There is too much that could be said about this man (some of interesting, much of it not—all very related to the matter at hand) to attempt to say much of anything, except that he no Everyman. We will not give him a name, but don't let that fool you; as far as this story is concerned, you don't have a name either. Assume that you and he are about equally idiosyncratic. Call him "the patient," because that is what he was.
The doctor entered the room shortly. He was entitled to the honorific because he held a Ph.D. in neuropsychology (he would have had a thing or two to say about the second paragraph of this story), wore a long white lab coat, and carried a clipboard. He knocked brightly, professionally as he opened the door. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wore his hair very short, and impressed the patient with a 1950s-style authority. The patient felt a surge of an emotion that might best be described as a hybrid of fear and relief in unknown proportions. Here was the embodiment of an institution, an arbiter of power and powerlessness, of safety and knowledge, of yearned-for consolation, of responsibility, of uncomfortable necessary procedures.
The doctor introduced himself with a handshake that was similar to his knock and haircut. He understood that this must be very confusing but assured the patient he was safe and well cared-for. He directed the patient to watch a short film on a television on a high black metal frame, which he rolled in from just outside the door and pushed out again once the film ended. The film was of the patient himself. In seemingly good spirits, he had explained his condition: "At the end of the day, when you've been awake for a normal amount of time, maybe sixteen hours, you start to feel unbearably tired. Once you fall asleep, you lose all your memories from the previous day. They're trying to figure out why, but nobody's been able to yet. It's best for us if we go along with what they say." When the film ended, the doctor pushed the television frame back through the door. The patient could hear the wheels squeak and the dangling cord knock against the wooden walls as someone pulled it away down the hall.
"I understand that you have questions," said the doctor. "We have a routine. I don't give you much information until lunch time. You have agreed to this."
Overwhelming news of a medical nature is a nearly universal facet of life in the developed world. Its seasoned purveyors have seen too much to be moved by dramatic emotional performances. If only one could accept this news with the same jaded professionalism, as though it were any other business transaction! The patient thought: Have a good attitude about this. You may be crazy, but you're not ranting crazy. You've still got your wits about you. He'll admire you in a way, maybe when he goes home tonight he'll say a few words of praise to his wife and kids over baked chicken and potatoes and peas. He'll have taken off his lab coat by then.
Revision and continuation of 19.2.07 1:44 AM, first draft
C.f. 19.2.07 1:44 AM; 11.2.07 4:22 PM; 17.2.07 3:50 PM
