- Are you the doctor?

(gentle music)
(monitors beeping)

Your frayed undertone
alerts me to what's coming.

Grievances, waiting
for a scapegoat.

I suppress a sigh.

17 patients to see, and you were

the only straightforward one.

This is not how I
wanted to start my day.

I fix my face.

Yes, I'm your doctor.

My hollow words hang
silently in the air.

The most charitable
observer would find

no warmth in your gaze.

The nurse's curt assessment
of you is still fresh,

difficult and standoffish.

How are you feeling?

I silently repeat the mantra.

I'm here to help.

Tell me your story.

Projecting a safe space
that doesn't exist.

You reject the mirage.

The rigid lines etched into
your face don't soften,

but it's your eyes
that speak the truth.

Exhaustion has
smothered everything,

leaving muted embers of
anger in its aftermath.

Dread crouches at the
periphery, waiting.

I came here because
I can't breathe.

I've been asked four times
already if I do drugs.

Why do y'all keep
asking the same thing?

This question is not an
extended olive branch.

It's the crisp crinkling
of a test booklet

as you prepare to
grade my answer.

I'm restless.

Precious time is leaking away.

Weariness coils
tightly around me

like a boa constrictor made
of impotence and cynicism.

My legs can no longer
bear the weight.

May I sit?

You nod.

I settle in at the
edge of your bed.

There's no quick way
through this conversation.

I could say we ask all
patients about drug use.

Normalize it, and
attempt to sidestep

the traumatic undercurrents.

I might acknowledge
your distress,

and ask you to tell me more.

The med school answer.

I could even say I'm
sorry that happened,

and then take control
of the conversation

by asking about your breathing.

The hospitalist answer.

Suddenly, I'm back in college.

An officer is approaching
my black Honda Civic

with his weapon drawn.

He's shouting show
me your hands.

They shake as I stick them out
of the driver's side window.

I'm taken to jail.

I spend my phone call on a
friend who doesn't pick up.

I'm released the next
day with a gruff apology

from the officer.

You aren't the right guy.

Sorry.

My doctor mask slips,
exposing the human beneath.

My answer is all bitter edges.

Some people get the benefit
of the doubt, others don't.

I can't promise it
won't happen again,

but I'll do what I can.

At some point I ask you,
when did your symptoms start?

You have trouble answering me.

I reach back to a
conversation with my dad.

I don't get why doctors
expect us to know

the difference between
regular discomfort

and bad discomfort.

Life is pain.

You work through
it until you can't.

I reframe the question.

When did life start
getting harder than usual?

Your answer is instantaneous.

Five months ago.

Gathering the rest of
your history is easy.

You're comfortable with my plan.

You smile for the first time.

Thank you, doctor.

Later today, we'll discuss
your abnormal results

and upcoming procedures.

You'll cry.

I'll sit with you again.

You'll talk about the
pressures of your job,

and the challenges of
being a single parent.

When I look at
you, I see family.

Several generations
of hard lessons

discouraging vulnerability.

You can't afford to be
less than invincible

when shielding others
from the struggle,

and yet you're here,
unable to go on.

I can't resolve this
cognitive dissonance for you.

All I can offer is this
small fleeting space

carved out with the keen
edges of shared trauma.

Maybe here, you can
temporarily afford to be human.

Two days from now,
you'll ask me about life

as a Black hospitalist.

You'll listen as I talk
about George Floyd,

sick family members,
protests, and COVID-19.

I will no longer track
the time during our visit.

Flakes of clinical detachment

will fall from me
like a shattered cast,

revealing the
exhausted husk beneath,

The wall separating the
personal from the professional

will completely vanish,
trapping me in a moment

that is both cathartic
and triggering.

You'll extend an incredible
amount of compassion

as tears soak my mask,
and ragged breaths

fog up my face shield.

You'll take my hand,
lending me your resolve.

Somehow, you'll know
exactly what I need to hear.

Don't give up on
us, Dr. Williams.

You're not alone.

We need you.