Whenever I read this next poem, I'm
reminded how much I think our patients actually
take care of us physicians in medicine,
and the patient you'll meet in this next poem
was a wonderful example of that kind of care.
It was someone I took care of during my residency,
and he was always asking after me and my well-being
when I would round on him in the mornings.
For example, he asked me questions
like, well, did I have a decent breakfast that morning,
and when was the last time I had a shower?
Did I get a good night's sleep, always asking
after me and my well-being.
I guess I probably didn't look all that great.
But I remember this, also.
He was a writer himself, so he would actually
put up with me coming into his room
on nights when I was on call to read first drafts of some
of these poems to him, which was incredibly
generous, considering he was very ill at the time.
So I wanted to read this poem in his memory as I always do
and really also in honor of all of my patients.
It's called "The Distant Moon," and you'll
get to meet him in this poem.
"The Distant Moon."
"Admitted to the hospital again.
The second bout of pneumocystis back in January
almost killed him.
Then, he'd sworn to us he'd die at home.
He baked us cookies, which the student wouldn't eat,
before he left.
The kitchen on 5A is small but serviceable and neat.
He told me stories.
Richard Gere was gay and sleeping with a friend of his,
and AIDS was an elaborate conspiracy
effected by the government.
He stayed four weeks.
He lost his sight to CMV.
One day, I drew his blood, and while I did,
he laughed and said I was his girlfriend now,
his blood-brother.
'Vampire-slut,' he cried, 'you'll make me live forever.'
Wrinkled brows were all I managed in reply.
I know I'm drowning in his blood, his purple blood.
I filled my seven tubes.
The warmth was slow to leave them, pressed inside my palm.
I'm sad because he doesn't see my face, because I
can't identify with him.
I hate the fact that he's my age, and that across my skin,
he's there, my blood-brother, my mate.
He said I was too nice, and after all,
if Jodie Foster was a lesbian, then doctors could be queer.
Residual guilts tingle down my spine.
'OK, I'm done,' I said as I withdrew the needle from his
back and pressed.
His CSF was clear.
I never answered him.
That spot was framed in sterile paper drapes.
He was so near death, telling him seemed pointless.
Then he died.
Unrecognizable to anyone but me, he left my needles deep
inside his joking heart.
An autopsy was done.
I'd read to him at night.
His horoscope, The New York Times, The Advocate--
some lines by Richard Howard gave us hope.
A quiet hospital is infinite.
The polished, ice-white floors, the darkened halls
that lead to almost anywhere, to death or ghostly lighted Coke
machines.
I call to him one night, at home, asleep.
His breath, I dreamed, had filled my lungs.
His lips my lips had touched.
I felt as though I touched a shrine, not disrespectfully,
but in some lapse of concentration.
In a mirror shines the distant moon."