- © 2005 CMA Media Inc. or its licensors
There are different ways to fail. Sometimes I fail as a doctor by making the wrong decision or missing a finding. I've missed pneumonias; subtle upswings on electrocardiograms have slipped past me; the occasional lump and bump I've reassured away has come back, malignant, to bite me. Bones have been broken, silently; bones have been broken, obviously; cholesterol has climbed on my watch; sugars have skyrocketed; blood pressure has risen; blood pressure has fallen; blood has thinned; blood has thickened. I have erred in all these ways, repeatedly. I've made enough mistakes to grow strangely used to the phenomenon, and I console myself with the thought that I'm not alone in my imperfection. These mistakes bother me, but at least I can say that my intentions were good.
Far worse, far less forgivable, are my failures as a human being.
Yesterday I was walking to the Hasty Market to get milk. On my way I passed by the local East Side Mario's. A waitress walked out the Employees Only door into the parking lot; a striking woman, she was dressed in Mario's clothes: a red chemise and black slacks. She pulled a cigarette from a pack and lit it, and I was about to continue on my way when I saw her collapse in increments, her back sliding down the wall and as she inched to a crouch. Her face began to heave.
I stopped walking.
She sobbed unabashedly, smoking the cigarette between jags. I took a closer look at her: she was in her early twenties, with blonde hair and a face that, in the words of Al Purdy, was “so beautiful / it makes her background vanish.” She was so gorgeous that I felt inadequate in every way; for the five seconds I stared at her I wanted to become a superhero, to gather her up in my arms. I imagined settling the score with evil Mario, that waitress slavedriver. I wanted to vanquish rude, poortipping patrons. Perhaps the pepper guy was giving her a hard time — I'd fix him too. I wanted to deal with anyone who had contributed to my Marionette's breakdown.
Strange. I wanted to grandly rescue her when really all I'm qualified to do is to air my own failures, to tell her of the times I, too, have been forced into the fetal position.
I had to make a decision: do nothing and gawk; approach with an intent to help; or continue to the corner store. And I resoundingly failed: instead of walking toward her and asking one simple question — “Are you all right?” — I went to get milk. I resolved to talk to her on my way back from the Hasty Market. But by the time I returned she was gone.
Failing as a doctor seems limited by comparison.
I'm sorry, waitress.
— Dr. Ursus