This article was published in Scientific American’s former blog network and reflects the views of the author, not necessarily those of Scientific American
We met on my birthday and
your age trailed mine by a week.
Your past medical history bare,
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you let me see you sick.
You let me feel the margins
of your spleen,
your sexual history,
your confusion over why this
and why you
and what now
and what next.
I hated the political sticker on your phone
and your fevers, untouched by medications
and the number of times I told you I didn't know.
"People think I'm weird, don't they?" you asked me.
Finally, an answer I knew.
"Yeah."
Your immune system
or your travel history
or your damn bad luck.
I punctuated your sleep
as a broken alarm clock
not set by you,
plus or minus 7 am.
Questions through a fog of semi-consciousness,
penlight in pupils,
hammer on knees,
wandering stethoscope on chest and back.
You told me why you lay awake at night,
afraid of falling unconscious and
staying there.
I told you why I hated medicine,
to please not tell anyone and
you didn't.
"I don't mean to sound negative," you told me.
When?
Was it when you cried
when you learned to rewiggle your toes?
Was it when you laughed
when I helped you walk
with tiny steps
with wobbling gait
while looking down at feet that
couldn't quite feel the ground?
Was it when you promised
that you would rock climb again?
Was it on the last day I saw you?
Standing up
for the first time.
Clothes on over your gown
for the first time.
Your silhouette against the afternoon sun,
ready to walk out into it
on a healed body.
You did
for the first time.
Two sundowns go by and
I awaken at 6 am.
My unbroken alarm clock
urges me out of bed
to the hospital where you lie in bed
unawakening.
For the next hour
I brush my teeth,
dress,
walk,
hum,
while one mile away
they pound on your chest.
I arrive at the hospital as you leave.
Plus or minus 7 am.
Wherever you are now,
I remember where I left you.
Standing with the sun against your back.
