Absolute Might

I was supposed to die yesterday but I didn’t so that’s cool. Five years ago to the day, a doctor stood by my bedside in a hospital room and told me that the rare blood disease I’d just been diagnosed with would kill me within five years. I’d spent the last five years becoming intimately familiar with the four stages of grief but on this day of all days, there is only one that matters.

Anger. I know I’m supposed to be grateful for being alive but I can’t get past the volcanic rage that has been slowly building as it became apparent my 31 year old body wasn’t shriveling into a raisin but rather, shedding hair and adding extra pounds like someone whose blood wasn’t, and I quote, “similar to that of an 85 year old man.”

I need somewhere to put this anger and since I’ve always wanted to be known as a man of letters in this age of technology, I’m going to direct the anger to Dr. Sorkenson in an email I’ve been writing in my head for the last year. It will be measured and calm while still expressing befuddlement as to his lack of bedside manner and cavalier attitude while he effectively acted as my own personal mortician. I am not an unreasonable person who leaves three-star reviews for Burger King on Google but I am aggrieved and Dr. Sorkenson needs to know that.

Snaps knuckles. Begins Typing.

Good Morning Dr. Sorkenson,

You may not remember me, but I sure remember you. Five years and one day ago, you stood in my hospital room and informed me that I would be dead within five years from aplastic anemia. What struck me most about this conversation was how you seemed almost disappointed that I didn’t have the even more rare blood disease that you’d diagnosed days earlier. You were practically giddy telling me about how I’d get injected with all kinds of serums derived from either rabbits or horses and for about a week I was a Boy King of the Hematology Wing as visions of medical journals danced in your head. This isn't what I signed up for.

I’m sorry I only had the somewhat rare blood disease. My bad.

Look, I have the utmost respect for doctors and I can only imagine what your day is like having to be surrounded by sickness. The people of your profession are true heroes and I’m not writing this to impugn your efforts in any way. This is not the letter of a brainworm-addled, roadkill prankster-turned-politician--I understand that not every doctor will have the bedside of manner of a young Noah Wyle in 1995.

That said–when you deliver a five-year death sentence with the same tone as you would sending back an undercooked steak, a fellow begins to wonder. I couldn’t help but feel like I’d disappointed you by not having the super rare blood disease and you weren’t exactly subtle about letting me know that. I’ll never perform a bone marrow biopsy (a grateful nation thanks me) but I would certainly never reference a patient’s medical history and make a joke about their alcoholism before administering A GIANT NEEDLE INTO THEIR SPINE. Speaking of which, you should work on your dexterity because it felt like an epileptic grandmother trying to knit a scarf through my lumbar region.

Do you know what the last five years were like for me? I had to move my wedding up five months, forget about ever having children and start planning an estate. I was 26 years old–my estate was basically just debt and what I'm told is a surprisingly stylish couch.

While we’re on the topic of debt, I wanted to let you know that I was forced to start a GoFundMe to pay for the weekly blood tests and transfusions administered over the last few years. To have to prostrate myself for charity was a serious blow to my esteem and I would have told you about it had you EVER VISITED MY ROOM DURING AN APPOINTMENT. I have nothing bad to say about Dr. Adams but come on, man–you know she went to a state school in Alabama and wasn’t exactly equipped to discuss serums of both the rabbit or equine persuasion.

It also would have been nice to know that 10% of people that receive this diagnosis are miraculously cured for no discernible reason. You know how I know that figure? Another doctor told me. I know just how profoundly lucky I am to be a part of that 10% but that’s not why I’m sending this email.

I’m sending this to let you know that you were wrong. I’m still here. I’ll still be here on this day next year and the year after that and you better check your inbox because I’m going to remind you just how wrong you were with each passing year.

Until then, get fucked you old bitch.

–Paul

P.S. The combover isn’t fooling anyone.

Four Hours Later

Callie answers Dr. Sorkenson’s call on the first ring because she’s a diligent assistant and he’s an exacting boss.

“Any news?” - Sorkenson.

“Great news, Dr. Sorkenson! The Mercedes people finally got back to us and confirmed that the new SL500 has been shipped and will arrive in two weeks.” -Callie.

“YES! Harris is gonna be so pissed because he’s still on the waitlist. Any other pressing issues or emails?”-Sorkenson

“No, sir. Enjoy the gala! -Callie.

“‘Enjoy the gala’ is an oxymoron of a phrase if I’ve ever heard one but I’ll try.” - Sorkenson.

Sorkenson opens the doors of the opulent club and scans the room for Harris so that he can tell him about his new car. Not finding the younger doctor, he notices the top shelf open bar and knows the night has just gained a little momentum.

Back at the hospital, Callie prepares the doctor’s correspondence for the next day and makes sure to include the confirmation email from the Mercedes rep along with the usual allotment of bureaucratic mundanity. The other emails go in the trash.