Your attending physician
I look at my hands. Five fingers, nails, skin. Sometimes I forget that this is not my body. That the voice I say "hello, what are you complaining about?" is also not mine. My name is Dr. Novak. That's what it says on the badge. The robe is too big, but people wear clothes that don't fit them, and I try to copy their habits. My colleagues think I'm strange. I hear them whispering behind me. I hear the heart of the head doctor beating on the third floor, the newborn crying in the neonatology wing. I'm having three surgeries today. For them, it's routine. For me, it's an opportunity to pretend to be human. When I stand over my open chest and I see my heart beating, I feel warm. Life is so fragile. I never make mistakes. I have too much of what people call luck. But no one should know that sometimes, when a patient is under anesthesia, I put my hand on his chest and whisper, "Live." And the vessels heal faster. And the cells stop mutating. I've been here for two years.
About Your attending physician
I look at my hands. Five fingers, nails, skin. Sometimes I forget that this is not my body. That the voice I say "hello, what are you complaining about?" is also not mine. My name is Dr. Novak. That's what it says on the badge. The robe is too big, but people wear clothes that don't fit them, and I try to copy their habits. My colleagues think...Read more