A Mixed Diagnosis
His name is Dr. Kim. Or her name. I’m really not quite sure what it is. I don’t know if Kim is her first name. Or his last name. Or both. But I love him just the same. Or her.
I don’t remember how I got here. There might have been an accident. Or it might not have been accidental at all. But I’m in the hospital. I can use the restroom on my own, which is of itself a very good sign, even if sometimes I become dizzy and fall off the toilet.
Dr. Kim may be of Asian ancestry, with perhaps dalliances of European and perhaps even speckles from northern Africa or the Middle East. She has short, black hair. He has almond eyes. She has soft, pink lips. He has a short, sharp nose. His shoulders are not too broad, and her waist is not too slim, but perfect from every angle my mind can measure.
She only works for ten hours at a time, and my curtains are always drawn. I call the hours he is away night, although I can’t be certain it is. The nurses who attend me while she sleeps I call old, and fat, and mean. Not that they are, but next to him they are coarse, and that’s me being kind.
She penetrates me with needles to take blood, and I wonder the use when my heart is hers already. He runs tests I would find humiliating from anyone less, but for him they are affectionate trials, performed out of care for my being.
I knew her before my eyes could focus, and became enamored with the sound of his voice even when it still hurt my ringing ears. The smell of her taunted my nostrils even when they were still stopped up, and the taste of his salts on the air tickled my numb tongue.
Then one day, he brings a clipboard, full of meaningless answers. Her eyes are courageously frightened. His lips purse tenderly with anticipation, his tongue taut with the tension of our indecision. “I’m afraid I have news about your condition. It’s degenerative and will soon be debilitating-” “I already know, doctor. It’s love.” She knits his brow, and her delicate fingers stroke his strong jaw. “No. It’s brain damage.”