Off to the local emergency room the other day. My mother had a pain in her abdomen that could not be ignored. At the age of 86, she’s got a higher threshold for pain than most and considers aspirin to be for drug addicts. Must have been bad. So, off to the ER she went.

 The hospital staff clicked together like a seasoned orchestra: lines in, fluid dripped, drink this, swallow that. Alas, the hush of narcotics soothed her tired body to sleep. I sat beside her bed. Grateful. I just can’t take the sight of pain.  Ever the quintessential lady, it was a good thing my mother was unaware that she had been given painkillers. She would consider that to be the equivalent of waking up with a tattoo.

 I watched doctors hunched over counters writing furiously into medical charts. As my mother slept, I went to get something at the nurse's station. A doctor, probably in his late 30's, dark hair, slim build looked up at me for a second. “We are filming a documentary about a doctor who hates being a doctor,” I told him. Flashing an instant reply he said, “I’ll bet you didn’t have any difficulty finding doctors who hate medicine.”  It was his immediate response that caught me.  It was the color of grey. He wasn’t smiling or angry. He was resigned.  When resignation sets in, that’s when all hope for change is lost.

 I went back to my mother’s bedside. She was peaceful. From my chair I could see the doctor across the unit.  With no expression, he flipped open the medical chart in his hand and reached out to pull back, yet, another curtain…