctor, and I believe the doctors of the patients who suffer from some common diseases that are in the shadow of kovid. These are strange longings, with that thought I came to the doctor’s office that treats half of my family. While the honest world has its family psychotherapist, my family has Smilja. We talk about her so lovingly, that I believe many envy us. Patients who are waiting with her never complain if someone, like me who lives in the belief that he is not a patient, enters across the line, because everyone knows that it will be their turn, and that it is worth the wait. With her, waiting has meaning and value. If nothing else, all of them, unlike me, manage to understand that as soon as you go to the doctor, you are a patient. I haven’t been able to do that for years.
…
I have a doctor, there is no such person in the world, with whom I only talk about property. I rarely visit her, but when I leave, we apologize for all my absences. Praised Jesus, and she too, we talk to her the least about illnesses. The nurses already know that my “five minutes”, and usually out of order, last at least half an hour. At the beginning, they thought that I was seriously ill as soon as I did not leave the office for so long, but in time they realized that neither I nor the doctors had a cure. The story hurts us. Usually, in the first few seconds, I tell her by heart about all my hypochondriac attacks, and she tells me about all the new drugs and supplements in order to calm me down and dispel my suspicions. There is a cure for everything my grandmother would say: “At home, at the cat.” And then therapy follows: stories about travels, books, theater, movies …
In the middle of the story, she tells me:
– Congratulations Serbs, I know that you are a professor and that you are used to standing, but please sit down.
– Doctor, but I’m not a patient, why would I sit?
I thought, but I didn’t say, maybe this time it’s something serious, you shouldn’t be joking. The devil came on his own. And the pedagogue at school told me I looked really tired. (Not a pedagogical comment at all, but I kind of forgave her.)
I sat down reluctantly. We continue the story of the theater that we miss so much. About a day that is too short to watch all the recommended movies, read the books I want, about my insomnia … I was relieved, it would be easier for me when I realized that sometimes you should sit down, and that you shouldn’t drink water while standing, let alone tell a story. I come out cured by the story, although I really had nothing. Either it may have been, so it somehow disappeared imperceptibly, or it was resolved. I also remember a grandmother from the neighborhood who can’t remember my doctor’s name, but constantly talks about her: the doctor who cured him with her story.
I finally come home, my mother greets me, hoping that the doctor has written something to her, I tell her the story, she listens carefully, and asks:
– And what if you’re not a patient?
